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The marriage of artistic expression and Islamic belief is a strange, delicate thing. Artists – whether painter, poet, musician, sculptor or designer – are guided by some mystical, magical waft of inspiration that shapes their work in ways often unbeknownst to the lay audience. We, the audience, view the art for itself, often drawing a line between the artist and their work. We may muse upon what influenced or inspired an artist to create their art - and sometimes we move beyond that to explore their personal lives, looking for connections between their experiences and their creations.
But how important is that last piece of the puzzle – the personal life of the artist – in shaping our appreciation? It’s a question I’ve wrestled with this week, one I rarely considered before. Can we praise and enjoy an artist’s work if the personal life of that artist is dubious by Islamic standards?
I pose this question in regards to Muslim artists, which I hold to a different standard than non-Muslim artists. And though I am certainly no scholar, one thing seems true to me: In the realm of Islam and art, the line between the personal life of artists and his or her work is forever blurred – you can’t appreciate one without the other. And so the artist that lives his or her life in a highly un-Islamic fashion, his or her art, however beautiful and wondrous, will always be tainted. You may not agree with me on this, but it’s what I believe. And here’s why.
Last week I went New York University in downtown Manhattan to attend a memorial tribute to the late poet, Agha Shahid Ali, who died of brain cancer last December. Ali, who hailed from Kashmir, published numerous volumes of poetry, held multiple teaching positions and was a visiting poet at NYU’s prestigious creative writing program. Most important, he had done formative work to translate the ghazal (a famous Urdu form of poetry) into the English medium.
When I heard about the event, I thought, “Great! A tribute to a Muslim poet. This will be a wonderful thing to attend.”
When I entered the ballroom, I was taken aback by the amount of people there – the room was packed. People were sitting on the floor for the lack of chairs. I had done some background research on Ali, but I didn’t realize how popular he was; how influential his work and he was. I was eager to hear his poems read by other poets who had been close to him.
Melissa Hammerle, director of the NYU creative writing program, first spoke a few words about Ali, calling him a poet of great courage. “His poems were of masterful formal precision,” she said.
Hammerle then spoke of Ali’s personal life: “For he was a tease, after all …” The audience tittered. I looked around, confused. Then she said, “[Shahid is known for] loving deeply and loving often.” Now there was outright laughter. The lady sitting next to me sensed my confusion. She leaned in and whispered “He was gay, you know.”
Gay? No, I didn’t know.
My friendly neighbor wasn’t yanking my chain. Her statement was echoed throughout the evening as friends of Ali rose to tell stories and read his poems. Nearly all of the stories made a reference to his homosexuality. And I couldn’t get past that as I listened to his poems. As beautiful as his poems were – for their cadence, form, language and meanings – his personal life choice overshadowed everything for me.
Homosexuality is considered a great sin in Islam – that’s a fact. The Qur’anic ban against homosexuality is attributed to story of the Prophet Lut (as), among other things. It’s one of the worst things a Muslim can do and is considered to be worse than murder according to various Islamic texts.
So if a Muslim poet is gay, can his poems be appreciated without taking that into consideration? I don’t think so.
One melds into the other. I understand that every Muslim practices Islam in his or her own way. Some follow the religion better than others. Others are born Muslim but don’t practice the religion at all. And Allah (swt) is all knowing and the only true judge of our religious behavior, or lack of it. He is merciful.
And so perhaps I don’t have the right to judge an artist on his personal life. I’ve written stories about other artists who have done things in their lives that could be considered un-Islamic, and yet I’ve praised their work.
But I think the thing with Ali is that his personal life was so overwhelmingly un-Islamic; not just small parts of it. I know that Islam forbids homosexuality, and so an artist like Ali, who was flamboyantly gay, cannot be separated from his work. That’s unfortunate, to say the least, because I want to praise his work. But I feel I cannot.
At the memorial, a poet read one of Ali’s poems in original Urdu. It was titled “Paas Raho”, or “Be Near Me”. I understand Urdu and felt a strong kinship with the language. It was a very beautiful piece about wanting to be with someone through all the troubles and triumphs of life – just be near me. The poem could call out to anyone – a spouse or Allah (swt). But I fear Ali meant his lover.
There were many such poems, resplendent in form and language, covering topics like the partition between India and Pakistan to the murder of innocents in Kashmir to quiet beauties of life. More breathtaking than the topics was the form – as structured as a sonnet and as simple as a limerick. But through it all I kept thinking of one thing: “He’s gay.” So I couldn’t fully appreciate his work. His work reflected his life; and his life was un-Islamic. For me, that was that.
At the end of the day, creating art, especially for a Muslim artist, is a perilous thing. It’s difficult to keep Islam in mind through the entire artistic process. But for the Muslim artist, it may be the most important thing of all. Muslim artists bear the responsibility of incorporating their religion into their work. They may not write, compose music or paint specifically about Islam, but Islam is the final undercurrent.
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