Nasta’liq: The Genius of Persian Calligraphy

This copy of the celebrated romance between Khusraw and Shirin by the author Nizami (died 1209) is the only known work signed by Mir Ali Tabrizi. The colophon (lower right image) not only mentions Tabriz, the capital of the Jalayirid sultanate, as the place where the manuscript was completed, but it also provides the full name of its master calligrapher: Ali ibn Hasan. Al-Sultani, the honorific epithet (laqab) placed after his name, indicates Mir Ali occupied a prominent position in the royal workshop or he worked directly for Sultan Ahmad Jalayir. Mir Ali Tabrizi’s nasta‘liq handwriting exemplifies the script used between 1370 and 1410 in the Jalayirid centers of Tabriz and Baghdad. According to later authors, he was not the “inventor” (mukhtari‘) of the script but rather the calligrapher who codified it.

Noticeable here is the first use of oblique lines within a text, a trait that was later widely adopted to underscore specific verses in Persian manuscripts.

A later inscription attributes this copy of collected poems by Sultan Ahmad Jalayir (died 1410) to Mir Ali Tabrizi, the “inventor” of the nasta‘liq script. The stylistic similarity of this Divan and the Khusraw u Shirin signed by Mir Ali confirms this attribution. Slight variation in the thickness of the strokes and the overall impression of horizontality in the lines indicate they are the work of the same calligrapher.

Mir Ali’s text appears in the central frame of the folios. Sometime in the sixteenth century, the text of the Gulistan (Rose garden) by the poet Sa‘di (died 1292) was added into the margins. Even though both texts are copied in nasta‘liq, the difference between the two styles, written at least two hundred years apart, is easily discernible.

Nasta‘liq developed into a perfect vehicle to pen Persian prose and poetry. It was employed to transcribe works in Turkish, but it was seldom used to copy texts in Arabic. These two folios come from a collection of poetry (divan) written by Sultan Husayn, the Timurid ruler of Herat from 1469 to 1506. The poems in this now-dispersed manuscript are composed in Chaghatay, an eastern Turkic dialect.

The four lines of verse (quatrains) were executed in découpé calligraphy (qat‘), a virtuoso technique that was probably developed in the Timurid court workshop at a time when Sultan Ali Mashhadi was active there. Dots, letters, and syllables in light tones have been cut out and pasted onto a darker contrasting background, creating a dazzling effect. No trace of the collage process is visible even on close inspection. This dexterous cut-out work has been attributed to Shaykh Abdallah Haravi, a master of the genre.

Nevertheless, the script here, with its subtle balance between elongated and compressed strokes and the variation in thickness, points to the style of Sultan Ali Mashhadi.

Sultan Ali Mashhadi signed his calligraphy in the lower triangular corner. Instead of including the traditional term katabahu, a term that indicates a sense of achievement, he used mashaqahu, which suggests it was a “work in progress,” a practice piece or an instruction exercise that one of his numerous students could study and try to replicate.

Such calligraphic fragments were often mounted onto album pages at a later time. These particular verses were clearly deemed worthy of preservation because they were copied by the most celebrated calligrapher of the late Timurid period (circa 1470–1506). As is almost always the case with album pages, the aesthetic relationship between text and image dominates. The content of the quatrain does not relate to the verses displayed on the borders or to the figures later painted by the illustrious Safavid artists Muhammad Sadiqi and Muhammad Qasim, who were both active around 1600.

This elaborate folio presents four calligraphic panels (clockwise from upper left): two unsigned couplets; three couplets copied by Sultan Mahmud; two couplets by Shah Muhammad; and two couplets by Sultan Muhammad Nur. Writing in gold in the triangle above his work, Sultan Muhammad Nur states he penned this example by imitating the style of “Mawlana [our master] Sultan Ali al-Mashhadi.” The unsigned couplets in the upper left corner could well be the work of Sultan Ali Mashhadi. Its carefully modulated line and the visual balance between fluid and disciplined strokes are indeed distinctive of his work. Also, combining Sultan Ali Mashhadi’s calligraphy with examples by three of his outstanding students on a single page underscores the fundamental importance of the master-pupil relationship.

Compared to the calligraphy of Mir Ali Tabrizi, the nasta‘liq script of Sultan Ali Mashhadi introduces a different visual rhythm. Words above the baseline, for example, are executed in a steeper pitch. Variations in the width of strokes further emphasize how the master calligrapher controlled and modulated the script in a spacious, even delicate manner. These characteristics, which are evident in this copy completed early in Sultan Ali’s career, become more accentuated in his later works and in his examples of large nasta‘liq script.

To increase the prestige of their libraries, later Safavid, Mughal, and Ottoman connoisseurs collected manuscripts that had been copied in nasta‘liq by master calligraphers. Chief among them were works by Sultan Ali Mashhadi. Not only was he one of the most illustrious calligraphers of his day, but he was also closely associated with the Timurid court, which set the standard for cultural sophistication for later rulers. This copy of the Gulistan (Rose garden), an anthology of poems by the Persian poet Sa‘di (died 1292), is acknowledged as one of the finest manuscripts Sultan Ali Mashhadi ever produced.

The calligrapher’s carefully penned signature appears in the triangular colophon. Later owners and librarians added their names and comments, more or less elegantly, in various styles of nasta‘liq. One somewhat clumsy example is located to the right of the triangle. Written by the Mughal ruler Jahangir (reigned 1605–27), the inscription maintains: “This is one of my earliest books. I read it constantly. Written by Nur al-Din Jahangir, son of King Akbar.”

Ivughli, a secretary (munshi) at the Safavid court, compiled this collection of correspondence (majmu‘a-i munsh’at) sent by Persian rulers, from the Great Seljuks in the eleventh century to the Safavid shah Safi I (reigned 1629–42). In Iran, the art of letter writing was as much esteemed as eloquence and rhetoric. Penned in neat shikasta nasta‘liq (“broken nasta‘liq”), the text alternates between paragraphs written horizontally and diagonally from the right or the left.

One letter of particular interest is on the left-hand page. Composed by the Timurid ruler Sultan Husayn (reigned 1469–1506), it is addressed to the celebrated calligrapher Sultan Ali Mashhadi (died 1520). The sovereign reprimands the calligrapher for making too many mistakes when copying poems written in Turkish, the language Sultan Husayn used for his own poetry.

The letter reads:

May the best of scribes, Master Nizamuddin Sultan-Ali, realize that the favor and patronage of the patron’s all-solving mind that have attached to him are more apparent than the sun, and the royal good opinion of his art is more obvious than yesterday. We have written the page of his hopes with the pen of affection, drawn the pen of abrogation through the calligraphy of former masters, and consider him above all others in that art. However, in the royal divans that have been scriven by his miraculous pen, many mistakes and errors are to be seen, and scratching and corrections in such enchanting calligraphy are unforgivable, as has been said:

Clothing half of brocade and half of sackcloth is worthless.

In view of the fact that he has acquired a perfect expertise in the copying of Turkish poetry and has a great mastery of the manner of poetry and prose, this is abundantly strange. It is well known that in the meaning and layout of the words of a line of poetry—not to mention a hemistich—the composer must make a great effort, and to perfect a conceit he must make a great exertion of will power. When error creeps into the rules and regulations through scribal intervention or a slip of the pen, it causes displeasure, and the defect lies heavy on the mind of the poet.

The story is well known that while out for a stroll a great poet passed by a brickmaker reciting the poet’s poetry—but it was recited erroneously and uncadenced. When the master poet saw the arrangement of his words was being poured badly into the mold of meaning, he immediately stepped onto the bricks the man had made and crushed them into the dust. The brickmaker said in anger, “Why have you wasted my efforts and indulged in such cruelty?”

“Oh,” he replied, “you crush with the stone of cruelty a pearl that cost me so much effort to string onto a line of poetry, and you think nothing of it? Yet you turn the few bricks you have fashioned into an excuse to be rude and impolite.”

One can spout nonsense from the mouth like pearls: it is a brick that can break a wing.

The point of these preliminaries is that since there is a natural connection between the poet’s mind and the product of his poetic nature and contemplation, scribes and copyists must take great pains to be correct and free of error, and henceforth you will pay attention and strive to ensure that what is written by your miraculous pen is protected from the calamity of error and mistake, and the pages free of any necessity to scratch out and make corrections. You must endeavor appropriately in all that you write in order to receive as before. Peace.

Translation excerpted from Wheeler M. Thackston, Album Prefaces and Other Documents on the History of Calligraphers and Painters. Leiden, Boston, Köln: Brill, 2001, p. 51.

Text blocks in Persian manuscripts typically present verses displayed in two parallel columns, with the colophon appearing at the very end of the volume. The placement of Mir Ali’s signature on the penultimate line suggests this page of poetry was initially conceived as a stand-alone folio. The verses were written by Amir Shahi, a minor Persian poet who was active during the Timurid period and died in 1453. His poems frequently appear among works selected for display in Mughal albums, and he seems to have been one of Mir Ali Haravi’s favorite poets.

Some of Shahi’s verses that Mir Ali copied in large-format qit‘as were included in an album assembled for the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan (reigned 1628–58) in India. All but one of the signed calligraphies in that album are said to have been done by Mir Ali Haravi. Their authenticity remains uncertain, however, since Mir Ali authorized his most brilliant students to sign their pieces with his name. Imitation (naql) was an elemental part of a calligrapher’s education. One of a student’s main goals was to attain the ability to reproduce the master’s style in an indistinguishable way.

Signed by Mir Imad al-Hasani, these two superb examples of calligraphy show the same quatrain. Even if they were not initially conceived as a pair, they were later matted with the script running diagonally from right to left and with matching borders as a facing pair in an imperial Safavid album. Seeing them together dramatically reinforces the visual power of nasta‘liq calligraphy. The two qit‘as, or calligraphic samples, present subtle differences in the tracing and shaping of some of the letters, including the sweeping horizontal strokes and artificial extensions of the word hich (“nothing”) on the third line from the top.

The text—a quatrain composed by the polymath Nasir al-Din Tusi, who died in 1274—may be understood as a reference to the art of calligraphy.

A man with skill has at every fingertip
A key to the lock of daily sustenance.
A hand from which nothing comes
Is an incredible burden to the body.

A colophon traditionally provides information on the completion of a manuscript. This example fits neatly into a triangle, a popular shape for colophons, following the last two verses of the text. It reads: “Copied by the humble and poor and sinful slave Imad al-Mulk al-Hasani, may God forgive his sins and cover his shortcomings, in the year 1023.” A painting by the celebrated Safavid artist Riza-i Abbasi occupies the rest of the space. Depicting an old man offering a flower to a youth, the image bears no direct relation to the text. Riza-i Abbasi’s signature appears in minute letters in the center of the image.

This folio comes from a manuscript that was completed a year before Mir Imad’s murder. It belongs to a copy of the Makhzan al-asrar (Treasury of secrets) by Haydar Khwarazmi and provides rare proof of the collaboration between the calligrapher Mir Imad and the painter Riza-i Abbasi, two of the greatest artists of their time. As neither man worked exclusively for the royal atelier of Shah Abbas I in Isfahan, the manuscript may have resulted from a private commission by a wealthy patron.

The practice of copying full texts in tiny nasta‘liq script reached its apogee with Mir Imad al-Hasani. This copy of the Gulistan (Rose garden) by the poet Sa‘di was probably executed shortly before the calligrapher’s sudden death in 1615, at a time when his fame had spread from Turkey to India. The script shows an extraordinary balance between unnecessary elongated strokes and elegant sweeping horizontal ones. The small-scale script is so fluid that Mir Imad is often called the “second Mir Ali,” in reference to Mir Ali Tabrizi, the originator of nasta‘liq.

The calligrapher Ali Riza-i Abbasi—whose name is easily confused with his contemporary, the painter Riza-i Abbasi—joined the workshop of Shah Abbas I in Isfahan at the end of the sixteenth century. Not only was he praised for his skills in writing the six traditional cursive scripts, but he also created numerous architectural inscriptions in Isfahan, such as those adorning the Shaykh Lutfallah mosque. Ali Riza-i Abbasi’s nasta‘liq was both elegant and refined, as is exemplified in this folded copy of poetry by Jami, who died a century earlier in 1492. The sharp terminals and overall “dry” appearance of his writing, however, were no match for Mir Imad al-Hasani’s superior style of nasta‘liq.

Ali Riza’s jealousy and hatred of Mir Imad were widely known. His contemporaries argued that Ali Riza used his influence as a confidante of Shah Abbas to have his rival eliminated.

The poem reads:

A fourteen-year-old lovely on the roof’s edge, like a
          moon of fourteen [days], full in beauty
A jaunty cap topped her elegantly slender nature,
          and her rosy [cheeks] were ringed by the lush
          hyacinths [of her curly tresses]
She tuned her instrument to the pitch of loveliness,
          and she coyly displayed her beauty.
As she glistened like the moon, prisoners [of her
          love] mobbed her door and roof like the stars.
Suddenly an old man, back bent like a crescent
          [moon], his skirt drenched in blood like
          the sunset,
Turning his face hopefully toward his idol, he laid his
          white hair like a carpet on the ground.
Pearls of tears he pierced with his eyelashes, and,
          Scattering pearls from his two eyes, he said,
“O peri, with all my accumulated wisdom, I have lost
          my good name to madness over you.
“Like a tulip I am seared with your brand; I am as
          defenseless as grass in your garden.
“Gaze upon my condition with kindness; polish away
          the rust of grief from my soul.”
When the youth ascertained the old man’s state, he
could not perceive any sincerity in his words.
He said, “Distracted old man, turn around and look
          Behind you,
“For on that belvedere is one whose cheeks would
          turn the world into a rose garden.
“She is like the sun in the celestial sphere; I am but
          the moon. I am her least slave; she is my king.
“What am I that lovers who espy her beauty should
          Mention my name?”
When the poor old man looked in the other direction
          in order to see who was on the belvedere,
The youth reached out and pushed him off the roof,
          flattening him like a shadow in the dust.
It is not proper for him who undertakes the road
          of commerce with us to gaze anywhere else.
To be “double-signed” is to be fickle; the object
          of love is one and only one.

Translation excerpted from Abolala Soudavar, Art from the Persian Courts: Selections from the Art and History Trust Collection (New York: Rizzoli, 1992), 286–87.