Berlin, May 4 and 5, 2010

So why is it that just when you being to consider yourself educated, you spend a morning running across a number of facts and artifacts that are a complete mystery?

I was touring an exhibition at the Gropius Bau, a splendid exhibition space in a handsome, brick three (high) story building in the center of Berlin Tuesday morning at about 10:30 a.m. The show was called “The Treasures of the Aga Khan Museum, Masterworks of Islamic Art.” The Museum turns out to have no particular location now, but it will soon be housed in a smashing new structure under construction in Toronto designed by the Japanese architect, Fuhimiko Maki. In the meantime, the items on display at the Gropius Bau were enough to send me into my periodic swoons of anguish as to why I was born into the 20th century U.S. instead of into 17th century Persia. Bad luck, I guess.

The Aga Khan? Which one? Not the fat old guy, spiritual ruler over all of the world’s Shia who became Rita Hayworth’s father in law. His wife, the Begum, at least back in the ‘50’s would every year weigh herself on a scale balanced with huge quantities of precious stones, all of which would be donated to the poor. O well. His younger son was a Harvard classmate of mine.

The first encounters, to be repeated several times that morning, was with a totally major poet I had never heard of, namely, Ferdowsi (940-1020). Ferdowsi devoted 35 years to writing a compendium of Persian history, mythology and culture in 50,000 verses, the “Shahnameh,” only to have it rejected by a nouveau riche Persian ruler of a dynasty that was allegedly dedicated to resurrecting the then fallen fortunes of Persian culture. He was so bitter that he left the manuscript in his room and had it conclude with these chilling words:

“Heaven’s vengeance will not forget. Shrink, tyrant, from my words of fire, and tremble at the poet’s ire.”

Not exactly in the vein of Emily Dickinson. He died in poverty. How could I not have heard of this poet of obviously immense importance. His complete works have just been published in English, and the hardcover boxed volume can be had from Amazon for $395.00. Ferdowsi’s verses abounded throughout the show.

By the way, Rumi was represented, too. The label depicted above so indicates that there was an illutrated manuscript of his poetry on display.

Next I saw, among immortal pottery plates and bowls of a rough, large-grainy texture called “Frit ware.” I had seen the pottery many times, but never knew the terminology. Frit is a ceramic which is a fused material used as a basis for glazes or enamels. It is a composition from which artificial soft porcelain is made. It is used in glassmaking. I am just as befuddled as when I started. The plates were great, however.

There was a painted miniature that might be the single most romantic and accurate portrait of a loving couple ever made. The label was unclear, but the artist appears to have been one Kaysa Ragaputra, and as I now remember the portrait may derive from the Moslem Mughal culture. The title is, believe it or not, “Music for After Midnight.” It shows a beautiful young couple, seated discreetly on adjoining divans, their right arms interlocked in the manner associated with passionate toasts with champagne, but in this case the couple are exchanging sleek birds. It is amazing.

Finally, I noted another miniature, probably from somewhere in India, featuring a naked woman seated on grass with three males. I kid you not. Four or five hundred years before the Le déjeuner sur l'herbe of Manet. Manet did appropriation art? Or, there’s nothing new under the sun?

That did it. I headed for a cheap “Asian Pavilion” lunch of bad not-crispy-enough duck and noodles in the Arcade of Potsdamer Platz, followed by a double-dip cone of some of the world’s greatest ice cream.