The main area of research that I intend to focus on in graduate school is the sexuality of women and the burden’s placed on it. Albeit I intend to study the Christian West, the Davesh Soneji article was absolute treat to read for me.
By focusing only on the five remaining devdasi’s of the Ballipadu Madanagopalasvami Temple in Andhra Pradesh, Soneji puts a human face on an otherwise vast (and dare I say, dying) tradition.
For these women, Soneji argues that, their identity is incumbent upon their memories of who they used to be – they tradition, their ritual temple roles, their diminished status, and finally their currently isolated and declining position in society. He believes that these devdasis use nostalgia to elaborate upon their past identity – thus using wist and memory to forge a present-day identity for themselves (31).
I find Soneji’s comment about the umbrella term interesting – he holds that the Sanskrit term “devdasi” that is used as an overarching term for temple women in various parts of South India is a Colonial attempt at categorizing data for these communities (32). I think about the term “Hindu” as a parallel to this idea because much in the same way, Colonial attempts to neatly categorize the religious identities of Indians resulted in this faultily categorized seemingly homogenous ‘religion’!
In the new-age ‘performances’ of the devdasis interviewed by Soneji, the bhogam melams take place behind closed doors (for fear of persecution and because they’re prohibited in their traditional venue of the temple). Which makes me question whether or not an audience is a prerequisite for a performance. Soneji believes no. However, I am forced to ask about the tree in the forest making a sound if no one is around to hear it…is this lack of audience presence simple a newer facet of the devdasi’s tradition – brought about by an actual lack of audience rather than the desire to dance away from a viewer’s gaze? This question is brought about by what Soneji himself puts forth on page 34 – that the most prominent feature of the devdasi “performance culture” was the concert repertory (kacceri).
For me, the most interesting parts of this article were those that dealt with death and sex pollution. In other cultures that I have studied – including the Newari Buddhists of Nepal, the Nayari and Tiyyari cultures of the Indian Malabar Coast, and the native peoples of the New Guinea Highlands, sex- and death-pollution become the cause and effect of female sexuality. Thus to see that amongst the devdasis of the article, there is no pollution observation, was not only a little unusual but also liberating in a way!
The lack of menstrual pollution as well as the matrilocal organization of these women makes me ask if this society is also matriarchal. Soneji does not allude to this in his article.
If the dances are forced underground, and the mudras (hand gestures) are outlawed, and the songs are deemed as lewd, what then identifies a devdasi as such? Is it simply her memory as Soneji suggests? This is a sad notion indeed – that for the devdasi, who she is, is who she was. However, as Soneji concludes, while these acts of memory serve no societal purpose, they prove effective at the level of individual identity (44).
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
What's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet
Both Orr’s book and Soneji’s article – two scholars whom I have had the chance to hear talk on campus in the last couple months - investigate the temple women traditions in India – both focusing on the traditions found in the south. The term chosen to be used in both of these pieces for reference to these women was problematic in the authors’ eyes. Soneji chose the term devadasi. Although there is a great deal of problems associated with this term – which Soneji clearly outlines - he decided to use it because “they [the temple women still alive today] insist on referring to themselves as devadasi, despite the extreme social stigma attached to this identity.” (Soneji 31) Soneji comments that the women favour the term devadasi because is links them to spiritual and temple traditions. Words such as bhogam or sani were offensive to the majority of the women in his study as “these terms appear to have acquired a more severely pejorative connotation in the early part of the twentieth century.” (Soneji 45 n.4) This is the same time when their identity as “prostitutes” was becoming more common and solidified. Orr sticks with the less overtly problematic term “temple women,” as she focuses on how their identity should be seen as defined by location – by the temple with which they are dedicated to. In this week’s response I wanted to focus on these women’s identity – mistaken or otherwise – as “prostitutes.”
Often when hearing about temple women this term comes up, alone with a number of questions. Did they have sexual relations with the priests, possibly as a form of worship? Did they have relations with patrons? Etc. Orr focuses on the Chola period and she believed the temple women were clearly sexually active at this time, but this was not significant to their identities (Orr 174). In Soneji’s article it is clear that these women did take lover’s – but having one lover who may have supported them as patron is not necessarily “prostitution.” Indeed Soneji writes “Most of the women I have encountered have had only one partner in their lives.” (Soneji 41) This is very similar to a marriage – the only difference is it is not official. I do not see how this could be mistaken for prostitution, even if the man did pay for his relations with the women so too do many husbands – who are expected in this society to take care of the woman’s financial needs.
Although Orr’s book does not focus on the issue of Temple woman’s reputation of prostitution it is still an important issue that appears multiple times in her book as she claims that it is beyond the scope of this particular study to interpret the significance of the term “prostitute” in the inscriptions she looked at (Orr 50). Although she does not focus on the issue she definitely takes measures to problematize this association – similar to Soneji’s work.
She outlines how their identity and association with “prostitution” has evolved over time and should not be seen as a constant across time nor place – as different regions across India viewed them differently, even if the devadasi tradition is often defined as a pan-Indic tradition. Though this very argument is problematic if one focuses on the “degeneration of the tradition from the past. This is due to the Orientalists romantisization of the past, of an imagined “golden age”. Therefore this focus on the role of the devadasis having evolved over time from a position of prestige to a position as “whores” is possible only an imagined evolution. We know little of the past – and especially little concerning the actual role of women as they are often left out (a topic discussed by Orr herself). It is therefore easy to imagine them once having more freedoms. For example, emphasis is often made on their being allowed to attained rituals in the Vedas, but not in later periods.
Soneji talks of Haimavati who remembers being mistaken for a jogin – Dalit prostitute – and expected to perform as a jogin would perform. He writes “She told me how requests for songs that implicated the -identities of devadasis as prostitutes became frequent” (Soneji 38) Over time in the “post –scocial reform period” these women started to gain a new identity as “whores.” Did this new form identity ultimately lead to their demise? It may not have been the prude British colonialist who were the first to apply such an identity to these women. Yet, if they are introduced to the women under the context of their new (mistaken) identity of “whore” it is easy to see how their prudish sensibilities were offended and thus banned the traditions. This banning of the traditions ironically caused a “self-fulfilling prophecy” (Soneji 39) as many young women indeed turned to prostitution once their temple funds stopped flowing.
It is difficult to define how these women were perceived at all stages in time. They have created their own pasts – reminiscing about their long disappeared prestige – as well as being victims of the romantisization of the West which elevated as long disappeared “golden age.” It does appear though – at some level – that over time in both the European and Indian imagination the temple women’s representation as a prostitute has become solidified, as this is generally a common term used in association with the traditions and obviously remains a large topic of concern.
Referring back to their pan-Indic identity, Orr does make it clear that different terms were used in inscriptions across India to refer to these women – which would signal that they were indeed not viewed the same across the subcontinent. From the inscription found in the North 25% refer to the women as “prostitutes”. In Karnataka 29% of the inscriptions use a similar term. Yet in Andhra Pradesh and Tamil Nadu – the regions both these studies focused on – only 3% of the inscriptions which mentions temple women have any mention of them being associated with “prostitutes.” (Orr 49) In the Agama texts Orr looked at, interestingly, half of the references to the women associated with the temples are referred to in terms meaning “prostitute.” (Orr 215 n.14) Therefore the arguments set forth in both Soneji’s article and Orr’s book really only apply to the areas of study and not the entire subcontinent – these are traditions that should not be understood as pan-Indic. Both authors make this distinction clear. Orr states that the women may have been prostitutes in North India and Karnataka but not in Tamil Nadu – particularly not in the Chola period which is her time of study (Orr 50).
Our association of these women and their traditions with prostitutes and prostitution continues to need to be problematized and unravelled – but as Orr says the scope of the topic is far too vast (as is evident in my far too long post...)
Devadasi Women-the memory dancers
The first striking point in this article is the reference to identity as memory. The devadasi remembers “fragments of the past” from which they re-enact a past identity from which they have been expelled as “private journeys of recollection.” they are referred to as “embodied memories” and take on a great import and status than a fleeting recollection of events. Their memories determine their identities. This introduction to the article gives the eerie ghost-like sense to this class of women who once ousted from their well respected and secure position affiliated with a particular temple to a peripheral “shadow’ figure reflects marginalized peoples everywhere and the importance of recording these fleeting remnants of a culture.
In the article Davesh Soneji posits that this identity is linked to their training in dance and music and their traditional role in the community as “embodiments of enjoyment. Originally trained as part of a group and associated with a temple, they performed at ritual temple celebrations, the court and private events. With the abolishing of temple dancing through the Madras Devadasi act of 1947 temple dancing disappeared but continued in the private sector and eventually into the private realm of memory and nostalgia, yet even in the private realm there was the threat of arrest and public humiliation.
For private performances devadasi kalapam poets wrote stories in acts that were then interpreted through dance, that were performed sometimes over a period of days. Concert repertoire was called kacceri. The Andhar devadasi court repertory in the 19th and 20th century relied heavily on the Tanjuvur court repertory as it developed under the Maratha patronage as it developed in 19th c Tamilnadu. Some dances became systemized by the Tanjuvar quartet, dance masters whose ancestors had been serving in the court since the 17th century. Even in this brief summary it is evident that traditionally this was a diverse and rich art form.
The erotic poems (padams) such as the work of the 17th c poet Ksetrayya formed part of the public performances done at court and in homes. Tanjuvar court dance was a medley of different influences, aspects of indigenious Tamil culture, the Maratha culture of Northern Deccan, Teluga literary practice and even colonial modernity. The devadasi were hired on specific life occasions such as birth and wedding celebrations or for pure entertainment purposes at parties and would perform in exchange for gifts or fees. Performances at life events such as weddings showed status for the patron and as endowing “auspiciousness” to the bride through the symbolic transfer of her qualities as “an ever-auspicious” during the wedding process. In the ritual of tying the black beads of the groom’s wedding necklace she bestowed the blessing of long life.
Expulsion from the temple with the imposition of the new laws caused hardship for the temple dancers, they lost their land and livelihood and in many cases were sent to institutions (reform houses). Many began dancing in film or became prostitutes with their traditional social network removed. They also faced the derision and criticism of the Christian missionaries who viewed them as immoral.
For the modern devadasi performance, memory and identity are inextricably linked.
Part of their identity centered around their relationship as women with upper-caste men and the lack of menstrual pollution in their community, aspects that were different from other women. Historically it was accepted for upper caste married men to maintain relationships and even have families with the devadasi. The central point upon which social reform led by Dr. Reddi for the devadasi revolved as their sexuality, whereby using the rhetoric of victimization, their very open sexuality was distorted and presented as oppressive. Clearly this was a misrepresentation. The terms the devadasi used to refer to themselves clearly distinguishes themselves as distinct and proudly not a “householder” but “sani” wife of the lord. They do not refer to themselves as married but as “initiation of the virgin”. Therefore in their own self definition of identity they do not refer to themselves in any way as victimized or oppressed. They usually had a relationship with one man only and this was often arranged by the family much like an arranged marriage. Because of their status as “auspicious women” they do not observe the pollution associated with their periods or with death.. Many of the dances are preserved by few devadasi today. They try to maintain their matrifocal households, pride in their knowledge and origins through which their identities were formed in the fragile shifting modern society.
I found this article intriguing. The fabric of the identity of these women is so intimately tied to so many other aspects of the traditional religion and customs of the society they are like a living “memory mirror” reflection of the society itself, unique and fascinating. These women were obviously both powerful and important. Particularly interesting is the reference to dance was hand gestures “mudras” where the movement of hands is mimesis for the story…a compelling and very culture specific art form. I would have liked to have been given more of the historical origins to this and to the devadasi tradition as a whole to put it more fully into the larger framework of Indian cultural history.
In the article Davesh Soneji posits that this identity is linked to their training in dance and music and their traditional role in the community as “embodiments of enjoyment. Originally trained as part of a group and associated with a temple, they performed at ritual temple celebrations, the court and private events. With the abolishing of temple dancing through the Madras Devadasi act of 1947 temple dancing disappeared but continued in the private sector and eventually into the private realm of memory and nostalgia, yet even in the private realm there was the threat of arrest and public humiliation.
For private performances devadasi kalapam poets wrote stories in acts that were then interpreted through dance, that were performed sometimes over a period of days. Concert repertoire was called kacceri. The Andhar devadasi court repertory in the 19th and 20th century relied heavily on the Tanjuvur court repertory as it developed under the Maratha patronage as it developed in 19th c Tamilnadu. Some dances became systemized by the Tanjuvar quartet, dance masters whose ancestors had been serving in the court since the 17th century. Even in this brief summary it is evident that traditionally this was a diverse and rich art form.
The erotic poems (padams) such as the work of the 17th c poet Ksetrayya formed part of the public performances done at court and in homes. Tanjuvar court dance was a medley of different influences, aspects of indigenious Tamil culture, the Maratha culture of Northern Deccan, Teluga literary practice and even colonial modernity. The devadasi were hired on specific life occasions such as birth and wedding celebrations or for pure entertainment purposes at parties and would perform in exchange for gifts or fees. Performances at life events such as weddings showed status for the patron and as endowing “auspiciousness” to the bride through the symbolic transfer of her qualities as “an ever-auspicious” during the wedding process. In the ritual of tying the black beads of the groom’s wedding necklace she bestowed the blessing of long life.
Expulsion from the temple with the imposition of the new laws caused hardship for the temple dancers, they lost their land and livelihood and in many cases were sent to institutions (reform houses). Many began dancing in film or became prostitutes with their traditional social network removed. They also faced the derision and criticism of the Christian missionaries who viewed them as immoral.
For the modern devadasi performance, memory and identity are inextricably linked.
Part of their identity centered around their relationship as women with upper-caste men and the lack of menstrual pollution in their community, aspects that were different from other women. Historically it was accepted for upper caste married men to maintain relationships and even have families with the devadasi. The central point upon which social reform led by Dr. Reddi for the devadasi revolved as their sexuality, whereby using the rhetoric of victimization, their very open sexuality was distorted and presented as oppressive. Clearly this was a misrepresentation. The terms the devadasi used to refer to themselves clearly distinguishes themselves as distinct and proudly not a “householder” but “sani” wife of the lord. They do not refer to themselves as married but as “initiation of the virgin”. Therefore in their own self definition of identity they do not refer to themselves in any way as victimized or oppressed. They usually had a relationship with one man only and this was often arranged by the family much like an arranged marriage. Because of their status as “auspicious women” they do not observe the pollution associated with their periods or with death.. Many of the dances are preserved by few devadasi today. They try to maintain their matrifocal households, pride in their knowledge and origins through which their identities were formed in the fragile shifting modern society.
I found this article intriguing. The fabric of the identity of these women is so intimately tied to so many other aspects of the traditional religion and customs of the society they are like a living “memory mirror” reflection of the society itself, unique and fascinating. These women were obviously both powerful and important. Particularly interesting is the reference to dance was hand gestures “mudras” where the movement of hands is mimesis for the story…a compelling and very culture specific art form. I would have liked to have been given more of the historical origins to this and to the devadasi tradition as a whole to put it more fully into the larger framework of Indian cultural history.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The 'Other' Side of the Devadasi
Leslie Orr and Davesh Soneiji, did an excellent job in reframing the context in which devadasi (temple women) have been viewed socially by Western scholars after British colonization. What they attempt to do is try to restore a tradition that not only has been lost to the social reform movement, but also has been greatly misinterpreted. They focus on a very important point, the fact that self interest (colonial powers) have focused on manipulating certain situations for the purpose of their own political agenda. They stress that women who were devadasi were not in fact victimized, oppressed or being abused for sexual fulfillments, but that they were in fact agents in shaping their own faiths. Soneiji illustrates through the lives of devadasi’s how these women actually enjoyed what became not only part of their identity but their profession (whether sexual relations were involved or not). This however is an argument that greatly meets his bias, one is left to question what part of the population actually suffered from being sold into this type of profession? The fact that children were involved in this institution makes me question this. In other words, one could certainly argue that since these woman start as children they are manipulated to think a certain way. It is one thing to support this institution in terms of wrong political agendas, but not right to support it when there are human rights abuses.
The fact that the temple was generating money that the state did not have a control over was one of the reasons for its elimination. This is very central in the moves that these women made from the temple (public) to the court (more controlled) to the home which is totally inclusive. It has almost evolved into a practice that is no more accessible but is reached only through ‘illegal’ means. More specifically the sanctions put on them make it a lot harder for the survival of these institutions. Therefore, I agree with the argument put forward that the government forces these institutions out for reasons of controlling the flow of money. However, the fact that these women need money for their survival should be taken into consideration. The government who at first tries to subdue these institutions for monetary reasons, has now created an atmosphere that leads to more degradation than before. More specifically, now these women are forced to become prostitutes, because they are cut out of support that they were once getting.
The last interesting point is how Soneiji illustrates that past experience plays a prominent role in one’s identity. To illustrate, he speaks to many women who still hold onto the memories of when they were temple women. He shows then how these women are socially and ritually shaped by these past experiences, that even though there are religious conventions that state that women cannot be menstruating when doing ritual acts, they do not hold to this up to present day. What is problematic is that the author does not take into account how with historical changes these identities could have been changed or informed. This assumes that one’s identity is stagnant. However, this is problematic. Sometimes identities change according to social acceptance. For example, now that it is a little more acceptable to have sex changes, one’s identity can take a dramatic turn. In this respect, one’s past memories holds no significance in such an individual’s life.
These authors illustrate how modernity can do more violence to a cultural perspective. In other words, the fact that colonists come in and try implement western ideals, is in fact imposing a matrix that is not even called for. What if these women were happy with their surrounding circumstances? This is the question that is definitely being addressed. In other words, maybe the situations were such that the woman felt they were not being oppressed or victimized.
The fact that the temple was generating money that the state did not have a control over was one of the reasons for its elimination. This is very central in the moves that these women made from the temple (public) to the court (more controlled) to the home which is totally inclusive. It has almost evolved into a practice that is no more accessible but is reached only through ‘illegal’ means. More specifically the sanctions put on them make it a lot harder for the survival of these institutions. Therefore, I agree with the argument put forward that the government forces these institutions out for reasons of controlling the flow of money. However, the fact that these women need money for their survival should be taken into consideration. The government who at first tries to subdue these institutions for monetary reasons, has now created an atmosphere that leads to more degradation than before. More specifically, now these women are forced to become prostitutes, because they are cut out of support that they were once getting.
The last interesting point is how Soneiji illustrates that past experience plays a prominent role in one’s identity. To illustrate, he speaks to many women who still hold onto the memories of when they were temple women. He shows then how these women are socially and ritually shaped by these past experiences, that even though there are religious conventions that state that women cannot be menstruating when doing ritual acts, they do not hold to this up to present day. What is problematic is that the author does not take into account how with historical changes these identities could have been changed or informed. This assumes that one’s identity is stagnant. However, this is problematic. Sometimes identities change according to social acceptance. For example, now that it is a little more acceptable to have sex changes, one’s identity can take a dramatic turn. In this respect, one’s past memories holds no significance in such an individual’s life.
These authors illustrate how modernity can do more violence to a cultural perspective. In other words, the fact that colonists come in and try implement western ideals, is in fact imposing a matrix that is not even called for. What if these women were happy with their surrounding circumstances? This is the question that is definitely being addressed. In other words, maybe the situations were such that the woman felt they were not being oppressed or victimized.
Unfaithful Devadasi’s: Questioning the “Prostitute” Implications of Devadasi’s
I really enjoyed this weeks readings they were very interesting. Leslie Orr provides a convincing argument in her book towards what it meant to be “temple women”, and the functions she had as such. By defining “temple women”, Orr brings up a very interesting and convincing point. Why were these women classified as prostitutes or dancers with sexual connotations? If this were the case then why would they be associated with a holy, pure and sacred institution? Clearly, the main function of the devadasi had nothing to do with prostitution, and Orr outlines this. The term devadasi is a colonial term that has colonial meaning attached to it. The role of prostitution was attached to the devadasi when colonial powers came in, because it was another way for them to obtain and maintain power. Indian reformers gave them this title because it kept them oppressed with no place in society. I think the whole devadasi institution threatened male authority. As these women started to play larger roles in the temple this lead to recognition in the public sphere, which is something that was never granted to them before. What better way to get rid of this threat than to declare that the women were prostitutes? If these women claimed that they were married to God, how could they be prostitutes? Doesn’t cheating lower their morality?
Clearly the role of the devadasi was reinterpreted by colonial powers as they came into India and applied their perspectives on this art of women. The South Indian interpretation of these women was divorced from this interpretation completely. I refer to this as the “secularization” of the devadasi. Where we have the South Indian devadasi as opposed to the secular one (prostitute).
Soneji’s Article, “Living History, Performing Memory: Devadasi Women in Telugu-Speaking South India”, is narrow in its scope because it fails to include a proper definition of “temple women”, he clearly explores one sort of temple women and fails to offer other functions that they performed. His presentation of temple women would be related to what Orr defines as palace women. What Soneji clarifies is the changing roles of these women. He discusses the performances of devadasi’s in temples to raise monetary funds, and their performances in the courts as a form of entertainment, but for gifts, and lastly the move of the devadasi from these institutions into the home where she performs strictly for monetary funds. In this scenario we see the devadasi moving away from her temple identity to something other then a temple women or servant. When she is removed from the temple, can we still call her a devadasi, or does she become something else? I believe that the devadasi is tied to the temple and thus, cannot be seen outside of it. I believe what started out as a service strictly for the temple and God turned into a service that was performed solely for economic gain.
What is very interesting about this is that these women were accorded the status of temple women through their donations to the temple in the earlier periods, but as time goes on these women give themselves this status separate from the temple. Soneji illustrates that women continued to identify themselves as temple women separate from the temple and perform services for others outside of the temple. Can they give themselves this status? Is this just another way to make money? The only reason I can come up with as to why these women continue to identify themselves as devadasi’s after its out ruling, is that these women still have a sense that this title in some way or the other classifies their union with God and allows them to participate in the realm of the religious, something that was never really accorded to them in the past.
Clearly the role of the devadasi was reinterpreted by colonial powers as they came into India and applied their perspectives on this art of women. The South Indian interpretation of these women was divorced from this interpretation completely. I refer to this as the “secularization” of the devadasi. Where we have the South Indian devadasi as opposed to the secular one (prostitute).
Soneji’s Article, “Living History, Performing Memory: Devadasi Women in Telugu-Speaking South India”, is narrow in its scope because it fails to include a proper definition of “temple women”, he clearly explores one sort of temple women and fails to offer other functions that they performed. His presentation of temple women would be related to what Orr defines as palace women. What Soneji clarifies is the changing roles of these women. He discusses the performances of devadasi’s in temples to raise monetary funds, and their performances in the courts as a form of entertainment, but for gifts, and lastly the move of the devadasi from these institutions into the home where she performs strictly for monetary funds. In this scenario we see the devadasi moving away from her temple identity to something other then a temple women or servant. When she is removed from the temple, can we still call her a devadasi, or does she become something else? I believe that the devadasi is tied to the temple and thus, cannot be seen outside of it. I believe what started out as a service strictly for the temple and God turned into a service that was performed solely for economic gain.
What is very interesting about this is that these women were accorded the status of temple women through their donations to the temple in the earlier periods, but as time goes on these women give themselves this status separate from the temple. Soneji illustrates that women continued to identify themselves as temple women separate from the temple and perform services for others outside of the temple. Can they give themselves this status? Is this just another way to make money? The only reason I can come up with as to why these women continue to identify themselves as devadasi’s after its out ruling, is that these women still have a sense that this title in some way or the other classifies their union with God and allows them to participate in the realm of the religious, something that was never really accorded to them in the past.
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Dancing Once th Music Has Stopped: The Reflections of South Indian Devadasis
Davesh Soneji
“Living History, Performing Memory: Devadasi Women in Telugu-Speaking South India”
This was a thoroughly enjoyable article. It’s only Sunday, so I may yet address Orr (or the extent of which I managed to plough through by Tues), but since Soneji’s article is fresh in my mind, I thought, ‘why not write about it?’ At the onset of his paper, he asserts that for retired women (e.g., the five women mentioned: Manikyam, Anusuya, Varahalu, Seshachalam, Maithili) to call themselves devadasis (which he parenthetically defines as “women artists who served I temples and/or courts”) is problematic since they do not retain the markers thereof, i.e., public song and dance, temple ritual, tax-free land, home-blessings. However, as Soneji’s fieldwork aims to demonstrate, these women maintain their devadasi status through memories where they identify themselves to past activity.
Soneji, as an ethnographer, hopes to gain insight into these embodied memories, but insight into what, I wonder – into the past, or into these women’s personal recollected experiences thereof? These are by no means mutually exclusive, but they must not be conflated. He argues that identity may be produced through acts of memory (31) and that these devadasis of Andhra employ such a memory-wrought sense of identity in order to “affirm their subjectivity in the present”. I wasn’t sure if he was at all interested in claiming the survival of devadasi performance in the community as a whole. But by the end, I think it’s clear he is referring only to these women’s nostalgic realities. Indeed, these private renditions of ancient performances are living artifacts, covertly attesting to the survival of Devadasi performance in South Asia. However, to what extent is an artifact “living”? (I suppose we need look no further than Davis book, and hopefully we can draw parallels next class.) It is, of course, existent, but existent as a relic. These nostalgic performances are reenactments of past performances, not extensions thereof. The key, I think, is the absence of audience. But this begs the question as to whether a performance requires an audience. I am tempted to say yes, in some sense. What I mean, is that a chef who hasn’t cooked in 50 years, may very well consider himself a chef, and may even self-identify as a chef, but is he contributing to the culinary world in any meaningful way? Sure, he may make his own meals, but is he then a chef-proper? If so, aren’t we all? In any case, these private expressions of memory are not living performances which serve to enliven the culture. Is Soneji’s focus then, these women, or their surrounding culture? For him to say that devadasi performances are alive in these woman (arguing the inextricability between memory, identity, and performance existing within them) is different from saying that it thrives within their culture. Toward his conclusion, he states that these isolates relics they may not be socially effective, but are effective on the level of individual identity.
As an aside, I can appreciate the issue of naming which he addresses at the outset. Although Sanskrit culture associates the term ‘devadasi’ with homogenized pan-Indian understandings of these often-sexual performers. He refers to these women as kalavantulu (those trained in music and dance), which are only a sub-set of bhogam, or women serving as “embodiments of enjoyment”, referring to their “non-normative sexuality”. This goes beyond the services of the kavalavati category, but is apparently comparable to the connotations of a devadasi in general. So, basically, he uses the term devadasi to refer to kalavati, and not bhogam. In harnessing the vernacular culturally-specific terminology, he a) emphasizes how problematic existent terminology can be in implicitly propagating misrepresentation, b) demonstrates the various meanings and connotations which a term such as “devadasi” can hold in from differing perspectives. I definitely need to be mindful of this in future employment of terms such as “aesthetics”, “kavya”, etc.
Soneji talks of troupes of kavalantulu arising in late nineteenth century which operates as professional guilds of sorts. They performed both in temples and in private settings, though the repertoire for each was the same. He demonstrates the tripartite context of postcolonial devadasi performance: temple, court, and residence. We are told that the private variety of such dance survived the Madras Devadasi (Prevention and Dedication) Act of 1947, but eventually perished due to an amendment of this act in 1956 which prohibited such dancing at all social affairs. This amendment, as we learn through saddening testimony, robbed these women of their art, their status, and their livelihood. Soneji argues that such dance has survived, but occurs behind the scenes, without an audience.
Also, he mentions that “in the early twentieth century, when traditional systems of patronage were dismantled, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, some younger devadasis indeed turned to prostitution” (39). However, where is the source of this information? Is it not feasible that although there clearly is a thriving non-sexual artistry at work, that the association between sexuality and this type of artistry (as exemplified by the “businessmen from the city, tax collectors, and ministers” who frequently requested songs subtly implicating these dancers as prostitutes ) was prevalent before this? Could it not be that there have always been a subset of devadasis who engaged in some form of prostitution? If this was not the case, then the association between devadasis and prostitutes would have originated in the early twentieth century and not before.
Soneji’s work outlines a fascinating distinction between the sphere of the family and the sphere of the devadasi, and the construction and regulation of sexuality manifesting in each sphere. I get the sense that the presence sexual services in the repertoire of a devadasi by no means imply that all other skills and services are subsumed or eclipsed by their sexuality: they are dancers, who can be sexual, not prostitutes who can dance. They were not ultimately defined by their relations with men, nor their ability to produce children. In this context neither marriage nor reproduction is a requisite aspect of womanly life. An equally fascinating dimension to devadasi-ship is the unique relationship they enjoy to the purity-pollution dichotomy. This is the first I have heard, among those concerned with ritual purity in the Hindu context, where menstruating women would not be considered impure. Likewise, this is the first I’ve heard of any community exempt from the impurity of death upon losing a loved one. I’m hoping someone out there studying purity and pollution catches wind of the devadasi scenario. However, I think that the very act that they are exempt from ritual purity does not reneder their artistry as separate from the religious sphere, but ironically, binds them tighter to it. They are always ritually pure!
This brings us to the million dollar questions: to what extend does this craft belong in the sphere of religion versus that of aesthetics? To what extent does it straddle both. Of course there were devadasi performances at homes, but were these not at occasions such as marriages and festivals, indeed occasions heavily imbued with religious overtones? Also, the unique social status of these devadasis, as operating slightly outside the rubric of social expectation (marriage, children, etc.), is conferred on them due to a relationship they enjoy with the sacred sphere. They aid in ritual acts and dance for the enjoyment of the gods. I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss on Wed. And now the even bigger question, because it directly pertains to the lives of these women, what is a dancer who is forbidden to dance? One of the most disheartening realities of this work is that these women who reconstruct their identity from “scattered fragments of remembrance, knowledge, and experience” will soon enough become themselves such fragments. Once they cross the threshold of death, their skills, knowledge, and personal identifications will die with them: These women who so vividly remember will only be vaguely remembered.
“Living History, Performing Memory: Devadasi Women in Telugu-Speaking South India”
This was a thoroughly enjoyable article. It’s only Sunday, so I may yet address Orr (or the extent of which I managed to plough through by Tues), but since Soneji’s article is fresh in my mind, I thought, ‘why not write about it?’ At the onset of his paper, he asserts that for retired women (e.g., the five women mentioned: Manikyam, Anusuya, Varahalu, Seshachalam, Maithili) to call themselves devadasis (which he parenthetically defines as “women artists who served I temples and/or courts”) is problematic since they do not retain the markers thereof, i.e., public song and dance, temple ritual, tax-free land, home-blessings. However, as Soneji’s fieldwork aims to demonstrate, these women maintain their devadasi status through memories where they identify themselves to past activity.
Soneji, as an ethnographer, hopes to gain insight into these embodied memories, but insight into what, I wonder – into the past, or into these women’s personal recollected experiences thereof? These are by no means mutually exclusive, but they must not be conflated. He argues that identity may be produced through acts of memory (31) and that these devadasis of Andhra employ such a memory-wrought sense of identity in order to “affirm their subjectivity in the present”. I wasn’t sure if he was at all interested in claiming the survival of devadasi performance in the community as a whole. But by the end, I think it’s clear he is referring only to these women’s nostalgic realities. Indeed, these private renditions of ancient performances are living artifacts, covertly attesting to the survival of Devadasi performance in South Asia. However, to what extent is an artifact “living”? (I suppose we need look no further than Davis book, and hopefully we can draw parallels next class.) It is, of course, existent, but existent as a relic. These nostalgic performances are reenactments of past performances, not extensions thereof. The key, I think, is the absence of audience. But this begs the question as to whether a performance requires an audience. I am tempted to say yes, in some sense. What I mean, is that a chef who hasn’t cooked in 50 years, may very well consider himself a chef, and may even self-identify as a chef, but is he contributing to the culinary world in any meaningful way? Sure, he may make his own meals, but is he then a chef-proper? If so, aren’t we all? In any case, these private expressions of memory are not living performances which serve to enliven the culture. Is Soneji’s focus then, these women, or their surrounding culture? For him to say that devadasi performances are alive in these woman (arguing the inextricability between memory, identity, and performance existing within them) is different from saying that it thrives within their culture. Toward his conclusion, he states that these isolates relics they may not be socially effective, but are effective on the level of individual identity.
As an aside, I can appreciate the issue of naming which he addresses at the outset. Although Sanskrit culture associates the term ‘devadasi’ with homogenized pan-Indian understandings of these often-sexual performers. He refers to these women as kalavantulu (those trained in music and dance), which are only a sub-set of bhogam, or women serving as “embodiments of enjoyment”, referring to their “non-normative sexuality”. This goes beyond the services of the kavalavati category, but is apparently comparable to the connotations of a devadasi in general. So, basically, he uses the term devadasi to refer to kalavati, and not bhogam. In harnessing the vernacular culturally-specific terminology, he a) emphasizes how problematic existent terminology can be in implicitly propagating misrepresentation, b) demonstrates the various meanings and connotations which a term such as “devadasi” can hold in from differing perspectives. I definitely need to be mindful of this in future employment of terms such as “aesthetics”, “kavya”, etc.
Soneji talks of troupes of kavalantulu arising in late nineteenth century which operates as professional guilds of sorts. They performed both in temples and in private settings, though the repertoire for each was the same. He demonstrates the tripartite context of postcolonial devadasi performance: temple, court, and residence. We are told that the private variety of such dance survived the Madras Devadasi (Prevention and Dedication) Act of 1947, but eventually perished due to an amendment of this act in 1956 which prohibited such dancing at all social affairs. This amendment, as we learn through saddening testimony, robbed these women of their art, their status, and their livelihood. Soneji argues that such dance has survived, but occurs behind the scenes, without an audience.
Also, he mentions that “in the early twentieth century, when traditional systems of patronage were dismantled, in a self-fulfilling prophecy, some younger devadasis indeed turned to prostitution” (39). However, where is the source of this information? Is it not feasible that although there clearly is a thriving non-sexual artistry at work, that the association between sexuality and this type of artistry (as exemplified by the “businessmen from the city, tax collectors, and ministers” who frequently requested songs subtly implicating these dancers as prostitutes ) was prevalent before this? Could it not be that there have always been a subset of devadasis who engaged in some form of prostitution? If this was not the case, then the association between devadasis and prostitutes would have originated in the early twentieth century and not before.
Soneji’s work outlines a fascinating distinction between the sphere of the family and the sphere of the devadasi, and the construction and regulation of sexuality manifesting in each sphere. I get the sense that the presence sexual services in the repertoire of a devadasi by no means imply that all other skills and services are subsumed or eclipsed by their sexuality: they are dancers, who can be sexual, not prostitutes who can dance. They were not ultimately defined by their relations with men, nor their ability to produce children. In this context neither marriage nor reproduction is a requisite aspect of womanly life. An equally fascinating dimension to devadasi-ship is the unique relationship they enjoy to the purity-pollution dichotomy. This is the first I have heard, among those concerned with ritual purity in the Hindu context, where menstruating women would not be considered impure. Likewise, this is the first I’ve heard of any community exempt from the impurity of death upon losing a loved one. I’m hoping someone out there studying purity and pollution catches wind of the devadasi scenario. However, I think that the very act that they are exempt from ritual purity does not reneder their artistry as separate from the religious sphere, but ironically, binds them tighter to it. They are always ritually pure!
This brings us to the million dollar questions: to what extend does this craft belong in the sphere of religion versus that of aesthetics? To what extent does it straddle both. Of course there were devadasi performances at homes, but were these not at occasions such as marriages and festivals, indeed occasions heavily imbued with religious overtones? Also, the unique social status of these devadasis, as operating slightly outside the rubric of social expectation (marriage, children, etc.), is conferred on them due to a relationship they enjoy with the sacred sphere. They aid in ritual acts and dance for the enjoyment of the gods. I’m sure we’ll have lots to discuss on Wed. And now the even bigger question, because it directly pertains to the lives of these women, what is a dancer who is forbidden to dance? One of the most disheartening realities of this work is that these women who reconstruct their identity from “scattered fragments of remembrance, knowledge, and experience” will soon enough become themselves such fragments. Once they cross the threshold of death, their skills, knowledge, and personal identifications will die with them: These women who so vividly remember will only be vaguely remembered.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Living Images-the icon as transcendence within immanence.
The devotional poetry of the Tamil saints exemplifies the premise of Davis's book "Living Images". The itinerate poets wandered from temple to temple singing praises to the living embodiment of the Gods in the material icons and expressing their personal relationship with these images. This relationship models the penultimate Hindu view of the way in which the devotee should approach the image; as simultaneously site for the possibility of transcendence contained in the immanent manifestation in material form. As the poet Sambandhar wrote of his experience of Siva in his aspect as Vrsabhabahana:
A heron feather and the bright datura
Adorn his matted hair
His flame red body
Is covered with white ash
Over his girdle and loincloth
He has bound a tigerskin
Encircled by lovely snakes
Thus, with anklets ringing,
The Lord of Citticcaram shrine
Comes riding on his bull.
In this devotion description of the iconography the poet is describing his aesthetic of devotion. He is not simple describing physical objects as found on the small descriptions of the deity when displayed in a museum he is describing the living divinity inherent in the image. As Davies succinctly puts it "The poet conflates the image and God." What the poet sees is grounded within the premise that God is simultaneously transcendent and immanent, ubiquitous and yet forcefully present in certain places.
This is the premise of the entire book that Davis has so adroitly woven through his various examples of the lives of various images and their "lives" throughout history. The primary power that shapes the trials and tribulations, honours and status of the Hindu image originates in the belief by the devotee that these physical representations are inseparable from the living presence to the divinity itself. Through this premise the devotional fabric of the medieval India culture shapes the course of the events of these images and their confrontations and encounters with other cultures who may not adhere to this same framework. He carries the premise into his style of presentation in the book by calling the stories he presents biographies, the life story of the image through the passage of time.
In many cases the images go into hiding and re-emerge to become part of the social fabric of the cultures that come into contact with them. Beginning with the Didarganj yakshi that emerges from the riverbank of the Ganges Davis illustrates that images have lives. The image encounters the two societies present in Didarganj at that time (1917), the local devotees who enshrine the image and incorporate it into their living rituals unhesitatingly and unquestioningly and the British officials who assert their authority and superiority over the local community and carry it away to a museum. The image has different value for these two audiences, cult value for the villagers and exhibition value for the British officials. The illustrations that Davis uses act as a brilliant foil for the points he makes about the various societies of influence on the images. Davis's theory is both modern and creative, allowing a comprehensive look into the complex, rich and sophisticated society within which these images originated.
A heron feather and the bright datura
Adorn his matted hair
His flame red body
Is covered with white ash
Over his girdle and loincloth
He has bound a tigerskin
Encircled by lovely snakes
Thus, with anklets ringing,
The Lord of Citticcaram shrine
Comes riding on his bull.
In this devotion description of the iconography the poet is describing his aesthetic of devotion. He is not simple describing physical objects as found on the small descriptions of the deity when displayed in a museum he is describing the living divinity inherent in the image. As Davies succinctly puts it "The poet conflates the image and God." What the poet sees is grounded within the premise that God is simultaneously transcendent and immanent, ubiquitous and yet forcefully present in certain places.
This is the premise of the entire book that Davis has so adroitly woven through his various examples of the lives of various images and their "lives" throughout history. The primary power that shapes the trials and tribulations, honours and status of the Hindu image originates in the belief by the devotee that these physical representations are inseparable from the living presence to the divinity itself. Through this premise the devotional fabric of the medieval India culture shapes the course of the events of these images and their confrontations and encounters with other cultures who may not adhere to this same framework. He carries the premise into his style of presentation in the book by calling the stories he presents biographies, the life story of the image through the passage of time.
In many cases the images go into hiding and re-emerge to become part of the social fabric of the cultures that come into contact with them. Beginning with the Didarganj yakshi that emerges from the riverbank of the Ganges Davis illustrates that images have lives. The image encounters the two societies present in Didarganj at that time (1917), the local devotees who enshrine the image and incorporate it into their living rituals unhesitatingly and unquestioningly and the British officials who assert their authority and superiority over the local community and carry it away to a museum. The image has different value for these two audiences, cult value for the villagers and exhibition value for the British officials. The illustrations that Davis uses act as a brilliant foil for the points he makes about the various societies of influence on the images. Davis's theory is both modern and creative, allowing a comprehensive look into the complex, rich and sophisticated society within which these images originated.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
I Knew Ganesha Was Alive When He Began Drinking Milk Through His Trunk In 1995
As a child growing up in Bombay, my favourite of the festivals that livened up the otherwise-quite suburban streets of my hometown was the weeklong celebration of Ganesha Chathruti in the autumn. Living a stones throw from the beach, meant that all the local processions inevitably led down, or around, my little street – statues held high, laddus for all, hymns sung through megaphones, lorries loaded with people on their way to the Arabian sea to immerse Lord Ganesha in its waters. I loved the pomp, the loudness, the life that got infused into the city throughout this festival, the larger-than-life statues that took weeks to build…only to be sent off into the salty waters of the sea. It all seemed so animated and colourful in contrast to the midnight masses that marked the biggest celebration of my own faith tradition!
This week’s Davis reading reminded me about that time in my life when I had first-hand interaction with the living Saiva tradition. Yet somehow, whilst reading, I realized that I was much like the museum visitors in Washington, paying to appreciate the statues of Siva and Parvati. There was a distance between me and that living religious experience – the distance allowed me to appreciate the events of Ganesha Chathruti as more of an aesthetic experience – one to be watched from the balcony, rather than one to be experienced on a spiritual plane.
I believe that this is what Davis means when he says, “an Indian image does not appear to us in a museum the same as it does to Indian worshipers in a temple” (17). Siva worshipers in India engage in an active interaction of worship as opposed to the passive divide that exists between object and observer in an aesthetic setting, such as a museum. This is illustrated in the different perspectives of the lingum figure…Where to the Western aesthetic eye, it is insignificant and hence not thought of as worthy of being in museum displays, to the Indian worshiper, the linga is “regarded as the root manifestation of divinity and the emanating source of all other temple images” (Davis, 18)…In other words, not only is it intrinsically divine, it is also the essence of the divinity in that temple.
This past weekend, I spent the better part of Saturday visiting three different places of worship. One of them was the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir at Highway 427 and Finch in north Toronto. Once again, I was playing the role of observer – removed from the tradition and admiring the religious and architectural richness from the outside, looking in. Since my tour group arrived at about 11AM, our guide in the temple told us that we would be unable to go upstairs to the main place of worship because until 11:30AM, “God was having lunch.” I looked up through the skylight of the havelli and thanked Jung for his theory of synchronicity because had I not been reading Davis’s chapter on living images, I would not have been able to fully appreciate God’s lunchtime! Our tour guide also explained that the statues of the deities are regulary bathed, redressed for bedtime, sleep at night, and are fed three meals a day – much like if they were living, breathing beings…which for all intents and purposes, they are believed to be.
Similarly, Davis states that the Siva and Parvati images of Tiruvengadu would have appeared to their viewers “not as simple metal icons, but as living beings covered over in the material and social adornments of their livelihood” (20).
Saivas believe that the divine presence is invoked by ritual and comes to inhabit the statue. For this reason, for the south Indian Saivas, religious icons like the stone linga and the bronze image of Siva at Tiruvengadu are, in fact, fundamentally living and divine beings.
On the other, aesthetically minded, hand the figures of Siva and Parvati are admired for their art quality. They are evaluated as “art objects” that are to be awarded careful treatment. I found this very interesting – that in the West, we treat art objects almost religiously – ensuring proper moisture levels and optimum lighting; we use hushed voices to point out this detail and that. Almost ritually, we in the West know how to operate around objective art. Which leads me to wonder, what happens when art is no longer objective – but rather subjective of a living religion?
I find it interesting that temple worshipers are traditionally separate from the actual divine subjects – having the temple priest interact with the gods on the public’s behalf. This vicarious relationship with the statues is still considered an active interaction with a living God. On the other hand, the visitor to a museum is also removed from the statue – whether it be by a physical barrier like a glass case, or a velvet rope, or polite space…however, this objective aesthetic experience can also produce something akin to rasa, no? And couldn’t we argue then, that that is a religious experience?
This week’s Davis reading reminded me about that time in my life when I had first-hand interaction with the living Saiva tradition. Yet somehow, whilst reading, I realized that I was much like the museum visitors in Washington, paying to appreciate the statues of Siva and Parvati. There was a distance between me and that living religious experience – the distance allowed me to appreciate the events of Ganesha Chathruti as more of an aesthetic experience – one to be watched from the balcony, rather than one to be experienced on a spiritual plane.
I believe that this is what Davis means when he says, “an Indian image does not appear to us in a museum the same as it does to Indian worshipers in a temple” (17). Siva worshipers in India engage in an active interaction of worship as opposed to the passive divide that exists between object and observer in an aesthetic setting, such as a museum. This is illustrated in the different perspectives of the lingum figure…Where to the Western aesthetic eye, it is insignificant and hence not thought of as worthy of being in museum displays, to the Indian worshiper, the linga is “regarded as the root manifestation of divinity and the emanating source of all other temple images” (Davis, 18)…In other words, not only is it intrinsically divine, it is also the essence of the divinity in that temple.
This past weekend, I spent the better part of Saturday visiting three different places of worship. One of them was the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir at Highway 427 and Finch in north Toronto. Once again, I was playing the role of observer – removed from the tradition and admiring the religious and architectural richness from the outside, looking in. Since my tour group arrived at about 11AM, our guide in the temple told us that we would be unable to go upstairs to the main place of worship because until 11:30AM, “God was having lunch.” I looked up through the skylight of the havelli and thanked Jung for his theory of synchronicity because had I not been reading Davis’s chapter on living images, I would not have been able to fully appreciate God’s lunchtime! Our tour guide also explained that the statues of the deities are regulary bathed, redressed for bedtime, sleep at night, and are fed three meals a day – much like if they were living, breathing beings…which for all intents and purposes, they are believed to be.
Similarly, Davis states that the Siva and Parvati images of Tiruvengadu would have appeared to their viewers “not as simple metal icons, but as living beings covered over in the material and social adornments of their livelihood” (20).
Saivas believe that the divine presence is invoked by ritual and comes to inhabit the statue. For this reason, for the south Indian Saivas, religious icons like the stone linga and the bronze image of Siva at Tiruvengadu are, in fact, fundamentally living and divine beings.
On the other, aesthetically minded, hand the figures of Siva and Parvati are admired for their art quality. They are evaluated as “art objects” that are to be awarded careful treatment. I found this very interesting – that in the West, we treat art objects almost religiously – ensuring proper moisture levels and optimum lighting; we use hushed voices to point out this detail and that. Almost ritually, we in the West know how to operate around objective art. Which leads me to wonder, what happens when art is no longer objective – but rather subjective of a living religion?
I find it interesting that temple worshipers are traditionally separate from the actual divine subjects – having the temple priest interact with the gods on the public’s behalf. This vicarious relationship with the statues is still considered an active interaction with a living God. On the other hand, the visitor to a museum is also removed from the statue – whether it be by a physical barrier like a glass case, or a velvet rope, or polite space…however, this objective aesthetic experience can also produce something akin to rasa, no? And couldn’t we argue then, that that is a religious experience?
Icons and Idols
Richard Davis’ The Lives of Indian Images is a fascinating book which examines an overwhelming amount of interesting topics. It is difficult to condense all the material or to simply choose one topic to discuss. I have decided to focus on the different explanations given for what types of images should be worshiped and why images should not be worshipped. The iconoclasm of the Muslims - such as Mahmud - coming into India was a major theme of this book. The destructions of images was not only due to religious motivations but for many other reasons as well. Yet Muslims are not the only people who “look down” on idol worship. A few weeks ago for another class I read the World Christian Encyclopaedia in which it – fairly derogatorily - describes Hinduism from a Christian worldview. “About 0.5% of Hindus belong to the more intellectual reform movements opposed to polytheism and idol worship which reject belief in incarnations of gods... The vast majority, 98%, popularly called Sanatanists or idol worshippers, believe in incarnations of gods.” (pg 362)
Non-Hindu religions are not the only groups who critique temple Hindu “idolatry.” Davis writes “Even the scholarly Orientalists, generally more sympathetic to Indian culture, figured Hindu idolatry as the product of a historical degeneration from a purer religious past.” (159) Many traditions encompassed within the sphere of “Hinduism” also critiqued such practices. There is a fascinating and succinct discussion of two schools of thought on pages 44-49 of this book. Mimamsas did not agree with the worship of idols because the gods themselves were less important than the performance of ritual. The gods lacked bodies – only existing as sound - and therefore did not need to be fed, why then would one make offerings to an image of something that has no image and thus has no use for the gifts?
The Advaita Vedanta school was not as radically opposed to image worship as the Mimamsas, yet they also had interesting and effective critique of idolatry. Sankara thought the worship of physical objects to be a “distinctly lower level of religious practice than the direct, unmediated realization of oneness with the transcendent brahman” (47) But gods do have the ability to assume whatever shape they wish, and their physical manifestations make it easier for people to visualize the gods in their minds, making them more accessible for devotion. But brahman is ultimately – it its ultimate form – without qualities: formless, pervasive, and incomprehensible. Once one has fully accepted the unmanifestable true form of brahman temple Hinduisms practices become “unnecessary” and “misguiding” (48) Davis concludes this interesting section with: “Sankara’s demotion of image worship as acceptable for persons of limited understanding but inappropriate for those of higher knowledge would provide a convenient and sophisticated indigenous philosophy by which educated Indian intellectuals of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries could answer the Western Christian change that Hinduism was an “idolatrous” religion.” (49) In such arguments as these the World Christina Encyclopaedia can find justification.
It is not just these groups that are opposed to idol worship that have different views of what is appropriate forms to worship. Even within bhakti traditions – who generally fall under the 98 percentile discussed in the World Christina Encyclopaedia - there are different views of what is the most appropriate physical form of their lord.
It is interesting to see the differences in what Vaisnavas and Saivas believe to be the most suitable form to construct their gods. Vasnavas favour a very anthropomorphic image. Reasons for this can be found in the Bhagavad Gita. Krisna is much more than a man, he is everything and more. Yet he is possibly too much to handle in his real form as the ultimate. When he revealed himself to Arjuna he was far too terrifying to handle. How could a devotee of Krisna truly love a form that they fear? We see similar sentiments expressed by Rupa in his Bhaktirasamrtasindhu. God cannot properly be worshipped in an abstract form because that is not conducive to love and devotion to the same extent as an attractive, playful anthropormorphic figure such as Krisna is. This argument was also used in many of the narratives of recovery opposing the Muslim iconoclasm in the fourteenth century. “They suggested (though only indirectly) that aniconic form of religiosity such as orthodox Islam did not meet the emotional needs of humans for a loving personal relationship with divinity.” (123)
Saivas on the other hand choose to most often worship Siva in the form of the nonanthropormorphic, nonpartitive, linga. They hold that this form “parallels in its wholeness and abstractness the higher level of Siva’s being, the Supreme Siva “without parts.” Saivas consider anthropomorphic images of Siva... less complete approximations of the totality of Siva’s being.” (30) This appears similar to the Advaita Vedanta and Sankara’s arguments. Therefore even within the traditions considered “idolatrous” by many there are levels of what is most “acceptable.” Most even have subtle inner critiques of the practices imbedded in their justifications. Vaisnavas acknowledge the understanding that Visnu has an ultimate unmanifestable form, but his avatars such as Krisna make him more accessible for devotions.
The ideals expressed here for Saivas and Vaisnavas only represent the “higher” philosophical levels. Excluded from these discussions are the village and rural people - the people of “limited understanding” for whom idol worship is “acceptable,” according to Sankara. Yet it is unlikely they had the privilege and leisure to compose – let alone think about - such responses in defence of their beliefs and devotional practices. This is unfortunate as we only really have one side of the story represented.
Non-Hindu religions are not the only groups who critique temple Hindu “idolatry.” Davis writes “Even the scholarly Orientalists, generally more sympathetic to Indian culture, figured Hindu idolatry as the product of a historical degeneration from a purer religious past.” (159) Many traditions encompassed within the sphere of “Hinduism” also critiqued such practices. There is a fascinating and succinct discussion of two schools of thought on pages 44-49 of this book. Mimamsas did not agree with the worship of idols because the gods themselves were less important than the performance of ritual. The gods lacked bodies – only existing as sound - and therefore did not need to be fed, why then would one make offerings to an image of something that has no image and thus has no use for the gifts?
The Advaita Vedanta school was not as radically opposed to image worship as the Mimamsas, yet they also had interesting and effective critique of idolatry. Sankara thought the worship of physical objects to be a “distinctly lower level of religious practice than the direct, unmediated realization of oneness with the transcendent brahman” (47) But gods do have the ability to assume whatever shape they wish, and their physical manifestations make it easier for people to visualize the gods in their minds, making them more accessible for devotion. But brahman is ultimately – it its ultimate form – without qualities: formless, pervasive, and incomprehensible. Once one has fully accepted the unmanifestable true form of brahman temple Hinduisms practices become “unnecessary” and “misguiding” (48) Davis concludes this interesting section with: “Sankara’s demotion of image worship as acceptable for persons of limited understanding but inappropriate for those of higher knowledge would provide a convenient and sophisticated indigenous philosophy by which educated Indian intellectuals of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries could answer the Western Christian change that Hinduism was an “idolatrous” religion.” (49) In such arguments as these the World Christina Encyclopaedia can find justification.
It is not just these groups that are opposed to idol worship that have different views of what is appropriate forms to worship. Even within bhakti traditions – who generally fall under the 98 percentile discussed in the World Christina Encyclopaedia - there are different views of what is the most appropriate physical form of their lord.
It is interesting to see the differences in what Vaisnavas and Saivas believe to be the most suitable form to construct their gods. Vasnavas favour a very anthropomorphic image. Reasons for this can be found in the Bhagavad Gita. Krisna is much more than a man, he is everything and more. Yet he is possibly too much to handle in his real form as the ultimate. When he revealed himself to Arjuna he was far too terrifying to handle. How could a devotee of Krisna truly love a form that they fear? We see similar sentiments expressed by Rupa in his Bhaktirasamrtasindhu. God cannot properly be worshipped in an abstract form because that is not conducive to love and devotion to the same extent as an attractive, playful anthropormorphic figure such as Krisna is. This argument was also used in many of the narratives of recovery opposing the Muslim iconoclasm in the fourteenth century. “They suggested (though only indirectly) that aniconic form of religiosity such as orthodox Islam did not meet the emotional needs of humans for a loving personal relationship with divinity.” (123)
Saivas on the other hand choose to most often worship Siva in the form of the nonanthropormorphic, nonpartitive, linga. They hold that this form “parallels in its wholeness and abstractness the higher level of Siva’s being, the Supreme Siva “without parts.” Saivas consider anthropomorphic images of Siva... less complete approximations of the totality of Siva’s being.” (30) This appears similar to the Advaita Vedanta and Sankara’s arguments. Therefore even within the traditions considered “idolatrous” by many there are levels of what is most “acceptable.” Most even have subtle inner critiques of the practices imbedded in their justifications. Vaisnavas acknowledge the understanding that Visnu has an ultimate unmanifestable form, but his avatars such as Krisna make him more accessible for devotions.
The ideals expressed here for Saivas and Vaisnavas only represent the “higher” philosophical levels. Excluded from these discussions are the village and rural people - the people of “limited understanding” for whom idol worship is “acceptable,” according to Sankara. Yet it is unlikely they had the privilege and leisure to compose – let alone think about - such responses in defence of their beliefs and devotional practices. This is unfortunate as we only really have one side of the story represented.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Images Related to Religion?
In his book Davis attempts to do two important things with divine images and icons. First, he uses the device symbolism to intelligently connect it with theological implications. In this argument what he argues is that the images represent God in its transcendent (evoked through specific rituals) and immanent (as illustrated in poetry and epics) forms. What is particularly interesting is he shows that through ritual and location combined with history these images are actually evaded by the deity to answer to specific requests that are owed because of the special treatments (dowries, bathing and feeding) the image receives.
Second, Davis argues that place and history play a very important role in evoking the deity as well as making the powers of ritual stronger. This argument assumes that images are related to specific myths, cultures, history, time and place and to take them away from this is to deemphasize the specific role that the image is suppose to play. In addition, Davis speaks of specific elements, such as trees etc as being auspicious and relating to rituals that are centric to the awakening of the deity. This he shows is parallel to the infinity of god that pervades the finite world in order to lead believers towards the oneness of God.
In his arguments, Davis seems to connect religion and myth/culture/history together. This implies that religion and myth correlate with one another. In its general sense myth is a symbolic story of the sacred often depicted in art form. Whereas religion, is reaching a state of elevation in which a specific ideal is reached. With regards to Hinduism, the ideal that is reached is the oneness of the world in which God creates the cosmos within his very being. What Davis does is imply that myth is needed in order to be religious. However, can it not be assumed that myths are cultural studies that relate individuals to the framework of what religion is, but does not encompass the wholeness of religion itself? More specifically, does religion need to be reached through myths, or is there a way in which religious ideals can be realized without it? This would suggest on a broader scale that religious ideals is not culture specific but rather universalistic. This would mean that religion can be experienced by all regardless of specific history or regions.
Another thing that Davis implies in his argument is that the true benefits or enjoyment of images and icons are specific to the believers in specific regions. This assumes that art is not just constructed for the benefit of individuals, but more specifically designed for the attainment of specific goals. For example, whether the art works to keep people satisfied with their current condition in the world, or whether there be political or economical reasons behind it totally depends on the regional history, time and place the image or icon was created in. Much like how mandalas are created for specific religious gains so are images and icons. In this respect, the amount of love and affection that one shows towards the deity through ritual and various dowries is a reflection of not only the bhakti path but also a detection of how religious an individual is. To know the specific rituals and religious symbols well enough to conduct these rituals and reap the benefits, is entirely up to a certain amount of expertise of a specific culture determined by boundaries. Much like how North Indians differ in ritual practices from that of South Indians.
Second, Davis argues that place and history play a very important role in evoking the deity as well as making the powers of ritual stronger. This argument assumes that images are related to specific myths, cultures, history, time and place and to take them away from this is to deemphasize the specific role that the image is suppose to play. In addition, Davis speaks of specific elements, such as trees etc as being auspicious and relating to rituals that are centric to the awakening of the deity. This he shows is parallel to the infinity of god that pervades the finite world in order to lead believers towards the oneness of God.
In his arguments, Davis seems to connect religion and myth/culture/history together. This implies that religion and myth correlate with one another. In its general sense myth is a symbolic story of the sacred often depicted in art form. Whereas religion, is reaching a state of elevation in which a specific ideal is reached. With regards to Hinduism, the ideal that is reached is the oneness of the world in which God creates the cosmos within his very being. What Davis does is imply that myth is needed in order to be religious. However, can it not be assumed that myths are cultural studies that relate individuals to the framework of what religion is, but does not encompass the wholeness of religion itself? More specifically, does religion need to be reached through myths, or is there a way in which religious ideals can be realized without it? This would suggest on a broader scale that religious ideals is not culture specific but rather universalistic. This would mean that religion can be experienced by all regardless of specific history or regions.
Another thing that Davis implies in his argument is that the true benefits or enjoyment of images and icons are specific to the believers in specific regions. This assumes that art is not just constructed for the benefit of individuals, but more specifically designed for the attainment of specific goals. For example, whether the art works to keep people satisfied with their current condition in the world, or whether there be political or economical reasons behind it totally depends on the regional history, time and place the image or icon was created in. Much like how mandalas are created for specific religious gains so are images and icons. In this respect, the amount of love and affection that one shows towards the deity through ritual and various dowries is a reflection of not only the bhakti path but also a detection of how religious an individual is. To know the specific rituals and religious symbols well enough to conduct these rituals and reap the benefits, is entirely up to a certain amount of expertise of a specific culture determined by boundaries. Much like how North Indians differ in ritual practices from that of South Indians.
Believing is Seeing: an Exploration of Aesthetic Darshan
The Lives of Indian Images
Richard Davis
Richards Davis presents much food for thought in his book “The Lives of Indian Images” (or at least in the first 5 chapters thereof). I would actually be quite interested in reading his concluding section “Identities and Manifestations” at some point. Antonija, I believe you actually bought the book -- can you hook it up? Although chapters 2-5 (respectively, “Trophies of War”, “Images Overthrown”, “Vi·nu’s Miraculous Returns”, “Indian Images Collected”) contain much (often disturbing, with respect to looting, desecration, etc) food for thought, what interests me most are the themes laid out in the introductory chapter, “Living Images”. This chapter focuses on a medieval south Indian bronze sculpture of the Hindu god êiva in his V¨·abhavŒhaöa (the “bull-vehicled” one) form, along with that of the god’s consort PŒrvat´, which made their way in 1985 to appear in a museum showing in Washington, D.C. The images were far removed from their time, place, and culture of origin (the êvetŒraöya·vara Temple of early 11th century C.E. Tiruvengadu), and as such are received quite differently than their initial emergence as objects of Medieval Indian devotional worship.
Interestingly, the purpose of the Washington showing, as per curator Pramod Chandra, was “to give the viewer an impression of Indian sculpture as a whole, in all rich diversity of idioms that flourished in the ancient regions of the country…[and]…to convey a sense of the contribution of Indian sculpture to the common artistic heritage of mankind” (17). Clearly, in the eyes of this curator at least, the sculptures of êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa and PŒrvat´, were objects of art. They were contributions to the artistry of our race, not the religiosity thereof. Their function here is primarily an aesthetic one. This clearly was not always the case. Although their aesthetic element is undeniably present, it was not their primary feature or purpose. The social, cultural, religious context of their origin so differs from our current one with respect to ideology (attitudes towards divinity, sacred-secular divide, etc). Davis does a good job of contrasting the extent to which the temple reception of these objects differ from their museum reception.
Davis mentions that the §iva liºga usually stands at the “physical and conceptual centre of the temple” representative of the “root manifestation (mèlamèrti) of divinity [i.e.,] the emanating source of all other anthropomorphic images in the temple” (19). Usually, in our culture, the “centerpiece” (of a table, etc.) is of augmented aesthetic appeal. One elects the most pleasing object for the centerpiece. But, in this context, clearly the centrality of the liºga §iva is not based on an aesthetic component, since this smooth simple piece of stone aesthetically dims in comparison to, say, the highly ornate sculpture of êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa. There does indeed seem to be a greater “appeal” to the liºga, but it is not an aesthetic appeal, but, rather, a religious (i.e., theological) one. It appeals to devotees of êiva along the same lines as does the sculpture (both being to differing extents representative of the god’s unmanifest aspect). So, we can conclude, based on the relative lack of artistry inherent in the more-appealing liºga, that the appeal of the value and appeal of the sculpture far transcends its artistic dimension. As Davis demonstrates, for South Indian êaivites, this is far more than a “visual object only to be savored aesthetically”. It was along the religious hierarchy, not the aesthetic one, that the objects in the temple were placed, “emanating outward from the liºga that embodies êiva in his highest from” (19). Clearly the object here is regarded in a wholly different fashion than as a “contribution of artistry of our race”.
Our complex framing of cultural assumptions and ideals (dispensations as Davis calls them, 21), clearly interfere with how we regard these objects. That being said, what can we infer about the different receptions in the museum and in the temple? Does the regard for the êiva sculpture (and all other like it) as an object of sacred significance mean that notion of the aesthetic in that world (11th century South India) are necessarily religious? Does, then, the de-emphasis of the ritual dimensions to such object, emphasizing, rather, the aesthetic and artistic presence, constitute violence towards the cultural contexts which produced these object? After all, it is safe to conclude that sculptures of this kind were created with the intention of worship, much like the trees, who were venerated even before they were chopped down, the same from whom the priests required permission before chiseling them into deities. I’m tempted to think that in looking at these works isolated form their ‘sanctified’ contexts, we must do so employing some sympathy or reference to the worlds which created them.
One of the way in which we can cultivate sympathy when we take sight of, say, êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa, is to be mindful of the transcendent-immanent tension ascribed to divinity in this context. It is much easier for us to regard object irreverently, since we partake in a culture whose notions of divinity, when present, are necessarily a transcendent divinity. I have was quite interested in Davis’ discourse on the paradoxical aspects of divine as unmanifest (as purported in Upanishadic texts) and manifest (as prevalent in puranic/agamic texts) interesting and relevant to other modes of appreciating these objects of art/worship. These are living images. êiva lives in that sculpture. As difficult as it may be for us to process along those lines, we must acknowledge the fact that than object for the countless individuals having behold them in times past. These were access points into a theological and metaphysical reality: these are immanent portals of transcendent divinity. These are not mere idols, or objects of arts, these are, in the eyes of many, manifestations of an “unfathomable, indescribable incomparable, without defect, subtle, pervasive, eternal, firm, imperishable, lordly” Absolute. Even if we, the modern beholder, do not subscribe to any theological school, it is imperative that we are mindful of the schools of thought prevalent to those creating and utilizing these objects. We will never be able to enter into their original dispensation, but we should at least strive to become aware of it. In viewing these objects, there’s clearly more than “one kind of looking” possible: we will never know what the ancients saw, but we can at least become acquainted with what we don’t see.
Richard Davis
Richards Davis presents much food for thought in his book “The Lives of Indian Images” (or at least in the first 5 chapters thereof). I would actually be quite interested in reading his concluding section “Identities and Manifestations” at some point. Antonija, I believe you actually bought the book -- can you hook it up? Although chapters 2-5 (respectively, “Trophies of War”, “Images Overthrown”, “Vi·nu’s Miraculous Returns”, “Indian Images Collected”) contain much (often disturbing, with respect to looting, desecration, etc) food for thought, what interests me most are the themes laid out in the introductory chapter, “Living Images”. This chapter focuses on a medieval south Indian bronze sculpture of the Hindu god êiva in his V¨·abhavŒhaöa (the “bull-vehicled” one) form, along with that of the god’s consort PŒrvat´, which made their way in 1985 to appear in a museum showing in Washington, D.C. The images were far removed from their time, place, and culture of origin (the êvetŒraöya·vara Temple of early 11th century C.E. Tiruvengadu), and as such are received quite differently than their initial emergence as objects of Medieval Indian devotional worship.
Interestingly, the purpose of the Washington showing, as per curator Pramod Chandra, was “to give the viewer an impression of Indian sculpture as a whole, in all rich diversity of idioms that flourished in the ancient regions of the country…[and]…to convey a sense of the contribution of Indian sculpture to the common artistic heritage of mankind” (17). Clearly, in the eyes of this curator at least, the sculptures of êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa and PŒrvat´, were objects of art. They were contributions to the artistry of our race, not the religiosity thereof. Their function here is primarily an aesthetic one. This clearly was not always the case. Although their aesthetic element is undeniably present, it was not their primary feature or purpose. The social, cultural, religious context of their origin so differs from our current one with respect to ideology (attitudes towards divinity, sacred-secular divide, etc). Davis does a good job of contrasting the extent to which the temple reception of these objects differ from their museum reception.
Davis mentions that the §iva liºga usually stands at the “physical and conceptual centre of the temple” representative of the “root manifestation (mèlamèrti) of divinity [i.e.,] the emanating source of all other anthropomorphic images in the temple” (19). Usually, in our culture, the “centerpiece” (of a table, etc.) is of augmented aesthetic appeal. One elects the most pleasing object for the centerpiece. But, in this context, clearly the centrality of the liºga §iva is not based on an aesthetic component, since this smooth simple piece of stone aesthetically dims in comparison to, say, the highly ornate sculpture of êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa. There does indeed seem to be a greater “appeal” to the liºga, but it is not an aesthetic appeal, but, rather, a religious (i.e., theological) one. It appeals to devotees of êiva along the same lines as does the sculpture (both being to differing extents representative of the god’s unmanifest aspect). So, we can conclude, based on the relative lack of artistry inherent in the more-appealing liºga, that the appeal of the value and appeal of the sculpture far transcends its artistic dimension. As Davis demonstrates, for South Indian êaivites, this is far more than a “visual object only to be savored aesthetically”. It was along the religious hierarchy, not the aesthetic one, that the objects in the temple were placed, “emanating outward from the liºga that embodies êiva in his highest from” (19). Clearly the object here is regarded in a wholly different fashion than as a “contribution of artistry of our race”.
Our complex framing of cultural assumptions and ideals (dispensations as Davis calls them, 21), clearly interfere with how we regard these objects. That being said, what can we infer about the different receptions in the museum and in the temple? Does the regard for the êiva sculpture (and all other like it) as an object of sacred significance mean that notion of the aesthetic in that world (11th century South India) are necessarily religious? Does, then, the de-emphasis of the ritual dimensions to such object, emphasizing, rather, the aesthetic and artistic presence, constitute violence towards the cultural contexts which produced these object? After all, it is safe to conclude that sculptures of this kind were created with the intention of worship, much like the trees, who were venerated even before they were chopped down, the same from whom the priests required permission before chiseling them into deities. I’m tempted to think that in looking at these works isolated form their ‘sanctified’ contexts, we must do so employing some sympathy or reference to the worlds which created them.
One of the way in which we can cultivate sympathy when we take sight of, say, êiva V¨·abhavŒhaöa, is to be mindful of the transcendent-immanent tension ascribed to divinity in this context. It is much easier for us to regard object irreverently, since we partake in a culture whose notions of divinity, when present, are necessarily a transcendent divinity. I have was quite interested in Davis’ discourse on the paradoxical aspects of divine as unmanifest (as purported in Upanishadic texts) and manifest (as prevalent in puranic/agamic texts) interesting and relevant to other modes of appreciating these objects of art/worship. These are living images. êiva lives in that sculpture. As difficult as it may be for us to process along those lines, we must acknowledge the fact that than object for the countless individuals having behold them in times past. These were access points into a theological and metaphysical reality: these are immanent portals of transcendent divinity. These are not mere idols, or objects of arts, these are, in the eyes of many, manifestations of an “unfathomable, indescribable incomparable, without defect, subtle, pervasive, eternal, firm, imperishable, lordly” Absolute. Even if we, the modern beholder, do not subscribe to any theological school, it is imperative that we are mindful of the schools of thought prevalent to those creating and utilizing these objects. We will never be able to enter into their original dispensation, but we should at least strive to become aware of it. In viewing these objects, there’s clearly more than “one kind of looking” possible: we will never know what the ancients saw, but we can at least become acquainted with what we don’t see.
The Return of Indian Images
In “The Lives of Indian Images”, Davis illustrates the symbolic significance of idols in both the Western and Indian context. In this instance he distinguishes between the, what I term as “secular eye” and what he terms as the “devotional eye”. He describes how the object is viewed as sacred in one context and how it is viewed as an aesthetically beautiful art form in the other, without any reference to its sacred qualities. Although the audience members may be told of its sacred qualities the object loses this significance in secular eyes because of its position within a Museum as opposed to a sacred realm such as a temple. However, I believe that the object is worshipped in both instances and thus some sort of sacredness is attached to the object in both contexts.
Davis describes the history behind these objects and how they gained their status through the imposing of Indian values according to place and time in history. The object was a signifier for the community in which it was situated, it never lost meaning, but instead gained meaning. For example, the political meaning of idols changed as leading powers confiscated them. They became something more, they signified the community before and what they believed the image represented and also now came to signify the political gain for the leading power. Given this example, I argue that Indian images are given more meaning in a Museum as well. They are significant because of their history and also because they are now symbols of art that is “universal” in nature. These Indian images or idols have transcended local borders and are placed in “secular” sacred places, (what I mean by this is that a museum is secular in relation to Indian images, but is sacred to a Western audience who appreciates art), and are thus understood by a universal audience and not only an Indian audience. In short, the object is sacred to someone who worships it and someone who appreciates it, although the degree of its sacredness is completely different, it is without a doubt an object of admiration in both contexts.
Based on Davis’s arguments I would argue that images are sacred in every context when they are displaced from place to place. Even the Muslim’s who came into contact with the Somanatha. Although, the actual object in its entirety was not sacred or symbolic for the Ummah, the destroyed object becomes sacred for the Ummah because it is symbolic of the recognition that there is only one True God, Allah. This sacred identity attributed to the destroyed image is as meaningful to a Muslim Somanatha object in its entirety is to a Hindu.
What is very interesting about the article is how these images were viewed upon contact of them. Many of the reasons behind the capture of these items were solely because of the attraction it caused. When may of the rulers stumbled upon these images they described them in terms of their design regardless of their religious, political, or economic symbolic meanings. Can this mean that these images were seen as aesthetically pleasing, and in turn they were imbued with religious, political and economic meaning? If they were not beautiful, would they have any such status? Does the images place in a museum return it to its original status and beauty away from any cultural, religious, and historical distinctions?
Davis describes the history behind these objects and how they gained their status through the imposing of Indian values according to place and time in history. The object was a signifier for the community in which it was situated, it never lost meaning, but instead gained meaning. For example, the political meaning of idols changed as leading powers confiscated them. They became something more, they signified the community before and what they believed the image represented and also now came to signify the political gain for the leading power. Given this example, I argue that Indian images are given more meaning in a Museum as well. They are significant because of their history and also because they are now symbols of art that is “universal” in nature. These Indian images or idols have transcended local borders and are placed in “secular” sacred places, (what I mean by this is that a museum is secular in relation to Indian images, but is sacred to a Western audience who appreciates art), and are thus understood by a universal audience and not only an Indian audience. In short, the object is sacred to someone who worships it and someone who appreciates it, although the degree of its sacredness is completely different, it is without a doubt an object of admiration in both contexts.
Based on Davis’s arguments I would argue that images are sacred in every context when they are displaced from place to place. Even the Muslim’s who came into contact with the Somanatha. Although, the actual object in its entirety was not sacred or symbolic for the Ummah, the destroyed object becomes sacred for the Ummah because it is symbolic of the recognition that there is only one True God, Allah. This sacred identity attributed to the destroyed image is as meaningful to a Muslim Somanatha object in its entirety is to a Hindu.
What is very interesting about the article is how these images were viewed upon contact of them. Many of the reasons behind the capture of these items were solely because of the attraction it caused. When may of the rulers stumbled upon these images they described them in terms of their design regardless of their religious, political, or economic symbolic meanings. Can this mean that these images were seen as aesthetically pleasing, and in turn they were imbued with religious, political and economic meaning? If they were not beautiful, would they have any such status? Does the images place in a museum return it to its original status and beauty away from any cultural, religious, and historical distinctions?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
FYI: Leslie Orr talk this Friday
Orientalists, Missionaries and Jains: The South Indian Story
Speaker: Leslie Orr
Concordia University, Department of Religion
Friday, March 14, 2008
4:00 PM - 6:00 PM
208N – Seminar Room, North House
Munk Centre For International Studies
1 Devonshire Place
Register online at: http://webapp.mcis.utoronto.ca/EventDetails.aspx?eventid=5484
In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, several British colonial administrators based in Madras, in collaboration with Indian scholars, made significant advances in Indology, particularly with respect to the language, literature, and history of South India. This group of men – “the Madras School of Orientalism” – had a very different orientation and different interests from those of their more famous contemporaries of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, in Calcutta. Colin Mackenzie and F.W. Ellis were at the centre of scholarly activities in the South, with Ellis’ important contributions to the study of the Dravidian language group and of Tamil literature and Mackenzie’s large-scale collection and documentation of manuscripts, oral traditions, inscriptions, sculptures and monuments. These men, together with the Abbé Dubois – and earlier Jesuit and Protestant missionaries – had a particular interest in the Jains, and in the role of the Jains in the history of South India. In contrast to other scholars at the time, the Madras Orientalists recognized that Jainism was a religion separate from both Hinduism and Buddhism, and they thought it quite possible that the religion of the Jains had preceded Brahmanism in South India. In this presentation Leslie will examine the unique view on the history of religions developed by the South Indian missionaries and the Madras Orientalists, and will explore the reasons for their distinctive perspective and its impact on subsequent scholarship.
Leslie C. Orr is an associate professor in the Department of Religion at Concordia University in Montreal. She received her Ph.D. from McGill University in 1993. Her research interests include the religious and social history of medieval South India, especially Tamil Nadu of the Chola period (9th to 13th centuries); women in pre-colonial South Asia; and the interaction of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism.
Speaker: Leslie Orr
Concordia University, Department of Religion
Friday, March 14, 2008
4:00 PM - 6:00 PM
208N – Seminar Room, North House
Munk Centre For International Studies
1 Devonshire Place
Register online at: http://webapp.mcis.utoronto.ca/EventDetails.aspx?eventid=5484
In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, several British colonial administrators based in Madras, in collaboration with Indian scholars, made significant advances in Indology, particularly with respect to the language, literature, and history of South India. This group of men – “the Madras School of Orientalism” – had a very different orientation and different interests from those of their more famous contemporaries of the Asiatic Society of Bengal, in Calcutta. Colin Mackenzie and F.W. Ellis were at the centre of scholarly activities in the South, with Ellis’ important contributions to the study of the Dravidian language group and of Tamil literature and Mackenzie’s large-scale collection and documentation of manuscripts, oral traditions, inscriptions, sculptures and monuments. These men, together with the Abbé Dubois – and earlier Jesuit and Protestant missionaries – had a particular interest in the Jains, and in the role of the Jains in the history of South India. In contrast to other scholars at the time, the Madras Orientalists recognized that Jainism was a religion separate from both Hinduism and Buddhism, and they thought it quite possible that the religion of the Jains had preceded Brahmanism in South India. In this presentation Leslie will examine the unique view on the history of religions developed by the South Indian missionaries and the Madras Orientalists, and will explore the reasons for their distinctive perspective and its impact on subsequent scholarship.
Leslie C. Orr is an associate professor in the Department of Religion at Concordia University in Montreal. She received her Ph.D. from McGill University in 1993. Her research interests include the religious and social history of medieval South India, especially Tamil Nadu of the Chola period (9th to 13th centuries); women in pre-colonial South Asia; and the interaction of Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Secrecy and Soup: the Esoteric Tradition of Sanskrit Literature
I found this book entertaining to read and at times enlightening. Yet it was also full of contradictions and paradoxes that made me question again and again where the author was coming from and what exactly his intentions were.
Many of the analogies – both his own and quoted from other sources- were wonderfully hilarious. Continuing on with the theme of flavour and food, is the repeated can-opener metaphor. “The rasa-dhvani doctrine bring poetry perilously close to a kind of tomato soup that everybody is conditioned to enjoy.” (50) Smith’s critique of the rasa-dhvani school, and his obviously frustration with its “attempts to leave us with a universal, impersonal experience passing between people who try to be as like each other as possible.” (50) receives some sympathy from me. I wonder how much of the stuff he has had to read – I am sure a lot more than us, which - although it was fascinating for a while – allows me to feel his pain.
The second analogy that really stood out for me will also bring me to my main theme for these week’s blog. “The Vedas belonged to the end of an earlier epoch, and were increasingly venerated the less they were understood, like a dwarf star ceasing to emit light whilst its gravity rapidly increases.” (14)
In our modern tradition of scholarship and academia I often find the veneration of “convolutedness” to be our own form of religion. The harder it is to understand something the more that can be made out of it. Interpretations run wild – you can make some theorists say anything to suit your own agenda. The scholars who really have a cross-discipline drive are generally the hardest to understand (think Derrida, Foucault, Kant etc.).
In regards to the Vedas, the further the Indian people moved away from that time – and the further their language changed - the more gobblygook the passages became. Thus the more mysterious, awesome, and (mis)interpretable they became. The light bulb had been turned off, no longer did they truly hold the way - nor did they make full sense -but their gravitational pull increased. The Vedas were always meant to be secretive – therefore the very fact that they have lost the majority of their understandability (were they ever meant to be understandable?) is perhaps a perfect continuation of the esoteric tradition! The tradition has also continued in other ways, I would argue.
The problem of accessibility and the esoteric nature of the rasa-dhvani tradition has arisen almost every week. Many of the scholars we have looked at have made comments about how only the learned men – the sahrdayas – are classy enough to understand what is going on with rasa – they are the only ones who have had the relevant education and time spent working on the skills in order to truly understand and appreciate the art form. They are the only ones worth writing FOR. As I mentioned above, I believe the esoteric nature is a continuation of the original Sanskrit tradition of limited accessibility. No longer is the Sanskrit language sacred, anybody can write a poem or play and anyone with a small amount of education can read or hear it – initiation based on birth and wealth are no longer the prerequisites. Yet do they understand it? By maintaining a level of secrecy some authors, I would argue, wished to maintain the tradition, and did not want to relinquish Sanskrit up to just anyone.
Again the week, this theme was touched on by Smith. He wrote “There are some striking resemblances between kavya and the Vedic hymns. If the Veda is, in Derrett’s words, an ‘unintelligible, fossilized entity’, so too is kavya! Kingdoms needed clever men to run them; since familiarity with an arcane literature was the cardinal sign of intellect, of aristocratic mind, the new men made themselves a new badge for their authority.” (96) Louis Renou is quoted as saying “one may again wonder if the authors did not systematically avoid whatever could facilitate the understanding of the text. Kavya is not made for those whom Grammar calls mandabuddhi [‘slow witted’], who need those crutches that are particles.” (quoted on 97) For further examples of what led to my discussion on accessibility/esoteric traditions see pgs 98-99 – I have not included a full discussion due to time and space constraints (read: mental constraints!!!!)
On a final note and adding another layer to this topic of secrecy – the need of the learned to preserve their knowledge and thus creating art that is not accessible to all – is the religious affiliation of the Sanskrit author in question – Ratnakara. He belonged to the secret esoteric Kaula path of the tantric Kashmiri Saiva tradition. His writings include details that should only be available to the initiated. Therefore he does not appear to be one who is too worried about secrecy. Yet Smith says Ratnakara’s poetry is full of “obscure references, until the precise and detailed Kaula imagery becomes vague and almost bland.” (265) Is it truly vague and bland? Has Smith opened a bad can of Tomato soup - or are his tastes not yet initiated into the knowledge being presented, possibly in a secretive manner itself?
In kavya there are word plays, puns, allusions, and an abundance of other literary conventions that would only be known to the initiated – someone who has read a great deal of the rasa-dhvani commentaries that Smith critiques in the beginnings of his book. Has the soup can really been opened for us all to enjoy? If so, I don’t think it is Campbell’s soup – maybe some extremely expensive gourmet soup only reserved for a select few. I get the feeling Smith wants in on this soup – and he does not like that others are taking a sip out of his rations.
Many of the analogies – both his own and quoted from other sources- were wonderfully hilarious. Continuing on with the theme of flavour and food, is the repeated can-opener metaphor. “The rasa-dhvani doctrine bring poetry perilously close to a kind of tomato soup that everybody is conditioned to enjoy.” (50) Smith’s critique of the rasa-dhvani school, and his obviously frustration with its “attempts to leave us with a universal, impersonal experience passing between people who try to be as like each other as possible.” (50) receives some sympathy from me. I wonder how much of the stuff he has had to read – I am sure a lot more than us, which - although it was fascinating for a while – allows me to feel his pain.
The second analogy that really stood out for me will also bring me to my main theme for these week’s blog. “The Vedas belonged to the end of an earlier epoch, and were increasingly venerated the less they were understood, like a dwarf star ceasing to emit light whilst its gravity rapidly increases.” (14)
In our modern tradition of scholarship and academia I often find the veneration of “convolutedness” to be our own form of religion. The harder it is to understand something the more that can be made out of it. Interpretations run wild – you can make some theorists say anything to suit your own agenda. The scholars who really have a cross-discipline drive are generally the hardest to understand (think Derrida, Foucault, Kant etc.).
In regards to the Vedas, the further the Indian people moved away from that time – and the further their language changed - the more gobblygook the passages became. Thus the more mysterious, awesome, and (mis)interpretable they became. The light bulb had been turned off, no longer did they truly hold the way - nor did they make full sense -but their gravitational pull increased. The Vedas were always meant to be secretive – therefore the very fact that they have lost the majority of their understandability (were they ever meant to be understandable?) is perhaps a perfect continuation of the esoteric tradition! The tradition has also continued in other ways, I would argue.
The problem of accessibility and the esoteric nature of the rasa-dhvani tradition has arisen almost every week. Many of the scholars we have looked at have made comments about how only the learned men – the sahrdayas – are classy enough to understand what is going on with rasa – they are the only ones who have had the relevant education and time spent working on the skills in order to truly understand and appreciate the art form. They are the only ones worth writing FOR. As I mentioned above, I believe the esoteric nature is a continuation of the original Sanskrit tradition of limited accessibility. No longer is the Sanskrit language sacred, anybody can write a poem or play and anyone with a small amount of education can read or hear it – initiation based on birth and wealth are no longer the prerequisites. Yet do they understand it? By maintaining a level of secrecy some authors, I would argue, wished to maintain the tradition, and did not want to relinquish Sanskrit up to just anyone.
Again the week, this theme was touched on by Smith. He wrote “There are some striking resemblances between kavya and the Vedic hymns. If the Veda is, in Derrett’s words, an ‘unintelligible, fossilized entity’, so too is kavya! Kingdoms needed clever men to run them; since familiarity with an arcane literature was the cardinal sign of intellect, of aristocratic mind, the new men made themselves a new badge for their authority.” (96) Louis Renou is quoted as saying “one may again wonder if the authors did not systematically avoid whatever could facilitate the understanding of the text. Kavya is not made for those whom Grammar calls mandabuddhi [‘slow witted’], who need those crutches that are particles.” (quoted on 97) For further examples of what led to my discussion on accessibility/esoteric traditions see pgs 98-99 – I have not included a full discussion due to time and space constraints (read: mental constraints!!!!)
On a final note and adding another layer to this topic of secrecy – the need of the learned to preserve their knowledge and thus creating art that is not accessible to all – is the religious affiliation of the Sanskrit author in question – Ratnakara. He belonged to the secret esoteric Kaula path of the tantric Kashmiri Saiva tradition. His writings include details that should only be available to the initiated. Therefore he does not appear to be one who is too worried about secrecy. Yet Smith says Ratnakara’s poetry is full of “obscure references, until the precise and detailed Kaula imagery becomes vague and almost bland.” (265) Is it truly vague and bland? Has Smith opened a bad can of Tomato soup - or are his tastes not yet initiated into the knowledge being presented, possibly in a secretive manner itself?
In kavya there are word plays, puns, allusions, and an abundance of other literary conventions that would only be known to the initiated – someone who has read a great deal of the rasa-dhvani commentaries that Smith critiques in the beginnings of his book. Has the soup can really been opened for us all to enjoy? If so, I don’t think it is Campbell’s soup – maybe some extremely expensive gourmet soup only reserved for a select few. I get the feeling Smith wants in on this soup – and he does not like that others are taking a sip out of his rations.
Poetics: Help or Hindrance to Poetry?
Smith’s work (“An Introduction to the Sanskrit Court Epic”) is based on Ratnakara’s 9th century Kashmiri Saivite mahakavya (or perhaps MAHAmahakavya at 4351 verses divided into 50 cants) “Haravijaya”, which, I was interested to learn means ‘Siva’s Victory’. Contrary to the scorn of Richard Schmidt and A.B. Keith for the work as a whole, Smith aligns himself more with the traditional Indian view, holding great esteem for the work. The central thrust of his argument seems to be somehow related to the notion that the mahakavyas are unique, worthy of being treated individually, independent of poetic theory. Smith writes (on chapter two I believe) that one of his major aims it to demonstrate that mahakavya “has its own inner logic as an art form, but this was not perceived by the poeticians, who, were above all concerned with their pet theories” (40). I am not able to track the logic of his arguement with only the excerpts presented here, but there is MUCH in these 150 some odd pages to discuss. Given space constraints, let me highlight a three areas which stood out.
My first topic of interest is why, as Smith asserts, Sanskrit poetics serves “not a help but a hindrance” for studying Sanskrit poetry? If I understand his general argument correctly, then this claim would be central to his work. Yet I am not sure I agree with it. Smith claims that scholars such as Ingalls and Warder have unduly emphasized Sanskrit poeticians, which, ironically, hinders the study of Sanskrit poetry. It seems to me that Ananadavardhana and the like we engaged, primarily, in descriptive rather than prescriptive projects. They aimed to analyze the features of art, but the prerequisites thereof. If a poem has vyanjana, it is not good, but not merely because it lacks vyanjana. All poems which are good incorporate vjanjana, so vjanjana is a symptom of the work’s aesthetics merit, not a cause thereto. With this in mind, poets don’t need to confirm to poetics in order to create poetry. Otherwise Brahma would have revealed rasa theory to VŒlm´ki, instead of allowing him to become inspired. After all, it is the poets who created and employed alamkaras, while the poeticians merely analysed and catalogued them. The same may be said of emotional response: they arise from the art, not the art theory. Indeed “the poet alone is creator in the boundless realm of poetry”, but as Smith would like to argue, the poetician becomes the legislator in this world. But why do we need to live by the laws of poetics?
Clearly poetic ornamentation does not equate poetic artistry. For example, verses such as Yogeshwara’s (50) may indeed come across as “frigid” (Ingall’s description, 51) because of their mechanical quality. This contrived, organized, logical approach may well fit into alamkara principles, but those principles are, in my opinion, more observations of the features of good poetry. Good poetry is well endowed with alamkaras, but an abundance of alamkaras does not necessitate the presence of good poetry. However, the grander issue is that ‘good poetry’ is a matter of taste. Smith happens to highly appreciate Yogeshwara’s verse. But whether or not the poem is ‘good’, it is evident that Ingall’s preocuption with analysis and technique prevents his enjoyment of the poem. He approaches it in the mode of the poetician, not that of the poet, nor that of the sensitive listener. But this is not a necessity. Smith, for example, is able to appreciate the work in its own right. Similarly, he is able to appreciate the object of this study - RatnŒkara’s “Haravijaya” - despite unfavorable western reception it has known to this point. Poetics does not necessarily need to be a hindrance to poetry. One need merely be conscious of the mode in which one aims to receive the art – as the informed critic, or as an audience. Surely audiences may be critical, but most students don’t watch movies with notepads in hand and theories in mind. We can talk about this in class.
My second point of interest, somewhat tangential, relates to notions of authorship within this tradition. Jacobi argues that much of RatnŒkara’s work is borrowed from previous authors. We have learned in looking at the discourse of poetics that Indian authors make concerted efforts to refer to, build upon, and acknowledge their predecessors. The intellectual climate appears to be on where lineage, tradition, and predecessors are greatly esteemed. Anandavardhana, for example, presents his work on aesthetics not so much as a break from the existing intellectual tradition, but as an embellishment thereof. So, I wonder to what extent poetic composition would deviate from this. Given the haziness of authorship that generally pervades the tradition (it seems next to impossible to ascertain who writes what when), I fail to see why RatnŒkara would have any anxiety about being deemed a plagiarist. The whole concept of plagiarism appears to be somewhat of an imposition. For example, as Wendy Doninger (who, by the way, happens to be my academic great grandmother!) writes in her introductory essay to her own translation of “The laws of Manu” (Penguin, 1991) “it has been estimated that between a third and a half of Manu is in the “Mahabharata”, though it is not certain which was the source and which was the borrower” (xvii). So, who is the plagiarist, Vyasa, or Manu, or both? Jacobi may very well offically qualify as a vacuum-dwelling, "originality-monger" (and no, I refuse to offer a citation for the term originality monger – who cares if it’s my idea or not??). Along these lines, Smith himself tells us (Ch 2) that the three oldest Sanskrit poeticians construct their own examples of poetry, and when they do quote versus, they neglect to attribute these versus to any particular author since “the author and his book are of too little moment to merit mention”. For some reason, this isn’t the impression I got. I was sure that much of the poetry in Abhivanagupta’s treatise was long-established, accepted, “free-floating” verse whose authorship was unknown, not undermined.
Thirdly, regarding the extensive analysis in Chapter 8, “The Gods and Goddessess”, admittedly most of it went over my head with respect to the overarching theme. I am hoping we could clarify it in class. Smith seems to be arguing that, as he states in the very onset of the chapter, “kavya often adopts a neutral attitude towards the gods” (225). But I am unclear as to what his neutrality refers to. What, exactly, would positions ‘a’ and ‘b’ be with respect to this purported neutrality towards the gods? Does he refer to whether kavya regards them as benefic versus malefic? Does he refer to the god’s fallibility versus infallibility? The first example he gives (from Kalidasa) seems to focus on the gruesomeness of Siva (splattered sculls and whatnot on p 226), but the second one emphasizes Siva’s ‘imagining’ versus his ‘perceiving. He then goes on to give poetic example emphasizing Siva’s propensity for lovemaking and his ambiguous lineage. I am not sure how these relate to his the argument in thus chapter, nor to any larger argument the book purports to uphold. Smith later describes Ratnakara’s neutrality when he reduces Siva to “colour alone” (231). He makes several references to poetic passages descriving Shiva’s poisionous neck, third eye, his affinity for dance, his role as destroyer, his acetic prowess, etc. – but even by chapter’s end, I really don’t understand Smiths’ particular employment of the term “neutrality”. Someone, please define this term for me!
My first topic of interest is why, as Smith asserts, Sanskrit poetics serves “not a help but a hindrance” for studying Sanskrit poetry? If I understand his general argument correctly, then this claim would be central to his work. Yet I am not sure I agree with it. Smith claims that scholars such as Ingalls and Warder have unduly emphasized Sanskrit poeticians, which, ironically, hinders the study of Sanskrit poetry. It seems to me that Ananadavardhana and the like we engaged, primarily, in descriptive rather than prescriptive projects. They aimed to analyze the features of art, but the prerequisites thereof. If a poem has vyanjana, it is not good, but not merely because it lacks vyanjana. All poems which are good incorporate vjanjana, so vjanjana is a symptom of the work’s aesthetics merit, not a cause thereto. With this in mind, poets don’t need to confirm to poetics in order to create poetry. Otherwise Brahma would have revealed rasa theory to VŒlm´ki, instead of allowing him to become inspired. After all, it is the poets who created and employed alamkaras, while the poeticians merely analysed and catalogued them. The same may be said of emotional response: they arise from the art, not the art theory. Indeed “the poet alone is creator in the boundless realm of poetry”, but as Smith would like to argue, the poetician becomes the legislator in this world. But why do we need to live by the laws of poetics?
Clearly poetic ornamentation does not equate poetic artistry. For example, verses such as Yogeshwara’s (50) may indeed come across as “frigid” (Ingall’s description, 51) because of their mechanical quality. This contrived, organized, logical approach may well fit into alamkara principles, but those principles are, in my opinion, more observations of the features of good poetry. Good poetry is well endowed with alamkaras, but an abundance of alamkaras does not necessitate the presence of good poetry. However, the grander issue is that ‘good poetry’ is a matter of taste. Smith happens to highly appreciate Yogeshwara’s verse. But whether or not the poem is ‘good’, it is evident that Ingall’s preocuption with analysis and technique prevents his enjoyment of the poem. He approaches it in the mode of the poetician, not that of the poet, nor that of the sensitive listener. But this is not a necessity. Smith, for example, is able to appreciate the work in its own right. Similarly, he is able to appreciate the object of this study - RatnŒkara’s “Haravijaya” - despite unfavorable western reception it has known to this point. Poetics does not necessarily need to be a hindrance to poetry. One need merely be conscious of the mode in which one aims to receive the art – as the informed critic, or as an audience. Surely audiences may be critical, but most students don’t watch movies with notepads in hand and theories in mind. We can talk about this in class.
My second point of interest, somewhat tangential, relates to notions of authorship within this tradition. Jacobi argues that much of RatnŒkara’s work is borrowed from previous authors. We have learned in looking at the discourse of poetics that Indian authors make concerted efforts to refer to, build upon, and acknowledge their predecessors. The intellectual climate appears to be on where lineage, tradition, and predecessors are greatly esteemed. Anandavardhana, for example, presents his work on aesthetics not so much as a break from the existing intellectual tradition, but as an embellishment thereof. So, I wonder to what extent poetic composition would deviate from this. Given the haziness of authorship that generally pervades the tradition (it seems next to impossible to ascertain who writes what when), I fail to see why RatnŒkara would have any anxiety about being deemed a plagiarist. The whole concept of plagiarism appears to be somewhat of an imposition. For example, as Wendy Doninger (who, by the way, happens to be my academic great grandmother!) writes in her introductory essay to her own translation of “The laws of Manu” (Penguin, 1991) “it has been estimated that between a third and a half of Manu is in the “Mahabharata”, though it is not certain which was the source and which was the borrower” (xvii). So, who is the plagiarist, Vyasa, or Manu, or both? Jacobi may very well offically qualify as a vacuum-dwelling, "originality-monger" (and no, I refuse to offer a citation for the term originality monger – who cares if it’s my idea or not??). Along these lines, Smith himself tells us (Ch 2) that the three oldest Sanskrit poeticians construct their own examples of poetry, and when they do quote versus, they neglect to attribute these versus to any particular author since “the author and his book are of too little moment to merit mention”. For some reason, this isn’t the impression I got. I was sure that much of the poetry in Abhivanagupta’s treatise was long-established, accepted, “free-floating” verse whose authorship was unknown, not undermined.
Thirdly, regarding the extensive analysis in Chapter 8, “The Gods and Goddessess”, admittedly most of it went over my head with respect to the overarching theme. I am hoping we could clarify it in class. Smith seems to be arguing that, as he states in the very onset of the chapter, “kavya often adopts a neutral attitude towards the gods” (225). But I am unclear as to what his neutrality refers to. What, exactly, would positions ‘a’ and ‘b’ be with respect to this purported neutrality towards the gods? Does he refer to whether kavya regards them as benefic versus malefic? Does he refer to the god’s fallibility versus infallibility? The first example he gives (from Kalidasa) seems to focus on the gruesomeness of Siva (splattered sculls and whatnot on p 226), but the second one emphasizes Siva’s ‘imagining’ versus his ‘perceiving. He then goes on to give poetic example emphasizing Siva’s propensity for lovemaking and his ambiguous lineage. I am not sure how these relate to his the argument in thus chapter, nor to any larger argument the book purports to uphold. Smith later describes Ratnakara’s neutrality when he reduces Siva to “colour alone” (231). He makes several references to poetic passages descriving Shiva’s poisionous neck, third eye, his affinity for dance, his role as destroyer, his acetic prowess, etc. – but even by chapter’s end, I really don’t understand Smiths’ particular employment of the term “neutrality”. Someone, please define this term for me!
Harmonizing the rivalry of Rasa vs. Alamkara
Rather than delving into the court epic itself, this is an aside introduced in the beginning of the discussion I couldn't resist taking the time to remark on.
In our course so far, in the discussion of the characteristics of poetry the two predominant features of rasa(aesthetic sentiment) and alamkara have been consistently discussed as rivalling features of poetry. Based on Anandavardhana’s ideas of rasa as presented in the Dhavayaloka, he established the paradigm from which Abhinavagupta expands in his commentaries of Anadavardhana’s work and many other authors followed.
What had Anandavardhana laid out as the foundation, basis and inner workings of poetry? There are the sthayibhavas (the eight primary emotions of an aesthetic work or nine if santa is added) upon which the primary purpose and point of the poem is built for the ultimate purpose of a successful poem/drama; the response of the audience in the experience of rasa, the raising of the primary emotion to its highest pitch. (p 40). In his treatise on the theory of suggestion (dhvani) in poetry the Dhvanyaloka, Anandavardhana argues that rasa is suggested to the audience, that the experience belongs to the viewer. Among his three forms of suggestion (suggestion of sense; of figures of speech and rasa) rasa reigns supreme, as the primary feature of excellence in the aesthetic work. The ownership of rasa is in the audience, primarily the refined and developed connoisseur of art the sahrdaya who has polished himself like a mirror, through training in sentiment and poetry to be a receptive vehicle of this supreme sentiment.
Anadavardhana also maintains that only one primary sentiment should be developed and maintained throughout the work “the main function of the poet lies only in making one sentiment principal throughout the poem and in employing both words and senses only in such a way that the former [the principal sentiment] is suggested clearly.” And ….”The works that are built upon sentiment should be regarded as superior.
He also states that this primary purpose of poetry rasa is destroyed by overindulgence in figures of speech (alamkara). Like Lollata he finds fault with the descriptive elements of mahakavya, calling this type of poetry “flashy poetry” (citrakavaya). He says this ornamentation is the death of rasa and an abomination to the sensitive reader.
To achieve the result of the emotional response the elements of the artistic work must maintain all the appropriate and conducive elements, even if the historical or mythical event has to be manipulated and edited in order to do so. He condones the changing of plot to maintain the strength of the primary rasa, as he states “A poet writing a whole work should be entirely bound by the demands made by sentiment……he should not hesitate to invent a new episode …appropriate to the sentiment.”
It is refreshing to have this highly formulaic framework analytically appraised and questioned. Smith puts this formula to a critical review stating that first of all emotions cannot be described empirically, that suggestion and sentiment are beyond the scope of words and perceptible only in the hearts of the sahrdayas. In reference to the contrivance of rasa he suggests that Indian theorists labelled and packaged the aesthetic experience to an extreme that requires a conditioning or contrivance of both poem and audience that threatens to produce a one dimensional universal experience rather than a diverse and multiplicity individual response. In response to Anandavardhana’s lament against poets who recognize no laws, who are obsessed with figures of speech and who wantonly persist in producing works without the least intention of incorporating rasa, he presents the opposite view. In support of the “ornamentalists” in their use of figures and ornate descriptions he posits that there is a freedom in that they found no need to conform and prune their reality to produce a result, rather they used metaphor to “dance freely in their poems and go wherever it liked”
Now the great cloud-cat,
Darting out his lightning tongue
Licks the creamy moon
From the saucepan of the sky (Subhasitaratnakasa 257)
In this poem he says the Sanskrit poet finds illicit indulgence everywhere, the whole universe is a universe of enjoyment, like a cat, the ornamentalist feels free to lick, to taste, wherever he chooses. In the conclusion of this discussion he also argues that in the mahakavyas there are long descriptive passages so in reality they combine ornamental idiom in the midst of developing the rasa and in fact incorporate both rasa and alamkara.
I found this discussion very interesting and satisfying as the elements of poetry are developed through the skilful use of tropes and to dismiss it as not conducive to the development of rasa appears cavalier. The view presented here finally seems to find a more balanced view of the structure of the poem in all its ornamental beauty as supportive and harmonious with the development of an aesthetic emotional response.
In our course so far, in the discussion of the characteristics of poetry the two predominant features of rasa(aesthetic sentiment) and alamkara have been consistently discussed as rivalling features of poetry. Based on Anandavardhana’s ideas of rasa as presented in the Dhavayaloka, he established the paradigm from which Abhinavagupta expands in his commentaries of Anadavardhana’s work and many other authors followed.
What had Anandavardhana laid out as the foundation, basis and inner workings of poetry? There are the sthayibhavas (the eight primary emotions of an aesthetic work or nine if santa is added) upon which the primary purpose and point of the poem is built for the ultimate purpose of a successful poem/drama; the response of the audience in the experience of rasa, the raising of the primary emotion to its highest pitch. (p 40). In his treatise on the theory of suggestion (dhvani) in poetry the Dhvanyaloka, Anandavardhana argues that rasa is suggested to the audience, that the experience belongs to the viewer. Among his three forms of suggestion (suggestion of sense; of figures of speech and rasa) rasa reigns supreme, as the primary feature of excellence in the aesthetic work. The ownership of rasa is in the audience, primarily the refined and developed connoisseur of art the sahrdaya who has polished himself like a mirror, through training in sentiment and poetry to be a receptive vehicle of this supreme sentiment.
Anadavardhana also maintains that only one primary sentiment should be developed and maintained throughout the work “the main function of the poet lies only in making one sentiment principal throughout the poem and in employing both words and senses only in such a way that the former [the principal sentiment] is suggested clearly.” And ….”The works that are built upon sentiment should be regarded as superior.
He also states that this primary purpose of poetry rasa is destroyed by overindulgence in figures of speech (alamkara). Like Lollata he finds fault with the descriptive elements of mahakavya, calling this type of poetry “flashy poetry” (citrakavaya). He says this ornamentation is the death of rasa and an abomination to the sensitive reader.
To achieve the result of the emotional response the elements of the artistic work must maintain all the appropriate and conducive elements, even if the historical or mythical event has to be manipulated and edited in order to do so. He condones the changing of plot to maintain the strength of the primary rasa, as he states “A poet writing a whole work should be entirely bound by the demands made by sentiment……he should not hesitate to invent a new episode …appropriate to the sentiment.”
It is refreshing to have this highly formulaic framework analytically appraised and questioned. Smith puts this formula to a critical review stating that first of all emotions cannot be described empirically, that suggestion and sentiment are beyond the scope of words and perceptible only in the hearts of the sahrdayas. In reference to the contrivance of rasa he suggests that Indian theorists labelled and packaged the aesthetic experience to an extreme that requires a conditioning or contrivance of both poem and audience that threatens to produce a one dimensional universal experience rather than a diverse and multiplicity individual response. In response to Anandavardhana’s lament against poets who recognize no laws, who are obsessed with figures of speech and who wantonly persist in producing works without the least intention of incorporating rasa, he presents the opposite view. In support of the “ornamentalists” in their use of figures and ornate descriptions he posits that there is a freedom in that they found no need to conform and prune their reality to produce a result, rather they used metaphor to “dance freely in their poems and go wherever it liked”
Now the great cloud-cat,
Darting out his lightning tongue
Licks the creamy moon
From the saucepan of the sky (Subhasitaratnakasa 257)
In this poem he says the Sanskrit poet finds illicit indulgence everywhere, the whole universe is a universe of enjoyment, like a cat, the ornamentalist feels free to lick, to taste, wherever he chooses. In the conclusion of this discussion he also argues that in the mahakavyas there are long descriptive passages so in reality they combine ornamental idiom in the midst of developing the rasa and in fact incorporate both rasa and alamkara.
I found this discussion very interesting and satisfying as the elements of poetry are developed through the skilful use of tropes and to dismiss it as not conducive to the development of rasa appears cavalier. The view presented here finally seems to find a more balanced view of the structure of the poem in all its ornamental beauty as supportive and harmonious with the development of an aesthetic emotional response.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A Closer Look at Mahakavya
In the readings this week we saw that smith extensively outlines the form of mahakavya and the critiques that it met with at the time. Much attention was paid to Ratnakara’s Haravijaya. Right at the outset, Smith acknowledges that his intention is solely to find out what certain poets had in their mind and not divulge into details of whether a latter poet plagiarized a former poet. However he does acknowledge that such occurrences of similarities were very common, but are to be adapted to the author’s intended system of meanings . He clearly outlines the intentions of his work by stating early on that he mentions very little about meter and style as well as many details within the poem itself such as the battles. He himself acknowledges what his work lacks which is very important. Does outlining what his work lacks actually undermine his work? or on the contrary does outlining what he misses, actually show his superiority of knowledge over the mahakavya, which he chooses not to discuss because it belongs to a whole other discussion?
The answer is found at the ending of the Introduction when he states, “…there is none more sage and fruitful than that which endeavors to find out what somebody had in his mind consciously or non-consciously when he wrote something” (13). To me his choice to keep things simple by relating to this mahakavya through ones own understanding and experience (contingent on what the author is getting at), is why he does not mention the technicality of devices. This makes mahakavya more accessible to a broader audience, as he takes the audiences experience or understanding as genuine.
I guess this is why in his second chapter he also chooses to focus on rasa and dhvani theory in its simplistic form. In this chapter, he outlines that the haravijaya is parallel to the newer form of rasa theory in which one rasa is relished in a mahakavya through ornamentals (descriptive scenery of mountains, rivers etc…) (lollata school) as opposed to the older interpretation that there are multiple bhavas in which true rasa is the result of many (Ananda school). He then goes on to argue that the poets felt they knew rasa but because of their “ornamental idiom” they were constantly creating their own wholes through the use of their own experience. Through stating this the author in a way downplays mahakavya. He openly criticizes those who took the view of the newer schoolfor not quite understanding the sound use of rasa. In the same breath moments earlier he equates Ratnakara with this school in the form of a question (he asks if Ratnakara sought to win the approval of the new school). Thus what one sees is a never ending debate on the true nature of rasa, or more particularly the true nature of mahakavya, since the main goal of any good poem is one that elicits rasa.
The very last thing I found very interesting in smith’s article is how the harda (the working members in society) produced some sort of poetry to praise the king, since their very survival was dependent upon him. Smith argues that these hardas were not from the priestly section of society that poets usually came from, but in fact from lower section of society. This not only preludes to the fact that poetry can be enjoyed by all members of society but that this enjoyment or experience originally came from the average. In fact, most mahakavyas that emphasize this idea of the union of Siva and Parvati, and how one should concentrate on worshipping this union forms the basis of the bhakti movement, which essentially makes the idea of moksa possible to all regardless of caste, sex or class. This connects mahakavya to wider audience.
The answer is found at the ending of the Introduction when he states, “…there is none more sage and fruitful than that which endeavors to find out what somebody had in his mind consciously or non-consciously when he wrote something” (13). To me his choice to keep things simple by relating to this mahakavya through ones own understanding and experience (contingent on what the author is getting at), is why he does not mention the technicality of devices. This makes mahakavya more accessible to a broader audience, as he takes the audiences experience or understanding as genuine.
I guess this is why in his second chapter he also chooses to focus on rasa and dhvani theory in its simplistic form. In this chapter, he outlines that the haravijaya is parallel to the newer form of rasa theory in which one rasa is relished in a mahakavya through ornamentals (descriptive scenery of mountains, rivers etc…) (lollata school) as opposed to the older interpretation that there are multiple bhavas in which true rasa is the result of many (Ananda school). He then goes on to argue that the poets felt they knew rasa but because of their “ornamental idiom” they were constantly creating their own wholes through the use of their own experience. Through stating this the author in a way downplays mahakavya. He openly criticizes those who took the view of the newer schoolfor not quite understanding the sound use of rasa. In the same breath moments earlier he equates Ratnakara with this school in the form of a question (he asks if Ratnakara sought to win the approval of the new school). Thus what one sees is a never ending debate on the true nature of rasa, or more particularly the true nature of mahakavya, since the main goal of any good poem is one that elicits rasa.
The very last thing I found very interesting in smith’s article is how the harda (the working members in society) produced some sort of poetry to praise the king, since their very survival was dependent upon him. Smith argues that these hardas were not from the priestly section of society that poets usually came from, but in fact from lower section of society. This not only preludes to the fact that poetry can be enjoyed by all members of society but that this enjoyment or experience originally came from the average. In fact, most mahakavyas that emphasize this idea of the union of Siva and Parvati, and how one should concentrate on worshipping this union forms the basis of the bhakti movement, which essentially makes the idea of moksa possible to all regardless of caste, sex or class. This connects mahakavya to wider audience.
The Kings of Court Epics: The “Free-Poet” vs. The “Conventionally-Tied Poet”
I never thought of court-epic poetry in such depth until this week. I was fully aware of the poet’s genius in the ability to create something that in some way transcends time and place, but unaware of the intricate details that point too much more. For example, the ability fro the poet to write an original poem that stay within the conventions of poetry, the astute awareness of the poet to choose words that do not only fit into his genius work, but also answers back to other poets, and finally the complicated reflection of history, time and place within mahakavya itself. On the three things I have just pointed out the one word that should be mentioned and which allows the poets to complete such complicated tasks is: SANSKRIT. Grammar within Sanskrit studies is one of the most “prestigious occupations” because of its ability to achieve so much in a 50-verse poem.
Smith focuses in on Ananda’s theory of dhvani because this is central to the art of poetry. He argues that poets focused on rasa, as it was well known and each took their own take on it. He shows how Ananda made it clear that rasa was used in both non-dramatic and dramatic poetry, but is used differently in both cases. Most poets choose to focus in on rasa, and they tend to lose the art of dhvani. Anada does on to say that very few have accomplished this through focusing in on the sentiment and developing their sentences around it through the use of dhvani instead of going into it blindly. Smith discusses how Anada looked down upon poets of the New School because they went into poetry blindly as they were filled with feeling and taste or in his words “cultured critics”. I believe that this suggests the great shift of the meaning of aesthetic experience as experienced through an art form as opposed to a religious experience experienced through a poets culture. According to Ananda’s view, poetry is appreciated as an art form because of the composition of the poem through the use of dhvani. In this instance, I believe that the only experience one can gain form this is an aesthetic experience, defined as enjoyment of art form. In contrast, mahakavya’s according to Ananda lack the genius of dhvani, as most “new” poets go into poetry attached to their culture, or having some sort of feeling or taste attached to their being. In my opinion, because of this the authors feelings and culture is expressed through the poem giving rise to something more than just an art form, it becomes an art form imbued with cultural symbols and religious philosophies. As a result the aesthetic experience is no longer an enjoyment of art, but rather an enjoyment of culture and religion. In short, for those versed in the tradition it becomes nothing short of a religious experience.
To conclude, the major point Smith makes is that poets were bound to the conventions of poetry and focused on his work that his own experiences were devalued. His poetry is the works of others, about others with little or no freedom to step outside of these conventions and create something different. In this instance the word universalism is revised. Sanskrit poetry was universal in a limited sense; it applied to the world of poets who were tied to conventions as opposed to universalism in the broader sense, in which poetry is accessible to everyone by virtue of the fact that they are human beings who experienced the major themes (love) to some extent.
There is so much more to discuss in this week readings, but I will leave that for class since this is only suppose to be 500 words.
Smith focuses in on Ananda’s theory of dhvani because this is central to the art of poetry. He argues that poets focused on rasa, as it was well known and each took their own take on it. He shows how Ananda made it clear that rasa was used in both non-dramatic and dramatic poetry, but is used differently in both cases. Most poets choose to focus in on rasa, and they tend to lose the art of dhvani. Anada does on to say that very few have accomplished this through focusing in on the sentiment and developing their sentences around it through the use of dhvani instead of going into it blindly. Smith discusses how Anada looked down upon poets of the New School because they went into poetry blindly as they were filled with feeling and taste or in his words “cultured critics”. I believe that this suggests the great shift of the meaning of aesthetic experience as experienced through an art form as opposed to a religious experience experienced through a poets culture. According to Ananda’s view, poetry is appreciated as an art form because of the composition of the poem through the use of dhvani. In this instance, I believe that the only experience one can gain form this is an aesthetic experience, defined as enjoyment of art form. In contrast, mahakavya’s according to Ananda lack the genius of dhvani, as most “new” poets go into poetry attached to their culture, or having some sort of feeling or taste attached to their being. In my opinion, because of this the authors feelings and culture is expressed through the poem giving rise to something more than just an art form, it becomes an art form imbued with cultural symbols and religious philosophies. As a result the aesthetic experience is no longer an enjoyment of art, but rather an enjoyment of culture and religion. In short, for those versed in the tradition it becomes nothing short of a religious experience.
To conclude, the major point Smith makes is that poets were bound to the conventions of poetry and focused on his work that his own experiences were devalued. His poetry is the works of others, about others with little or no freedom to step outside of these conventions and create something different. In this instance the word universalism is revised. Sanskrit poetry was universal in a limited sense; it applied to the world of poets who were tied to conventions as opposed to universalism in the broader sense, in which poetry is accessible to everyone by virtue of the fact that they are human beings who experienced the major themes (love) to some extent.
There is so much more to discuss in this week readings, but I will leave that for class since this is only suppose to be 500 words.
Bringing the God’s Down a Notch
David Smith’s take on Ratnakara’s Haravijaya was quite interesting to read as it offered me an alternative perspective for which to view the genre of Mahakavya.
At the core of the Haravijaya is a story of the merging of Siva and Parvati. Also, however, the author – Ratnakara – juxtaposes himself as a vital character in this story of the gods. He is the ocean. Ironically, his name actually means ‘ocean’!!!
What piqued my interest was Chapter 8: “The Gods and the Goddess”. Davis believes that kavya often adopts a neutral attitude towards the gods. That is to say, the gods are given almost a position of secondary importance, or that their heavenly statuses are neither fully expounded nor appreciated by the poet. One such example Davis cites come from the Meghaduta by Kalidasa, that was discussed in class a couple of weeks ago. In the Meghaduta, the intensity of the event surrounding Siva’s battle with the elephant is replaced with more mundane, gentler, sounds. The anxiety and pomp of the situation is tempered with the sound of a drum, rather than with the sound of thunder. The neutral attitude neutralizes the polarized situation (226).
Similarly, in Ratnakara’s poem, the author responds to the fierce entity of Siva’s skull-covered head that is dripping with blood, by juxtaposing it with a courtier who is chewing betel leaves. The reaction acts as water on the fire of an otherwise god-like awesome event. Davis asserts that this arrogance that bring the gods down a peg is inherent in kavya because in this mode, enthusiasm – even for the gods – is taboo (227). Hence, while kavya features the gods often, Davis maintains that “familiarity breeds neutrality” (228)…A sense of ‘been there done that’ that reeks of boredom and a lack of awe that the gods are otherwise awarded.
Kavya uses the gods as decorative figures – sprinkling the poem with bits of myths, serving as outlines for a greater plot line. Davis holds that kavya’s liberal use of these mythical outlines is in fact symptomatic of its greater disdain for the myth in its entirety – that is, by using snippets of the divine stories, the kavya is fulfilling it’s god-quota, while still managing to stay away from fully exalting the divine creatures within its poems.
Furthermore, Davis asserts that Ratnakara’s propensity to dispose of the divine is a manifestation of the inherent habit of mahakavya to dispose of reality and replace it, or supplement it, with a faux quality…Much like a drum is only fake thunder.
At the core of the Haravijaya is a story of the merging of Siva and Parvati. Also, however, the author – Ratnakara – juxtaposes himself as a vital character in this story of the gods. He is the ocean. Ironically, his name actually means ‘ocean’!!!
What piqued my interest was Chapter 8: “The Gods and the Goddess”. Davis believes that kavya often adopts a neutral attitude towards the gods. That is to say, the gods are given almost a position of secondary importance, or that their heavenly statuses are neither fully expounded nor appreciated by the poet. One such example Davis cites come from the Meghaduta by Kalidasa, that was discussed in class a couple of weeks ago. In the Meghaduta, the intensity of the event surrounding Siva’s battle with the elephant is replaced with more mundane, gentler, sounds. The anxiety and pomp of the situation is tempered with the sound of a drum, rather than with the sound of thunder. The neutral attitude neutralizes the polarized situation (226).
Similarly, in Ratnakara’s poem, the author responds to the fierce entity of Siva’s skull-covered head that is dripping with blood, by juxtaposing it with a courtier who is chewing betel leaves. The reaction acts as water on the fire of an otherwise god-like awesome event. Davis asserts that this arrogance that bring the gods down a peg is inherent in kavya because in this mode, enthusiasm – even for the gods – is taboo (227). Hence, while kavya features the gods often, Davis maintains that “familiarity breeds neutrality” (228)…A sense of ‘been there done that’ that reeks of boredom and a lack of awe that the gods are otherwise awarded.
Kavya uses the gods as decorative figures – sprinkling the poem with bits of myths, serving as outlines for a greater plot line. Davis holds that kavya’s liberal use of these mythical outlines is in fact symptomatic of its greater disdain for the myth in its entirety – that is, by using snippets of the divine stories, the kavya is fulfilling it’s god-quota, while still managing to stay away from fully exalting the divine creatures within its poems.
Furthermore, Davis asserts that Ratnakara’s propensity to dispose of the divine is a manifestation of the inherent habit of mahakavya to dispose of reality and replace it, or supplement it, with a faux quality…Much like a drum is only fake thunder.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Aesthetics meets religion through the experience of the Rasika
The cow of speech (vac) gives a special drink (rasa) out of affection
for her young;
That (rasa) laboriously milked by yogis cannot be compared to it.
In Wulff's article "The convergence of the aesthetic and the religious in Medieval India" the integration of aesthetic artistic experience and the transcendent religious experience are explained as integral to each other. In the comparison of the Saivi philosopher Abhinavagupta's (Kashmir 10th c) theoretical treatises with the Bengali Vaisnava, Rupa Gosvami's(16th c)text the Bhaktirasamrtasindhu two views of this integration are discovered. Through their explanations their cultural and religious environments are revealed.
For both the term "rasa" is central in terms of both aesthetic and religious experience. Rasa in it multiple meanings of "taste" "sentiment" "mood" in the aesthetic context is the arousing of this sentiment through the artistic medium of the drama or poem. In the religious sense it is the identification of the being with the ultimate reality of the universe, specifically that when one experiences "rasa" the experience is "blissful" (ananda). The link is made that the "rasavada" of aesthetic experience and the brahmasvada "the tasting of ultimate reality" fuse through each other. Wulff emphasises the to appreciate either it is necessary to leap over the conventional dichotomoy of these two worlds and find their fused center.
Looking at the similarities and differences of these two authors views illuminates the essence of this discussion. Abhinavagupta, drawing on statements of Anandavardhana expresses in his Dhvanyaloka formulates the analogy between rasavada and brahmasvada which sets the groundwork for this discussion. He discusses rasa in terms of its transcendent quality, the aesthetic experience becomes a religious experience. Abhinavagupta was steeped in the Kashmir Saiva system that posits the source of all human suffering is ignorance (ajana), limited consciousness that does not illuminate the whole of reality. Transcendence this limitation is discovered by the devotee through the profound recognition (pratyabhijna) of one's identity with Siva, through which one achieves liberation. With the absorbtion of one's full identity with the divine being and the experience of this egoless state there is the blissful union with the luminous intellegnce (prakasa) of Siva. This is owns pure nature and highest consciousness a mirror reflection of Siva. The process of the transformation of the consciousness from the mundane to the sublime and universal is achieved in stages where the ego-consciousness is reduced and the mmanent divine energy (sakti)is accessed. Abhinava equates the aesthtic experience as religious because they acheive a similar transcendence of the individual self.
For Abhinava the consciousness of the individual capable of this experience has subconscious residues or latent impressions of past experience (vasanas or samskaras-virtuous trace through previous religious effort) which include the emotions, experienced by beings through countless lifetimes. In the aesthetic production the fundamental emotions (sthyibhava) is aroused in the viewer/reader and a response is evoked through the production whereby the mundane emotion is transformed into a universal experience, transcendent of time and place. Through this the sahrdaya (sensitive spectator) experiences rasa a universal consciousness similar to that attained through yoga and that is fully realized in the state of moksa, subject and object are left behind, ego-limited perceptions are made sublime stuff of luminous consciousness and the experience is one of aesthetic joy "in which te object of knowledge is dissolved"
He views rasa as alaukika (supramundane) and of the quality of bliss (ananda). It is achieved by flowing past worldly desires by absorption in the work of art. The vasanas (latent experiences) are activated and ordinary emotion (bhava) is transformed into a transcendent condition (alaukikavastha) which for Abhinava is what is meant by "rasa". This experience is a pre-figuration of the ultimate moksa, the ultimate recognition that one is Siva. The experience is blissful because ones true nature is wholly blissful, and is full of wonder (camatkara). Abhinava admits that the aesthetic experience is temporary, like the initial religious experiences leading up to moksa. He sees a mixing of rasavada and brahmasvada in his very terminology, through the use of the term asvada (tasting), weaving the fabric that religious experience has aesthetic qualities and the aesthetic experience has religious qualities.
He posits that the aesthetic experience pre-figures and prepares one for the ultimate realization of the union of one's consciousness with Siva and thereby links the two points of poetry, moral instruction and pleasure. Both religious experience and aesthetic transcendence loosen the ego and lead to realization of one's true nature. His views are based on the analysis of consciousness and the unifying metaphysics of art and the ephemeral nature of both.
Rupa Gosvami in his theory of Bhaktirasa also views the rasa experience as religious. The differences in his view from Abhinava reflect the differences in thier religious and aesthetic backgrounds. For Rupa bhakti (devotion) takes prominence over jnana (metaphysical knowledge, the ground of Abhinava's view) and determined his interpretation of the rasa theory.
For Rupa the basic emotion (sthayibhava) is love (rati) for Krshna which is transformed into a rasa that can be perpetually savoured. The transformation is effected by the vibhavas that are evoked by Krshan and his entourage and attributes. His view differs from Abhinava's in some fundamental ways. He considers the experience of bhatirasa to be experienced as a constant, not limited to the duration of the production of a play or reading of a poem but like the constant presence of Krishna in the cosmic play (lila) to be everpresent. The devotee is to live in this state of constant absorption in this eternal drama, the ultimate reality for the Bengali Vaisnava. for Rupa the primarily aesthetic experience as described by Abhinava as a prefiguring of moksa is replaced by applying the aesthetic theory to the religious experience with a primary focus on the loving relationship between the devotee and the lord (he uses the term mudhura to replace srnagara, erotic love). He posits that all emotions are subsumed into the one primary rasa that of love (rati) graded in a series of five relationships, santa (peaceful), dsya (servant to master), sdhya (friendship), bhava vatsalya (parental affection), madhura bhaktirasa (the transfigured erotic love to a devotional object).
In Rupa's writings rasa is used in a religious sense, bhaktirasa as the highest ideal of life. for Rupa an experience of a aesthetic production is not a religious experience, or a pre-figuration as for Abhinava, however the refinement of ones sensibility towards the Lord involved the distillation of the emotions through repeated encounters with the universal drama of Krishna and his entourage. This involves an aesthetic refinement and richness of religious emotion.
Rupa gave systematic formulation to an aesthetic mode of piety, where Abhinava gave a religious aspect to the experience of the aesthetic. Both however show the meeting and fusion of the two.
This was a truly remarkable exploration of the religious aspect of rasa.
for her young;
That (rasa) laboriously milked by yogis cannot be compared to it.
In Wulff's article "The convergence of the aesthetic and the religious in Medieval India" the integration of aesthetic artistic experience and the transcendent religious experience are explained as integral to each other. In the comparison of the Saivi philosopher Abhinavagupta's (Kashmir 10th c) theoretical treatises with the Bengali Vaisnava, Rupa Gosvami's(16th c)text the Bhaktirasamrtasindhu two views of this integration are discovered. Through their explanations their cultural and religious environments are revealed.
For both the term "rasa" is central in terms of both aesthetic and religious experience. Rasa in it multiple meanings of "taste" "sentiment" "mood" in the aesthetic context is the arousing of this sentiment through the artistic medium of the drama or poem. In the religious sense it is the identification of the being with the ultimate reality of the universe, specifically that when one experiences "rasa" the experience is "blissful" (ananda). The link is made that the "rasavada" of aesthetic experience and the brahmasvada "the tasting of ultimate reality" fuse through each other. Wulff emphasises the to appreciate either it is necessary to leap over the conventional dichotomoy of these two worlds and find their fused center.
Looking at the similarities and differences of these two authors views illuminates the essence of this discussion. Abhinavagupta, drawing on statements of Anandavardhana expresses in his Dhvanyaloka formulates the analogy between rasavada and brahmasvada which sets the groundwork for this discussion. He discusses rasa in terms of its transcendent quality, the aesthetic experience becomes a religious experience. Abhinavagupta was steeped in the Kashmir Saiva system that posits the source of all human suffering is ignorance (ajana), limited consciousness that does not illuminate the whole of reality. Transcendence this limitation is discovered by the devotee through the profound recognition (pratyabhijna) of one's identity with Siva, through which one achieves liberation. With the absorbtion of one's full identity with the divine being and the experience of this egoless state there is the blissful union with the luminous intellegnce (prakasa) of Siva. This is owns pure nature and highest consciousness a mirror reflection of Siva. The process of the transformation of the consciousness from the mundane to the sublime and universal is achieved in stages where the ego-consciousness is reduced and the mmanent divine energy (sakti)is accessed. Abhinava equates the aesthtic experience as religious because they acheive a similar transcendence of the individual self.
For Abhinava the consciousness of the individual capable of this experience has subconscious residues or latent impressions of past experience (vasanas or samskaras-virtuous trace through previous religious effort) which include the emotions, experienced by beings through countless lifetimes. In the aesthetic production the fundamental emotions (sthyibhava) is aroused in the viewer/reader and a response is evoked through the production whereby the mundane emotion is transformed into a universal experience, transcendent of time and place. Through this the sahrdaya (sensitive spectator) experiences rasa a universal consciousness similar to that attained through yoga and that is fully realized in the state of moksa, subject and object are left behind, ego-limited perceptions are made sublime stuff of luminous consciousness and the experience is one of aesthetic joy "in which te object of knowledge is dissolved"
He views rasa as alaukika (supramundane) and of the quality of bliss (ananda). It is achieved by flowing past worldly desires by absorption in the work of art. The vasanas (latent experiences) are activated and ordinary emotion (bhava) is transformed into a transcendent condition (alaukikavastha) which for Abhinava is what is meant by "rasa". This experience is a pre-figuration of the ultimate moksa, the ultimate recognition that one is Siva. The experience is blissful because ones true nature is wholly blissful, and is full of wonder (camatkara). Abhinava admits that the aesthetic experience is temporary, like the initial religious experiences leading up to moksa. He sees a mixing of rasavada and brahmasvada in his very terminology, through the use of the term asvada (tasting), weaving the fabric that religious experience has aesthetic qualities and the aesthetic experience has religious qualities.
He posits that the aesthetic experience pre-figures and prepares one for the ultimate realization of the union of one's consciousness with Siva and thereby links the two points of poetry, moral instruction and pleasure. Both religious experience and aesthetic transcendence loosen the ego and lead to realization of one's true nature. His views are based on the analysis of consciousness and the unifying metaphysics of art and the ephemeral nature of both.
Rupa Gosvami in his theory of Bhaktirasa also views the rasa experience as religious. The differences in his view from Abhinava reflect the differences in thier religious and aesthetic backgrounds. For Rupa bhakti (devotion) takes prominence over jnana (metaphysical knowledge, the ground of Abhinava's view) and determined his interpretation of the rasa theory.
For Rupa the basic emotion (sthayibhava) is love (rati) for Krshna which is transformed into a rasa that can be perpetually savoured. The transformation is effected by the vibhavas that are evoked by Krshan and his entourage and attributes. His view differs from Abhinava's in some fundamental ways. He considers the experience of bhatirasa to be experienced as a constant, not limited to the duration of the production of a play or reading of a poem but like the constant presence of Krishna in the cosmic play (lila) to be everpresent. The devotee is to live in this state of constant absorption in this eternal drama, the ultimate reality for the Bengali Vaisnava. for Rupa the primarily aesthetic experience as described by Abhinava as a prefiguring of moksa is replaced by applying the aesthetic theory to the religious experience with a primary focus on the loving relationship between the devotee and the lord (he uses the term mudhura to replace srnagara, erotic love). He posits that all emotions are subsumed into the one primary rasa that of love (rati) graded in a series of five relationships, santa (peaceful), dsya (servant to master), sdhya (friendship), bhava vatsalya (parental affection), madhura bhaktirasa (the transfigured erotic love to a devotional object).
In Rupa's writings rasa is used in a religious sense, bhaktirasa as the highest ideal of life. for Rupa an experience of a aesthetic production is not a religious experience, or a pre-figuration as for Abhinava, however the refinement of ones sensibility towards the Lord involved the distillation of the emotions through repeated encounters with the universal drama of Krishna and his entourage. This involves an aesthetic refinement and richness of religious emotion.
Rupa gave systematic formulation to an aesthetic mode of piety, where Abhinava gave a religious aspect to the experience of the aesthetic. Both however show the meeting and fusion of the two.
This was a truly remarkable exploration of the religious aspect of rasa.
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