In the majority of Islamic countries, the art of painting has been restricted to non-figural and geometric designs in the public sphere, and strictly limited to small-scale narrative illustrations of manuscripts in the private sphere. By contrast, Qajar Iran witnessed the development of large-scale figural painting. Such a decisive break with Islamic tradition—where religious and social beliefs were primarily expressed through textual and calligraphic means—indicates that Iran possessed a distinctive, strongly visual culture. Nevertheless, Qajar painting has been perceived in the past as an offshoot of European easel painting.

In fact, Qajar painting, most particularly during the reign of the second ruler Fath ᶜAli Shah (1797-1834), represents the culmination of a long-standing indigenous tradition of imagery in both monumental painting and sculptural formats, primarily utilized for the decoration of palaces, exemplified by the bas reliefs and sculptures of the Achaemenid palace of Persepolis. Wall painting predated and subsequently coexisted with the better known traditions of decorative and manuscript painting.

In the first surviving portrait of Fath ᶜAli Shah (r. 1797-1834) as the Qajar sovereign, painted in 1213/1797-98, just after his accession, the young shah appears with a turban-like cap decorated with a plumed jiqqa (aigrette, fig. 1). The so-called Kayanid crown, a creation of his uncle and predecessor, Aqa Muhammad Shah Qajar (1785-97), is missing. In contrast to most other royal portraits of the later years, here in this majestic work by the master painter, Mirza Baba Shirazi, the shah poses on what appears to be a platform throne covered with a carpet, though at the time there was no Qajar royal throne in existence. The absence of the crown and the throne, the most conspicuous symbols of kingly authority, made the young Fath ᶜAli Shah a crown-and-throne-less king (bī tāj va takht), a synonym for utter powerlessness in the Persian political culture.

The Qajar rock reliefs are without doubt an anachronistic group of monuments in Iranian art. An expression of royal power in pre-Islamic Iran, with the emergence of Islam, they more or less disappeared. The reason is obvious—they were representing human beings in a demonstrative, outgoing fashion. But even more important was their public character. In contrast to book painting and probably less to painting on canvas, the art of rock reliefs is intentionally turned towards an audience beyond the walls of the court. In some way they belong to the public and were put there with the aim of glorifying and propagating rulership.

All together there are eight reliefs, seven from the period of Fath āAli Shah (1797-1834) although not all were commissioned by him, and one from the time of Nasir al-Din Shah (1848-96). This last one is situated on the Haraz Road, near Tangah-i Band-buridah.

In Iran, long-standing traditions linked the power and prestige of a ruler with the quality and appearance of coins minted in his name. Normally each dynastic or generational shift was made visibly manifest by changes in the character and appearance of a region's coins. In general, coins issued by the Qajars from Fath ᶜAli Shah to Nasir al-Din Shah followed precedents established by earlier Muslim rulers but the Qajars also sponsored novel experiments, such as the elimination of religious phrases, the occasional use of figural designs and the replacement of hammered coins with machine made examples. It is these contradictory impulses of adherence to custom and the pursuit of innovation that give Qajar coinage its particular fascination. The richest and most varied examples were issued during the reign of Fath ᶜAli Shah (1797-1834). Not surprisingly his coins differ significantly from those issued by his less powerful predecessors, Muhammad Hasan Khan Qajar and Aqa Muhammad Khan Qajar.

Qajar Iran (1785-1925) began with notions of beauty that were largely gender-undifferentiated; that is, beautiful men and women were depicted with very similar facial and bodily features. Sometimes the only way one can tell who is male or female is through style of headgear. Other times it remains very difficult to tell if we are looking at a man or a woman.

In written sources, the same adjectives, such as moon-faced (māh ṭalᶜat), rose-faced (gul rukhsar), cypress-statured sarv qāmat or sarv qad), ruby lips (laᶜl lab), bow-eyebrows (kamān abrū), or alternatively crescent eyebrows (hilāl abrū), black-scented hair (mushgīn mū), narrow-waist (miyān bārīk or kamar bārīk), narcissus-eyed (nargīs chashm), etc., are used to describe male and female beauty.

One essential aspect in the discussion of nineteenth-century Qajar approaches to the Safavid city and Qajar architecture is the fact that Isfahan was no longer the capital, with the inevitable consequences that many Safavid palaces, no longer used by the city's ruling elite, had lost their administrative purpose. Architecture was created and used in a socio-political context, which determined the scope of new construction, function, style, and form. Natural deterioration and socio-economic change also required new constructions for changed purposes.

Construction activity and architectural aspirations in nineteenth-century Isfahan were inseparably tied to the state of the city's overall prosperity, the affluence and beneficence of the city's leading patricians, the relationship of the Tehran court to the city, and, to some extent, the self-image and prestige in which the city perceived itself at various times during Qajar rule.

Paradoxical though it may seem, I would like to begin my discussion of Qajar photography with a little-known painting (pl. 1). The work of an anonymous mid-nineteenth-century artist, this image marks an aesthetic watershed. Here, an unknown artist is photographing Nasir al-Din Shah who is posing for a portrait. The image, of course, is meant to capture the power of Nasir al-Din Shah, a figure so grand he is simultaneously painted and photographed by court artists. As a “dynastic image,“ the painting focuses on the grandeur of the shah's power, symbolically represented by his opulent dress, royal pose, and attendant technology—he is the subject of the newest form of representation, i.e. photography. What is remarkable about this little-known, perhaps even aesthetically insignificant, image is the powerful way it speaks to the shift from painting to photography in mid-nineteenth-century Iran.

Nasir al-Din Shah uttered the following words in the presence of his trusted physician, Dr. Jakob Eduard Polak.

Such words of despair reflect the court's ambivalent attitude toward European reform as well as the underlying motives for founding the Dar al-Funun, Iran's first modern European-style institution of higher learning (figs. 1 and 2).

The driving force behind the creation of the Dar al-Funun was Nasir al-Din Shah's first premier, Mirza Muhammad Taqi Khan Farahani, better known as Amir Kabir. He founded the institution with the intention of ensuring that a new generation of Iranian youth, primarily military officers, was trained in the “useful sciences.”

The significant changes in the social, economic, and political conditions of Iran in the late Qajar era both precipitated and necessitated changes in cultural production. One way to better understand these shifting paradigms is through an examination of print culture. ᶜAbbas Mirza, the governor of Azerbaijan and a Qajar prince, has been credited with promoting and supporting the printing industry in Iran. In 1812, he oversaw the establishment of a printing house in Tabriz, and it was largely due to his influence that Tabriz became an important center of publishing. Jan Rypka noted that the first “printing business” in Iran was set up in Tabriz in the year 1824-25 but he believed the press to have been operational for only a decade before lithography overtook the printing enterprise. ᶜAbbas Mirza sent a group of students to England to study, the most notable being Mirza Salih Shirazi who was a student at Oxford University.

It is with some reluctance that I agreed to contribute a few remarks to conclude a learned and fruitful colloquium and to react, once again, to a wonderful exhibition on Qajar art. My reluctance is simple to explain and to justify. Such professional competencies as I have are those of a medievalist who begins to feel slightly uneasy by the middle of the fourteenth century. But, then, as a historian of the visual arts and as an individual curious about the lessons to be drawn from the making and uses of works of art everywhere and at any time, I became fascinated by the exhibition and many questions came to mind which may not be of immediate significance for the history and culture of Iran, but which have a lot to do with the arts in general.

For these reasons, I shall not comment directly on the papers published in this volume, which are, for the most part, beyond my competencies, except to make two observations.

When I was in college (1937-41, that is the second decade of the Pahlavi era), the study of Qajar history was far less fashionable than that of earlier periods of Persian history. The earlier periods were thought of as the time frames for the political, military, or cultural achievements that one could feel good about, or else the temporal receptacles of calamities and defeats one could lament. The Qajar period, however, was not distant enough to command “historical” respectability. As might be expected in the aftermath of a fallen dynasty, the names of the Qajar kings were too much tainted by allegations of backwardness, ineptitude, corruption, and abuse of royal power to inspire sufficient interest. Social sciences had not yet made adequate headway in Persia to encourage the recording and analysis of contemporary events. Pioneers in researching Qajar history, like Abbas Eqbal, were few, and those who occupied themselves with it focused mainly on selected events of particular import, such as Persian defeats in the Perso-Russian wars, the reforms of Amir Kabir and his execution, Anglo-Russian intervention in Persian affairs, the Tobacco Régie and the Constitutional movement.