Harems, orientalism, and C.S. Lewis
I heard a great discussion on the BBC last night about an exhibit going on at the Tate in London called “The Lure of the East: British Orientalist Painting.”
The exhibit is a review of Oriental-ist art, not Oriental art, a crucial different. These aren’t paintings from the East or Near East, they are paintings of the East by British artists–most from the height of British colonialism. As such they owe much more to British visions of the exotic Orient than to any reality of Iran in the 1890s. As such, they’re heavy on luxurious fabrics, ornate archicture, and exotic women. Take this supposedly Near Eastern beauty:
Yeah. Right.
I’m sure that’s what it was like in a Persian harem. Utterly convincing. No, this is a vision of an Oriential harem, a fantasy of British men of hordes of willing women lounging about in silks vying for the attention of their powerful man. I think the clothing is particularly interesting. This is from 1892, and you can’t imagine catching a proper British lady wandering about in bare feet. Shocking! You can see her ankles! And look at her torso. The point isn’t that she’s particularly bosomy, but that she’s so loosely clothed. No corset! What freedom! What decadence!
Of course, what makes it all the more ridiculous, as the critic on the BBC pointed out last night, is that while harems actually existed, no British man ever saw one. That’s the whole point of a harem: they’re isolated. No outside men allowed. So while other paintings in the exhibit of mosques or markets might be based on some reality, the harem paintings are utterly imaginary. (Here’s a link to the BBC discussion: http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/arts/saturdayreview.shtml)
The first critic to really examine these Western notions of the exotic East was the Palestinian American cultural critic Edward Said (pronounded “Sigh-EED”). His landmark book Orientalism of 1978 described a persistent set of false assumptions about Islamic peoples and their culture, one that was simulataneously romantic and degrading. While the Middle East was exotic, beautiful, luxurious and a source of desire, it was also corrupt and morally debased. This attitude served colonial notions by encouraging visits (come see the naughy harem girls!) but also countenancing European rule (man, they really need some British discipline!)
Said’s book had huge influence on art and literary criticism and cultural studies. It is considering one of the founding works of postcolonial theory, a critical approach to works (books, paintings, films, etc.) either created by colonized peoples or about colonized places.
But what all this got me thinking about is one of my favorite children’s book authors: C.S. Lewis.
Don’t see the connection? Well, you’re thinking of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe–nothing Orientalist there. But did you ever read one of the later books in the series, The Horse and His Boy?
It was not one of my favorite, nor, really, anyone’s, I think. The story takes place in Narnia during the same time period as The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, or sort of–the four Pevensie children are the kings and queens of Narnia, but this is years after the whole encounter with the White Witch that set off the series. This is later, when they are young men and women.
What’s interesting is that the bulk of the book isn’t set in Narnia but in the neighboring country Calormen. Calormen is, essentially, a fantasy of Persia. The people there have dark skin and eyes; they wear long robes, shoes with the toes curling up at the end, and turbans on their heads. They don’t carry straight swords like the Narnians but curving scimitars. Unlike the friendly and democratic Narnians, they have an elaborate hierarchy and keep slaves. People are always quoting the cliched and elaborately phrased sentiments of poets. When I read this as a child, of course, all this washed over me. The whole Calormene section reminded me of bits of The Arabian Nights, but I didn’t think much about it. It was obvious that the honorable Narnias, who walked around on their own feet instead of being carried on effeminate litters, were superior to the nefarious Calormenes; the Calormen king actually sends his son to his probable death without the least concern.
Reading it as an adult, I’m, frankly, appalled. I also don’t mean to say that the book is all bad, although it’s certainly not one of the strongest in the series. But the racism is dreadful! There’s only one really positive Calormene character, the girl Aravis, and she hightails it out of the country as soon as she can. Things only get worse in future books–in The Last Battle, Calormenes bring about the Apolypse by promoting a false god, an Anti-Aslan equivalent to the Antichrist, while their own god Tash is revealed to be a demon.
Lewis was writing in 1954, and I suspect he would have been absolutely baffled had he been accused of racism. He might have cited The Arabian Nights; certainly he was only speaking from the depths of his own culture. The most relevant question in my mind is, how will I deal with the Calormen section when my son reads The Horse and His Boy? I think the only appropriate action is to discuss Lewis’ cultural bias honestly and openly.
That’s what books like Orientalism do: they force you engage with texts that you otherwise would have let slide. The Horse and His Boy is no Little Black Sambo, but it does reflect ugly attitudes about race and culture.
. . . . .
I did some mucking about with the blog this morning, changing some colors and putting in a new graphic. I liked my looking-up-woman that I had before, but the combination of her and the red type make the whole thing look much more serious than I had in mind. The happy walking book is much more friendly and lighthearted, and we’re nothing if not lighthearted around here. I think the book also serves as a better companion to the flying pig on my general homepage, although both the book and the woman were by the same artist. I also changed my tagline–”the silly side of serious culture” is much more what I’m going for.
Now I just need to figure out how to adjust some fonts–that sans serif for the heading is just too intense. Cascading Style Sheets simply aren’t my thing–I can muddle through making changes, but there’s a lot of muttering and restoring of old versions. Anyhoo, let me know what you think and if you have any comments.
Posted: June 8th, 2008 under Literature, Art.
Comments: none






The ancient Egyptians seemed to make do with a simple lapdesk. Clean, functional, gets the job done. What it lacks in style it makes up in efficiency. Of course, the cross-legged position can get old, but essentially I’m working right now in the same position.
The ancient Greeks moved to chairs and changed their writing technology. This scribe is seen learning how to write on a wax tablet supported on his knees. Anyone who’s taken notes in college knows the problems this poor guys is having. Your lap slopes downward, so you’re writing at an odd angle. Our scribe is supporting his tablet underneath with his hand, but that’s going to get uncomfortable soon. Cramp city.
Ah, but the Renaissance changed all that. I found two examples from this period. The first is a travelling writing desk that belonged to Henry VIII of England. How’d you like to pay bills on that beauty? This is a view of the case opened up; the little drawers and cubbies were to hold pens, inkwells, material for making ink, paper, seals, etc. The top folded down and provided the surface on which to write. Luscious.
This elegant painting of a scribe of the royal court was done by Giovanni Bellini, who had been sent to the Ottoman Empire when his city Venice negotiated peace with the nation. Bellini is clearly influenced by the Islamic art he saw on display in this illustration of a scribe. We’re back to writing propped on the knees, that all-time favorite.
I happen to own a portable typewriter from the 1940s, a Royal Quiet De Luxe. Here’s a photo I found online of a model like mine–I picked this picture because it shows not only the typewriter but also the case. The case, to me, is the coolest part: the typewriter can be locked into the base of the case, while the entire lid flips up to allow you to work. There’s even a nifty little metal bracket where you could stick a handwritten draft to type from. The ultimate in portable convenience!

One thing those not involved in book-writing might not realize is that authors have absolutely no say (or at least very, very little say) on the cover of their book. The title is even out of their hands. So it’s really fun to see the cover and really like it. I wasn’t particularly worried–the covers of all the other Secret Lives books have been great–but still, it’s my book cover, and it’s pretty darn cool. In fact, I love it!
1. “The Battle of Trafalgar” was Turner’s only royal commission, one that celebrated the 18th anniversary of the great battle in which the British hero Horatio Nelson defeated the forces of Napoleon Bonaparte. Turner deftly combines multiple events on multiple scales. Nelson’s flagship takes center stage, flanked by both British and French ships. Other ships loom in the background, while in the foreground sailors cling to a lifeboat.
Even before she met Nelson, Emma Hart (born Amy Lyon) had made a name for herself as a great beauty. The daughter of a blacksmith, she eventually became a part-time prostitute and strip-tease artist. She caught the attention of famous artists including George Romney and Joshua Reynolds, who committed her to canvases such as the one here. She got involved at age 15 with Charles Francis Greville, second son of the Earl of Warwick. Greville eventually passed Emma along to his uncle, Sir William Hamilton, British ambassador to Naples. Hamilton became smitten with Emma and, to the shock of his peers, married her in 1791. However, in 1793, she met Nelson in Naples and the two began their affair. Sir William seemed to have no problem sharing his wife with England’s naval hero, and the two all lived together quite happily, first in a Naples palazzo and then in a small town outside of London. English newspapers were fascinated by the menage a trois and reported breathlessly on Emma’s taste in clothing, hairstyles, hair decoration, and even dinner party menus. The government was horrified by the public shenanigans of their war hero and returned him to active duty to stop the newspaper stories and get Nelson away from Emma.
3. Turner’s royal commission came from King George IV, one of England’s less impressive monarchs. George was vain, selfish, and, apparently, addicted to laudanum. He was the bane of English politicians forced to work with him, a source of endless frustration for his wife (from whom he separated after only a few weeks of married life), and the torment of his well-born mistresses. George enjoyed making up glamourous stories about his life, and as he aged he started to believe them. He was convinced, for example, that he had actually fought at another decisive victory of the Napoleonic Wars, the Battle of Waterloo. The king would sit with the Duke of Wellington, who had actually fought and won that battle, and recount his derring-do on the field. “I was there, wasn’t I, Arthur?” the king would say, to which the duke would reply, “I have frequently heard Your Highness say so.”
Today is the birthday of the Danish author and poet Hans Christian Andersen. Andersen is that most unusual of writers, a writer of fairy tales. Most fairy tales don’t have authors–they are folklore, rooted deep in the past and carrying with them memories of the Middle Ages in their terrifying forests and hungry wolves. Andersen invented his fairy tales from scratch, yet they have such a ring of authenticity and wonder that children love them. And so in Andersen’s honor, here are five things you might not have known about the author.
2. Other have been equally smitted by The Little Mermaid. In 1909, Carl Jacobsen of Copenhagen commissioned a statue of the little figure by Edvard Eriksen; it sits to this day on a rock in the Copenhagen harbor at Langelinie. The statue is quite small–just over a yard high–but for some reason it has become a focal point of vandalism and protests. In 1964, her head was cut off by political activists; the original head was never recovered and the current head is a reproduction. In 1984, one arm was sawn off but later recovered. In 1990, another attempt was made to cut off her head; it failed, but a third attempt, in 1998, succeeded, although this time the head was found. Several times the statue has been covered with paint, it has been repeatedly dressed (once in a burka, once in a Muslim head scarf), and in 2003 the poor mermaid was blasted off her rock with dynamite.
3. Andersen wrote that endlessly popular children’s story “The Ugly Duckling,” and he was a bit of an odd duck himself. In 1857, he visited England for a proposed two-week stay with the famous author–his hero–Charles Dickens. Despite the frustration of his host and endless blatant hints, Andersen hung around for six interminable weeks. It didn’t help that Dickens was in the middle of divorcing his wife. Soon after, Dickens published David Copperfield, apparently modeling the obsequious figure Uriah Heep on his unwelcome house guest. The oblivious Andersen considered the trip a great success never understood why Dickens stopped answering his letters.
5. One of Andersen’s most lovely fairy tales is “The Nightingale,” a story about a beautiful nightingale whose song revives a Chinese Emperor. The story is believed to be an homage to “the Swedish Nightingale,” the opera singer Jenny Lind. Andersen fell deeply in love with Lind, but the feelings weren’t mutual. Lind is little remembered now, but in her day she was the most famous singer in the world, beloved of Queen Victoria and promoted around the U.S. by P.T. Barnum. She seems to have been irresistable–as well as Andersen, she was wooed by Felix Mendelssohn and Frederic Chopin.
So huge a success was Lind’s tour of the U.S. in 1850 that numerous products were named after the singer, including a mining town in California and an island in Canada. Curiously, the product that has really hung on to the Lind name is the Jenny Lind crib, essentially any crib with vertical bars on all sides. Lind supposedly slept in a bed with turned spindles, and someone seized on the name to promote their own product. You can find Jenny Lind cribs in every Babies R Us in the land–and in my very own attic, my son’s old crib.