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Al-Ahram Weekly 8 - 14 April 1999 Issue No. 424 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 8 - 14 April 1999 Issue No. 424
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Focus Profile Features Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters
Mohieddin Hussein:
The art of the craft
Profile by Fatma Farag
Freedom makes the artist -- and he is a free man
The air, ground, buildings and even the people that surrounded the fakhoura -- pottery workshop and kiln -- of our destination have long taken the colour of the Qena mud used to make the famous water jugs -- the qulla, zir and zalaa. These are piled high in the adjacent courtyard where we sight a short man, walking vigorously about -- standing out against the pale background with his mane of white hair which frames his sun-burnt skin. He is Mohieddin Hussein, the man behind the symposium being held at this traditional workshop deep in the heartland of Upper Egypt.
Hussein is a tough man, standing up to the burning sun and heat of the kilns, where he has chosen to bring some 15 students to interact with the traditional environment of the fakhoura, standing up for what he sees lacking in the art movement in Egypt today. In his voice and eyes, in the explanatory gestures of his hands, you read conviction. You may agree or disagree, he will move forward with perseverance, not necessarily against the tide, but maybe with it for maximum results.
Born in 1936 in the Delta town of Mansoura, Hussein recounts, "I was not a good student, I failed all the time." He chuckles as he swings his legs from his perch on a high wooden bench. "So I entered the Faculty of Applied Arts although my parents were opposed in the beginning. I never failed again and I had excellent standing thereafter." Hussein graduated in 1961 but his natural inclination towards the arts can be traced back well before formal education. "My parents would tell me that as a child I always had something in my hands that I was busy sculpting or engraving," he adds, looking down at his sturdy palms.
Since then, he has been an active member of the artistic movement, a serious researcher of various aspects of our art heritage. He tells us: "It is where one begins, with the heritage one inherits. Only later did I eventually develop my own personal style." He is also a teacher, and famous for murals which adorn the major hotels of Egypt, not to mention his contribution to the Al-Ahram building. He is acclaimed for his works and the participant and winner of many exhibitions. "The most important, in my view, is the first prize I won at the Cairo Salon in the early '70s." He will tell us later, however, that he considers "all my works to be prized."
Mohi (as his friends and associates call him) was not satisfied with his personal success, and hence took it upon himself to extend beyond the personal into the public sphere of the art movement. For example? There is the establishment of the Cairo Bienalle for porcelain, the first round of which was in 1992.
An artisan in Qena carries his heavy load at the site of the First Symposium for Pottery
"The idea was the result of my participation in several similar events all over the world. I remember how surprised I was when I travelled to find that we are in a valley and the whole world is in another. But then I realised that most artists do not even have access to a catalogue or book and are therefore detached from the international art scene. So I thought: why not bring the international movement to Egypt to give everyone the opportunity to experience it first hand?"
Hussein proposed a trienalle at first. "That was the basis upon which we inaugurated it in 1992. However, when the minister came and saw all the work and potential of the event, he insisted that we do it every two years. During that inaugural ceremony we became a bienalle."
He is obviously proud of the results. "I believe it was successful. If we take a panoramic look at the past two years we will find that there is greater recognition and concern from the First World with us and that Egyptian artists are now more concerned with this form of art. They have been able to identify its great potential. It was good timing and there was the right kind of attitude from all those concerned."
The accomplishment is important mostly because the stakes are so high. "This art was on its way to collapse. Some people were saying that pottery was not an art -- they have this classification 'applied art' and when I travelled I found no such distinction. The challenge was to prove that clay is just a material," he says before stopping to search for the correct terminology. "Of course, biscuit is the more accurate term. In Italian it would be terracotta -- the material before the baking. Anyway, the idea is that it is like any other material, like bronze or stone, the art is in what you make of it. When you realise that it is a valuable material, you will be able to realise that it can be used in all sorts of forms like sculpture and engraving -- not just the pot." He looks about at the piles of 'pots' all around us and adds quickly: "Not that I have anything against pots -- the museums are full of them."
Perhaps the urgency of all that is being said and done in connection to the art of the "biscuit" is highlighted by where we sit, in front of the old potter's wheel which stands idle. "Really, we are professors in this form. It is in our blood and our consciousness. That is why I believe it is imperative that we bridge the gap between us and the world."
The mural by Hussein which adorns the twelfth floor of the main Al Ahram building
Of course, there is another gap, namely that which he is addressing today -- that void between today's artists and the traditional craft. "The idea I got [for the symposium] was to have artists who can introduce new dimensions to come and interact with the artisan who otherwise has no access to developing his craft. Then if he wants to develop he can, at least we give him a sense of the importance of his history and what he does." As for the inverse relationship, Hussein is blunt. "The artisan is a tool. If he wants to develop into an artist no one will stop him, but short of that he is a tool for the artist. The artist can circumvent him in the end. He can use other techniques if he is not skillful at the potter's wheel." He gets up quickly, dragging me behind him to a collection of works produced by young art students over the past ten days. "The artisan made these pots and piled them out back like hundreds of others. It was the artist who could look at them and see the lines, see the potential and have the ability to turn it into something else -- something exceptional."
He goes on to tell us that the artisan at the potter's wheel in most cases perceives his actions as simply a job that must be done. "He can be working and look the other way. You see, what the artisan does has been built into his body, into the muscles of his arm since childhood." He stops and gives me a stern glare. "I mean seriously, what got a specific pot into the museum? Picasso, or the artisan who sat at the potter's wheel? If it had not been for Picasso the pot would have been like any other -- unimportant."
Thus, Hussein has set the stage to take his argument further. "We must understand that what we see here is not heritage -- the heritage ended with the end of the Islamic era. What we see here is a traditional craft, which -- like many others -- has witnessed phases of elevation and decline. During the time of Fustat, it is well known that we had the highest form of the art ever witnessed by the world. Up to 50 years ago, we find that the craft of the water jug was essential to everyday life. It was in the palace and the hut. There was a whole series of traditions involved -- a special tray to keep them in, the caps which could be in either copper or silver, the special piece of lace to cover the tray. All this made it important, and hence the craft was developed and refined. Today it is no longer so, and hence there are no longer the consumers or the artisans -- it is in an obvious state of decline."
To deal with this reality, Hussein believes we should not "bang our heads against the wall. The way to deal with this is to understand that fact and then make a workshop which is supported by the artistic community where some artisans can keep the craft alive as well as have the opportunity to refine it. Then we will have a landmark and people can come to this area and we can tell them 'here there was such and such history. This is an example of it."
We sit back and relax a bit. Despite his passion, Hussein despises the garb of the preacher. We talk of other things -- the "waves" that take him from one form of art to another, his long-standing relationship with Mohamed Hassanein Heikal, (a collector of his work and the man who brought Hussein to Al-Ahram), not to mention the use of metal oxides as the only acceptable way of colouring a pot. Of all these, it is the mention of his children that brings the brightest gleam to his eyes -- both are talented and established artists in their own right: Manal a harpist, Sherif a composer.
"When I came to Qena a few days ago, I was being introduced to people and they would say to me: 'What is your name again? Mohieddin? Oh, Sherif's father!" He blushes with deep pleasure. So what is the key, what is it that makes the true artist? He sits back and tells me knowingly: "It is freedom -- and I am free.
photos: Sherif Sonbol
