378

 ŀ
IN SEARCH OF THE PROVINCIAL ARTIST:
NETWORKS, SERVICES, AND IDEAS IN THE OTTOMAN BALKANS AND

This thesis seeks to shed light on the production of art and architecture in the
Ottoman Empire – and more specifically its provinces in the European mainland – from
the perspective of the artist, that is, the producer. Above all, I am interested in the
question of the place we are to give to the individual artist in the historical narrative of
the art and architecture in the Ottomans’ European provinces between the fourteenth
and nineteenth centuries. In recognition of the fact that the same individuals or
workshops are recorded as involved in the construction and decoration of mosques,
churches, residences, and other building types, I have studied works by both Islamic and
Christian patrons and artists. In contrast to a traditional line in art-historical scholarship
that supposes both the autonomy of art and creative genius underlying “great works of
art,” I am more interested in the “negative” factors in the processes of design and
production, such as limitations due to traditions, conventions, and codes of decorum. I
also study the “provincial artist” not merely in his relation to his better-known
counterpart in the West or to singular personages in Istanbul, but as operating within a
concrete system of Ottoman social practices. Rather than on the cases of artists whose
careers were so exceptional that they were passably documented, the focus of my
dissertation is on the identification and rationalization of trends, patterns, dynamics, and
structures from a longue durée perspective.
Keywords: Balkans, artists, authorship, centres/peripheries, networks
ÖZET
YEREL SANATÇININ İZİNDE:
OSMANLI YÖNETİMİNDEKİ BALKANLAR’DA İLETIŞİM AĞLARI,
HİZMETLER, DÜŞÜNCELER VE YAPISAL DEĞİŞİKLİK SORUSU
Hartmuth, Maximilian
Doktora, Tarih
Danışman: Bratislav Pantelić
Eylül 2011, xviii+286 sayfa
Bu tez Osmanlı İmparatorluğu’nun özellikle Avrupa ana karasındaki
bölgelerindeki sanat ve mimari üretimine sanatçının, diğer bir deyişle üretcinin
perspektifinden ışık tutmayı amaçlamaktadır. Herşeyden önce, ondördüncü ve
ondokuzuncu yüzyıllar arasında Osmanlıların Avrupa topraklarındaki sanat ve
mimarinin tarihsel anlatısında sanatçının kendisine verdğimiz yer sorusu ile
ilgilenmekteyim. Aynı şahıs ya da grupların cami, kilise, konut ve diğer yapı türlerinin
inşa ve dekorasyonuna dahil olduklarını göz önünde bulundurarak hem Müslüman hem
de Hıristiyan hami ve sanatçıların eserleri üzerinde çalıştım. Sanat tarihi alanında hem
sanatın özerkliğini hem de “büyük sanat eserleri”nin altında yatan yaratıcı dehayı
varsayan geleneksel çizginin aksine, tasarım ve üretim sürecindeki geleneklere dayalı
sınırlamalar, uzlaşmalar ve nezaket kuralları gibi “olumsuz” faktörler ile
ilgilenmekteyim. Aynı zamanda, yerel sanatçının Batı’da daha iyi bilinen
meslektaşlarıyla ya da İstanbul’daki istisnai sanatçılar ile karşılaştırılması için değil,
Osmanlıların belirli bir sosyal sistemi içerisinde faal olan bireyler olarak incelenmesi
üzerinde çalışmaktayım. Çalışma hayatlarının olağandışılığı nedeni ile oldukça iyi
belgelenmiş sanatçılar yerine çalışmamın odak noktasını eğilimlerin, modellerin,
dinamiklerin ve geleneklerin uzun süreli bir bakış açısından tanımlanması ve
anlamlandırılması oluşturmaktadır.
Anahtar Kelimeler: Balkanlar, sanatçılar, yaratıcılık, merkez-periferi ilişikleri, iletişim
ağları
ACKNOWLEDEGMENTS
There are many people who helped make this dissertation possible. Bratislav Pantelić
and Tülay Artan have been exceptionally generous with time and information and have
had an enormous influence on the progress of this project. I have also benefited from
input by Fikret Adanır, Metin Kunt, Hülya Canbakal, Leyla Neyzi, Hakan Erdem, and
others during my time at Sabancı University between 2006 and 2011, and from
exchanges with my fellow doctoral candidates Grigor Boykov, Mariya Kiprovska,
Dimitris Loupis, Zeynep Oğuz, Alyson Wharton (to whom I am also greatly indebted
“what concerns” language editing), and Amanda Phillips. Machiel Kiel, whose
scholarship has provided the foundation for this study, has been very generous with
information on several occasions. Anestis Vasilakeris, Karl Kaser, Robert Hayden, and
Walter Denny have provided valuable feedback on sections related to Christian
painting, the mountain economy, “border-crossings,” and tiles, respectively. I also wish
to express my gratitude to Aziz Nazmi Shakir-Tash for his help with inscriptions in
Arabic and Katherina Stathi and Nadia Samara for making accessible to me important
texts in Greek. Ayşe Dilsiz has provided support in ways too numerous to list. I dedicate
this thesis to my parents Klaus and Christine, who sadly both fell ill during my stay in
Istanbul.
The research for this study has been undertaken in a number of libraries that
should be thanked for making available their resources and services: in Istanbul the
libraries of Sabancı, Boğaziçi, and Koç universities, as well as of the IAE, ARIT,
RCAC, and NIT; in Vienna the National Library as well as the libraries of the
departments of Oriental Studies, Eastern and Southeast European Studies, Byzantine
and Modern Greek Studies, and Art History. A part of the fieldwork for this thesis could
be conducted thanks to a grant by the Barakat Trust. My doctoral studies at Sabancı
University were made possible thanks to a scholarship awarded by that institution.
vii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION............................................................................................1
1.1. Scope of this study.................................................................................................1
1.2. The historiographical context of this research project...........................................6
1.2.1. The context of Balkan historiographies ..........................................................6
1.2.2. The available literature on the topic ...............................................................9
1.3. The principal sources ...........................................................................................16
1.3.1. “Artist signatures” (epigraphy), vitae/biographies, and manuals .................16
1.3.2. Administrative sources and chronicles .........................................................24
1.3.3. Oral traditions and travelogues .....................................................................28
1.4. Outline .................................................................................................................34
CHAPTER 2 ARTIST, SPACE, AND SOCIETY ...................................................................38
2.1. Space and individual: geographies of art(ists) in the Ottoman Balkans ..............38
2.1.1. Mountains, valleys, networks, and ideas: centres and peripheries of artistic
production ...............................................................................................................38
2.1.2. The itinerant artist in the context of the region’s professional and physical
geography................................................................................................................45
2.2. Social status .........................................................................................................52
2.2.1. Architect and/or master-builder: a binary? ...................................................53
2.2.2. The wealth of urban builders, painters, and carpenters: the evidence of tax
registers and court records ......................................................................................56
2.2.3. Indicators for social standing: patronymics, musical virtuosity, and the
witnessing of notarial acts.......................................................................................59
2.2.4. Records of encounters with Balkan artists....................................................61
2.2.5. The visual evidence of self-portraits.............................................................63
2.2.6. The claim for authorship: an expression of status or ambition? ...................64
2.3. Identities...............................................................................................................70
2.3.1. Notions of (collective) identities as expressed in inscriptions, contemporary
discourse, and textual documents ...........................................................................71
2.3.2. Artists as cultural activists and nationalist agitators .....................................73
2.3.3. Alternative networks of trust: tribal, micro-regional, and professional
identities..................................................................................................................76
2.4. Nikola and Mustafâ; or, could art bridge the confessional divide? .....................78
2.4.1. Settlement patterns as the infrastructure of cooperation...............................78
2.4.2. Trans-confessional collaboration before and after the advent of Ottoman rule
................................................................................................................................81
2.4.3. Trans-confessional collaboration as obliged by demography.......................83
2.4.4. From collaboration to teamwork and tuition ................................................85
viii
2.4.5. Identifying boundaries ..................................................................................87
2.5. Foreigners and foreign influence .........................................................................89
2.5.1. The early Ottoman state and its Mamluk and Timurid connections.............89
2.5.2. Italian models and Ottoman military architecture: a case apart?..................93
2.5.3. Painting in the Italianate Mediterranean sphere and the Balkan interior......97
2.5.4. Islamic architecture and the Adriatic factor................................................100
2.5.5. Crossing borders within the Orthodox Christian oikoumenē and the question
of the “Baroque” ...................................................................................................102
2.5.6. The nineteenth century................................................................................105
2.5.7. Foreign artists in the Ottoman Balkans: patterns........................................108
2.6. Artists’ career choices and career paths: in search of patterns ..........................109
2.6.1. From father to son and teacher to student...................................................109
2.6.2. Stockbreeders to artists: topos or pattern? ..................................................112
2.7. Conclusion .........................................................................................................119
CHAPTER 3 ARTIST, PATRON, AND AUDIENCE: CHOICE, COMMUNICATION, AND
FUNCTION......................................................................................................................122
3.1. Social and cultural limitations to art as the producer’s expression....................122
3.1.1. The social regulation of form: degrees of visibility as a design factor.......122
3.1.2. Design before design: conventions and structures......................................124
3.2. The artist as accomplice and service provider ...................................................129
3.2.1. Functions of the image and image-makers .................................................129
3.2.2. Representation and upward social mobility................................................130
3.2.3. Didactics, image-making, and social commentary .....................................134
3.3. Reconstructing communication between artist and patron ................................139
3.3.1. Likeness and choice: evidence for notions of regional, personal, and period
styles .....................................................................................................................139
3.3.2. Instruments of communication between artist and patron: plans, threedimensional
models, contracts, or the lack thereof...............................................146
3.3.3. The question of models as reference in the communication between patron
and artist................................................................................................................152
3.3.4. Intermediaries .............................................................................................155
3.4. Conclusion .........................................................................................................158
CHAPTER 4 ARTIST AND PRODUCT: CASE STUDIES IN AGENCY .................................161
4. 1. Planning and design: three hypothetical reconstructions of work processes....162
4.1.1. The Zincirli Câmi‘ at Serres: provincial anomaly or Istanbul transplanted?
..............................................................................................................................165
4.1.2. The Evrenos ‘imâret at Komotinē: replication or modification of a type?.174
4.1.3. The Yeni Câmi‘ at Komotinē and its tiles: provincial sophistication or
opportunistic spoliation?.......................................................................................180
ix
4.2. The duties and qualifications of mi‘mârs resident in provincial centres ...........187
4.2.1. “Provincial architects” in the light of scholarship since the 1970s.............187
4.2.2. Evidence of their activity in the Balkans and their relation with royal
architects ...............................................................................................................189
4.2.3. The careers of “provincial architects”: Hayrüddîn, Kosta, and others .......192
4.2.4. From a mapping of appointees to a revised job-profile ..............................196
4.3. Mi‘mâr Sinân’s buildings in the Balkans according to his vitae and other sources
..................................................................................................................................199
4.3.1. The architect’s claims for authorship..........................................................199
4.3.2. The evidence of Evliyâ Çelebi and the question of three burces from the
1530s.....................................................................................................................201
4.4. Iconography or provincialism? Centre/periphery and the building craft on the
early modern Adriatic frontier ..................................................................................208
4.4.1. The “campanile minarets” of East Herzegovina, the Catholic littoral, and the
economy of the karst.............................................................................................208
4.4.2. The mosque of Nasûh Ağa (Vučijaković) at Mostar: Ottoman meets
“Gothic” and “Renaissance” on the frontier? .......................................................217
CHAPTER 5 CONCLUSION............................................................................................225
APPENDIX: TABLES ......................................................................................................232
Table 1. Terms of professions and related tools and objects in various Balkan
languages ca. 1840, according to Boué.....................................................................232
Table 2. Non-Muslim dülgers of Sarajevo and their guarantors in 1788 .................233
Table 3. Values of probates of nine deceased dülgers of Sarajevo, 1779-98 ...........236
Table 4. Locales with “provincial architects” (1656-71)..........................................237
Table 5. Comparison of measurements of three mosques in the Dabar region ........239
BIBLIOGRAPHY.............................................................................................................240
ILLUSTRATIONS............................................................................................................263
1
CHAPTER 1
INTRODUCTION
1.1. Scope of this study
This thesis seeks to shed light on the production of art and architecture in the Ottoman
Empire – and more specifically its provinces in the European mainland – from the
perspective of the artist, that is to say, the producer. While in western art history the
import of the individual in the creative process has been a focus to the extent that the
outcome is on occasion derided as an “artist history,” such has certainly not been the
case in the Ottoman context. Due to exceptional circumstances with regard to source
material, a good deal could be reconstructed about iconic individuals like Mi‘mâr Sinân
and certain court designers and illustrators of manuscripts. The situation concerning
artistic production in the provinces, however, is far bleaker. Even in those rare cases
where names and perhaps even professional titles of individuals involved in the
conception, construction, or decoration of mosques, churches, or residences were
recorded, it remains an open question to what extent this allows us to assert a causal
connection between individual and product. Differently stated, I am interested in the
question of the place we are to give to the individual artist – artist being a term I have
chosen to use indiscriminately for all skilled individuals involved in the processes
described above – in the historical narrative of the art and architecture in the Ottomans’
European provinces between the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries.
My interest in this problematic began with the study of those few artist
personalities, typically from after the seventeenth century, for which enough historical
data was available to reconstruct at least a part of their lives and oeuvre. In my
subsequent doctoral research I have dismissed this approach, having come to recognize
that its focus on exceptional cases ultimately failed to explain the conditions of artistic
production in an Ottoman provincial setting and the cultural and economic basis of
2
artists’ careers. Rather than on individuals, my dissertation research thus came to be
focused on the identification of “structures.”
Methodologically, I was influenced to some extent by Ousterhout’s Master
builders of Byzantium,1 whose principal contribution I see not in his provision of new
evidence but in his posing of “new” questions, even (or especially) where ready answers
were (and are) not available. In the present study I have sought to go beyond
Ousterhout’s framework, however, and also inquire about the social status, private lives,
and career choices of artists.
In recognition of the fact that the same individuals or workshops are recorded as
involved in the construction and decoration of mosques, churches, residences, and other
building types, I should emphasize that – in contrast to what may be regarded as the
“traditional” approach to the artistic heritage of Southeast Europe – I have studied
works by both Islamic and Christian patrons and artists. Moreover, in contrast to a
traditional line in art-historical scholarship that supposes both the autonomy of art and
creative genius underlying “great works of art,” I am more interested in the “negative”
factors in the processes of design and production, such as limitations due to traditions,
conventions, and codes of decorum. I also study the “provincial artist” not merely in his
relation to his better-known counterpart in the West, with whom he is often contrasted,
or to singular personages in Istanbul, but as operating within a concrete system of
Ottoman social practices.
The indisputable fact that most work was indeed “anonymous,” and that we may
never easily be able to connect in an unequivocal and explanatory manner specific
names with the conception and production of even the most monumental works of art in
this region, warrants not a discarding of such a line of inquiry but, instead, a refocusing
from the individual to “structures.” This, plus a study of monuments and artworks in the
entire region, not just a district or a single monument, also enhances our prospects of
being able to track and explain change. While the broad geographical and temporal
scope of my project – covering the Ottoman possessions in Europe between the midfourteenth
and late nineteenth century – may appear forbidding at first sight, it is not
impracticable in light of the scarcity of “direct” evidence and the fact that a focus on a
clearly delineated region or period would in fact have proven an obstacle in the
identification of long-term continuities and caesuras in specific areas as well as the
1 Robert Ousterhout, Master builders of Byzantium. Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1999.
3
region as a whole. The macro-regional scope of my project also seemed to better
correspond to the nature of much of the work in building and decorating in the Ottoman
Balkans, which was frequently undertaken by itinerant masters and workshops rather
than by urban craftspeople. Irrespective of whether they worked with stone, wood, or
paints, these masters and workshops frequently hailed from mountainous areas, the
limited economy of which regularly pushed a part of their populace into seasonal work
in the valleys. Disseminating certain forms far and wide, their work was rarely restricted
to one micro-region or city. They travelled to wherever they received commissions,
though mobility across the Bosporus appears to have been more limited.2 This, in part,
also justifies my focus on the Balkan provinces as opposed to other Ottoman macroregions
or the empire as a whole.
Acknowledging that the questions posed in my work can (and should) be posed
for Ottoman and post-Byzantine art and architecture as a whole, and that the Balkan
heritage must certainly be understood and interpreted in the context of developments
within this larger space, there are also a number of particularities that merit a separate
appraisal of this region. Most important perhaps is that, unlike Anatolia or the “Arab
provinces,” the Balkans at the time prior to the Ottoman conquest lacked a local
tradition in Islamic art. This resulted in extensive architectural production during the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, in the course of which a large number of urban centres
with an Islamic infrastructure was largely built from scratch. A new hegemonic art was
introduced while centres of non-Muslim cultural production continued to exist. It could
moreover be argued, as shall be discussed in chapter 2.5, that the proximity of the
region to the Catholic world resulted in somewhat different dynamics of exchange, if
compared with other Ottoman macro-regions.
While the building industry will concern a large part of this study, it will also
look to the development of other art forms in the region. Unfortunately, concerning the
Ottoman provinces, there is only a tiny amount of literature on calligraphy and the arts
of the book in general. Furthermore, the portability of manuscripts, in their conception
as well as dissemination, makes them hard to study in the context of a research which
revolves around the mobility of artists and the fixed work of art (i.e. not the mobility of
works of art produced by what appear to have been comparatively place-bound artists).
Unable to exclude calligraphy from this study, given the prominence of this art among
2 A number of cases of E-W traffic of artists across the Bosporus in the early
Ottoman period are discussed in ch. 2.5.
4
Muslim contemporaries, I have chosen to limit my observations to calligraphy found in
the public or semi-public context of monuments – and to the rare cases for which
conclusive documentary information exists.3 I have also made use of existing studies
beyond this limitation where I thought they contribute to discussions of dynamics of
style or the artistic economy.4 On the whole, however, calligraphy and the arts of the
book, as well as another portable art, that of wood-panel icon painting, will take second
place behind the arts related to the construction and decoration of buildings.5
However, the thesis will not make distinctions between the functions
(residential, ritual) and users (Muslims, Christians, merchants, monks) of buildings. The
imposition of such limitations was necessary in order to generate conclusive findings
from a large amount of data. Nevertheless, I recognize that subjects like Islamic
calligraphy or portrait painting (or of secular themes in general) deserve a far more
3 Many aspects of the problematic of calligraphy in the context of this study are
addressed in ch. 1.3.1, where I also discuss some of the principal sources and the quality
of the information they provide.
4 Here mention could be made of Tim Stanley’s interesting piece on the
production of illuminated Kurans in nineteenth-century Šumen (“Shumen as a centre of
Qur'an production in the 19th century,” in: M. Uğur Derman armağanı. Ed. Irvin Cemil
Schick. Istanbul: Sabancı University, 2000, pp. 483-512), Fehim Nametak’s unique
biography of a poet/calligrapher/epigraphicist in Sarajevo in the same period (Fadilpaša
Šerifović: pjesnik i epigrafičar Bosne. Sarajevo: Orijentalni Institut, 1980), or
Koller and Ramović’s article about the cosmos of an eighteenth-century Egyptian
calligrapher in Cairo (“Die Integration eines ägyptischen Händlers in Sarajevo in der
zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in: Jahrbücher für Geschichte und Kultur
Südosteuropas, III [2001], pp. 149-57).
5 There exists an extensive body of scholarly literature on Christian Orthodox
painting in the Byzantine and Balkan contexts that I have only consulted very
selectively. Much of this literature is devoted to questions of iconography and
attribution – two subjects I will not foreground in this thesis, except where I discuss
conventions and notions of authorship. I should also remark that I did not consult
monographs written in Greek, being forced to limit my research to works in English,
French, German, Turkish, Serbian-Croatian-Bosnian, Macedonian, and Bulgarian. To
be sure, I did consult studies by Greek authors written in languages other than Greek.
However, I regret not having been in the position to extensively draw upon texts like
Manolēs Chatzēdakēs’ Ellēnes zōgrafoi meta tēn alōsē, 1450-1830 (2 vols. Athens:
Kentro Neoellēnikōn Ereunōn, 1987 and 1997). While Chatzēdakēs’ biographical
inventory of post-Byzantine painters would have proven a welcome supplement to my
extensive study of the related works by Mazalić and Vasiliev (see ch. 1.2.2) on Bosnia,
Bulgaria, and Macedonia, I sincerely doubt that Greek painters led very different lives
from their Slav counterparts. Thus, while access to this body of scholarship would
certainly have resulted in greater detail, I doubt that its analysis would conteract my
claims based on evidence in neighbouring regions.
5
detailed treatment than the one I am able to provide on this occasion. The reader must
be reminded that my object is not to provide a survey of all arts and a biographical
inventory of the individuals that produced them.6 Rather, I seek to identify and
rationalize trends, patterns, and structures. While in individual cases my observations
may prove incorrect, due to the surfacing of sources unknown to me at this point, I think
it unlikely that this will be the case when it comes to the identification of structures and
dynamics within this thesis. It is in such developments, rather than in details, that I am
interested.
The question of sources is, as mentioned, somewhat problematic. There exists no
single category of sources that can be studied in a consistent and comparative manner in
the pursuit of the research questions outlined above; in most cases the evidence is
circumstantial. Depending on the case and question, I thus draw upon epigraphy,
monastic and other chronicles, oral traditions, tax registers, law codes, endowment
deeds, court records, and other sources.7 For reasons of feasibility (in terms of this
thesis’s goal of covering a large territory over a long period), I have limited my inquiry
to published primary sources. In addition to this, my own fieldwork, conducted in the
region over the past decade, forms the indispensable evidence of this thesis.8 For despite
the work of little more than a handful of scholars over the past century, the region’s
Ottoman heritage remains little studied, much less critically interpreted (see also chapter
1.2).
6 One of the resultant shortcomings, for instance, will be the lack of conclusive
general remarks about the development of wood-carving into a quasi fine art in the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Here, the existing literature mostly treats “great
works” as phenomena of a local, even “national,” character, not as a regional
phenomenon. Moreover, this literature seems not always entirely sure that its subject is
in the domain of art history rather than ethnography.
7 The various categories of available sources, examples of the information
contained in them, and preliminarily assess their explanatory potential will be discussed
in ch. 1.3.
8 I would like to express my gratitude to the Barakat Trust (Oxford) for funding
my short-term fieldwork research in Greece in March and June, 2011.
6
1.2. The historiographical context of this research project
1.2.1. The context of Balkan historiographies
On the art-historical map of Europe, the Balkans remain a place whose heritage is
unfamiliar to most scholars outside the region. Considering the proximity of the region
to centres excessively well-represented in the art-historical tradition, this may come as
somewhat of a surprise. After very promising beginnings before World War I, Balkans
art history has, to be sure, produced significant works of research. However, the overall
verdict must be that scholarship has largely failed to make this region’s heritage
relevant to art history in general, in which the Balkans remain more exotic than many
regions beyond Europe. I have tried not to repeat in this dissertation the mistakes that
might be identified as the principal causes for this failed enterprise.
Firstly, there has been an insistence on “national” specificities, even in studies of
periods when, as is clear now, no “national awareness” existed. This has led many
scholars to make what are ultimately erroneous conclusions about the nature of the art
produced, by whomever, in this period. There has been some literature in the past three
decades that has pointed to the sometimes absurd effects of nationalist zeal on arthistorical
literature.9 I have also come to realize, however, that this, “traditional,”
literature needs not to be criticized but to be replaced.
Secondly, the material from the Ottoman period, as opposed to the Middle Ages
and the post-Ottoman period, has been under-researched in most of the region’s
countries. Research into the heritage of the Balkans’ former Muslim overlords, now
(anachronistically) identified with the modern nation of Turkey, has not always been
very popular. There have been very few scholars who have significantly contributed to
its study in the past century. But the belief in this period’s being a “dark age,” with the
role of the Ottomans merely being that of destroyers of art and traditions, has also
9 I have also sought to contribute to this body of writing in my early
publications; see my “De/constructing a 'Legacy in Stone': Of interpretative and
historiographical problems concerning the Ottoman cultural heritage in the Balkans,” in:
Middle Eastern Studies, XLIV/5 (2008), pp. 695-71; “Negotiating tradition and
ambition: comparative de-Ottomanization of the Balkan cityscapes,” in: Ethnologia
Balkanica, X (2006/7), pp. 15-33; “Multicultural pasts as a problem in the construction
of national programs of cultural heritage in modern Southeast Europe,” (paper read at
the 10th Annual Kokkalis Program Workshop at Harvard University, 2007, published at
hks.harvard.edu/kokkalis); and my review of History and ideology: architectural
heritage of the “Lands of Rum” in the Newsletter of the European Architectural History
Network, 4 (2008), pp. 36-9.
@̃
7
obstructed research on that period’s abundant Christian artistic heritage. It was also
neglected to realize that the relative suppression of the potential of Christian artistic
activity under Ottoman rule – which was very real, despite all the recent talk of
“Ottoman tolerance” – was a fate shared with millions of Europeans who found
themselves on the wrong side of the Catholic/Protestant political divide. In fact,
Ottoman restrictions on new Christian building compared rather favourably with the
challenges faced by non-dominant communities in early modern Austria, England, or
even the “liberal” Low Countries.10 Whether the developments seen in Orthodox
Christian painting, an art that did not suffer restrictions during the Ottoman centuries,
make it more or less interesting than its medieval precursor ultimately depends on the
question asked.
Thirdly, the heritages of the region’s Muslim and Christian communities are
almost never looked at simultaneously – despite the contemporaneity and similarity of
many works, and despite the fact that artists of one confession very often worked for
patrons from other communities.11 “Hybrid” products have rarely been the focus of
scholars’ attention, certainly not outside the Yugoslav context.12
10 For these contexts, see Benjamin J. Kaplan, “Fictions of privacy: house
chapels and the spatial accommodation of religious dissent in early modern Europe,” in:
American Historical Review, CVII (2002), pp. 1031-64; Reiner Sörries, Von Kaisers
Gnaden: protestantische Kirchenbauten im Habsburger Reich. Vienna: Böhlau, 2008.
In Austria, Joseph II’s Toleranzpatent of 1781 first allowed the construction of non-
Catholic houses of worship – granted that they did not have an entrance facing the street
or a belfry, which was still considered intolerable. Even the Protestant church built in
Vienna’s Gumpendorf suburb in the 1840s according to a design by the famous
architects Theophil Hansen and Ludwig Förster conformed to these principles. Prior to
the nineteenth century, the situation of non-Calvinists in the Netherlands or Ireland’s
majority Catholic population under English rule, forced to worship in houses or barns,
was not much different. Ottoman Christians were, in fact, permitted to build belfries
five years earlier than the non-Catholics under Habsburg rule were granted the same
right in 1861. The restrictions non-Muslims suffered under Ottoman rule, in sum, were
not extraordinary but a fact of life in early modern Europe. They have an echo in
today’s debates in European countries over the extent to which Muslim communities are
to be allowed to show presence in public space by equipping their houses of worship
with minarets.
11 Ch. 2.4 is devoted to this problematic.
12 Not only the trade of forms, but also the mere presence of artists from a
different community seems to have terrified one author to an extent that he thought the
principal debate had to be whether or not the product was “national” enough: see Zeki
Sönmez, Başlangıçtan 16. yüzyıla kadar Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar.
Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 19952, pp. 473-5.
8
Fourthly, Balkan art histories have largely resisted theoretical-methodological
innovations in the discipline (or related disciplines) since the 1960s. The nationalist
logic of the scholarly tradition in Southeast European art histories has not been
questioned even during socialist rule. “Marxist” interpretations of art-historical
phenomena in the Balkans, consisting of social-scientific approaches dismissing a
Hegelian notion of “culture” as substructure at the expense of historical materialism,
were far more likely to come from western scholars than from scholars in the countries
of Southeast Europe who traced their political ideology to Marx.13
Fifthly, the borders of research traditions in the various Balkan countries are
usually the modern territorial boundaries or perceived historical boundaries, the latter
giving rise to concepts such as that of “Bulgarian lands” or “Old Serbia,” or even (if
unarticulated) of a “Turkey.” There has been very little research on a truly regional
level, most researchers confining themselves to “their” artistic inheritance. This has
obstructed the study of phenomena that materialized in a time and region in which these
borders simply did not exist. Chapter 2.1 will highlight the remarkable mobility of
artists in the Ottoman Balkans that makes any micro-regional approach to the study of
this heritage questionable.
Sixthly – and this concerns more the scholars in Turkey, Europe, and North
America, who have been dominant in the writing of the history of Ottoman art – there
have been few attempts to view Ottoman architecture outside Istanbul after 1453 as
anything but a by-product. These works are regarded as ultimately without consequence
for this history of this art, for its “head” was elsewhere. This approach is becoming
obsolete as “the biggest” and “the best” are not necessarily the principal criteria for
appraisal in art history anymore. A more recent focus on patronage has partly rescued
the provincial heritage from oblivion, for it takes as starting point for an inquiry not a
city or monument but a person. I shall also explore other strategies to make this heritage
more relevant to the narrative of Ottoman architecture.
To remedy all these shortcomings is not the work for a dissertation but for one or
more generations of scholars. While my study must not be seen as anything but an essay
in perspective, I do hope that it will be a contribution to the project of the integration,
and the making relevant, of the Balkans in/to art history.
13 See also my “Is there a crisis in Balkan studies? A position paper,” in:
Kakanien Revisited, 92 (2009) [http://www.kakanien.ac.at/beitr/balkans/
MHartmuth1.pdf], esp. p. 2.
9
1.2.2. The available literature on the topic
The most substantial work on a key subject of this dissertation is a 1988 article by
Cerasi, entitled “Late-Ottoman architects and master builders.”14 Now found in some
bibliographies, it is more often referenced than discussed or challenged. Already Cerasi
lamented that the literature on the topic had been “forced into the mold” of “national”
boundaries, which he found at odds with “the reality of the fundamentally homogeneous
Ottoman urban culture, multiethnic though it may have been.” This scholar moreover
expressed dissatisfaction with the fact that Ottoman sources thus far explored have
largely failed to explain “how Ottoman designers and builders worked and conceived
their work.” For a renewed debate, Cerasi proposed the binary, reflected in the title of
his piece, of “two distinct crafts – that of the architect and that of the master builder.”15
With regards to the provinces, the focus of my study, Cerasi posited two
important breaches. Firstly, he saw the instituting of “town architects” in “late classical
times” as “a change in the relations between the centralized system and local culture.”
Positioned between master masons and imperial architects, these “town architects” were
nominated by the chief royal architect (ser-mi‘mârân-ı hâssa) in Istanbul to “oversee
imperial building sites and to supervise all construction activity whether private, vakıf or
imperial, in provincial towns.” Secondly, Cerasi maintained that by the end of the
seventeenth century itinerant or sedentary “master-builder guilds” (sic) had begun to
replace architects in the design and construction of buildings in the expanding Ottoman
provincial towns. Starting from the western parts of the peninsula, these “Balkan mason
corporations” saw their heyday in the late eighteenth century, when they bestowed to
the region “whole dynasties of master builders” organized as travelling confraternities.
Pointedly, Cerasi portrayed it as “a paradox of Ottoman civilization – centered in towns
14 Maurice Cerasi, “Late-Ottoman architects and master builders,” in Muqarnas,
V (1988), pp. 87-102. Cerasi’s work greatly benefited from earlier studies, especially
those of Muzaffer Erdoğan (for a bibliography of which cf. Hans-Jürgen Kornrumpf’s
Osmanische Bibliographie: mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der Türkei in Europa.
Leiden: Brill, 1973, p. 190).
15 Cerasi, “Late-Ottoman architects and master builders,” pp. 87-8. The
definition of their relationship began, he thought, in the sixteenth century, when one
came to be seen as the assistant of to different. This also had them belong to different
social strata: architects, Cerasi claims, were “apt to be the more cultured and better
integrated into official institutions,” even if they did not constitute an archetypal
“Ottoman intellectual.”
10
and dominated by towns – that its architectural culture should have been almost entirely
produced by villagers,” as were indeed most of these itinerant builders. Next to what
Cerasi believed to be shifts from architects to master builders and of their origins from
towns to villages, he also identified as a general trend that after the sixteenth century
non-Muslims played a greater role in the building crafts.16
It must be acknowledged that Cerasi did indeed manage to detect some major
trends and shifts. My study will, however, take issue with his idea of the architect – or
of an Ottoman architect per se – as the cultured peer of the builder, with the significance
of the “town architects” in artistic process in the provinces (which may have been nil),
and with other more minor issues. Nevertheless, it is a crucial finding that some kind of
change did happen in the period of ca. 1600-1750. Cerasi is also not entirely wrong in
suggesting that before 1600 it was likely that major works in the provinces were
undertaken by Muslim architects from an urban background and after 1750 this was
more likely done by Christian villagers; there are, however, nuances that must not be
neglected, as should be a discussion of the causes that may have led to such a situation.
While I see the perspective of my study as in partial opposition to interpretations
found in the existing literature, this is by no means to say that there were no substantial
works on which this study could build. Veritable mines of information regarding
individuals’ biographies are two books from the 1960s by Mazalić and Vasiliev; their
titles translate as “Lexicon of artists: painters, sculptors, builders, goldsmiths,
calligraphers and others who have worked in Bosnia and Herzegovina”17 and as
“Bulgarian masters of the Revival [period]: painters, carvers, builders” respectively.18
While Mazalić restricted himself to all names of individuals who could be proven or
suspected of having worked in Bosnia and Herzegovina, in any period, Vasiliev’s
“Bulgarians” were – fortunately for us – really all Slavonic-speakers in the southern
Balkans, including what is now the Republic of Macedonia and Greece. His focus was
on four principal “schools” of the late Ottoman (“Revival”) period, classified according
the artists’ native village, town, or district: Trjavna, Debar, Samokov, and Bansko. In
the same decade the publication of Kreševljaković’s tripartite work on guilds in
16 Ibid., pp. 89-90.
17 Đoko Mazalić, Leksikon umjetnika : slikara, vajara, graditelja, zlatara,
kaligrafa i drugih koj su radili u Bosni i Hercegovini. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1967.
18Asen Vasiliev, Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori: živopisci, rezbari, stroiteli.
Sofia: Izdat. “Nauka i Izkustvo,” 1965.
11
Ottoman Bosnia was also (posthumously) completed, which began with a volume on
Sarajevo in 1935 and was continued with two further volumes on Mostar (1951) and
Banja Luka and other locales (1961).19 Like Mazalić’s and Vasiliev’s works,
Kreševljaković’s Esnafi i obrti is gathered from a large array of primary sources.
Needless to say, all three works are by and large collections of data; they are
prolegomena rather than art history as it is understood today. This should not detract
from the monumentality of these and other studies, however, which must be
acknowledged as achievements not only in the context of the place and/or time at which
they were produced but also as foundations for the study of this heritage in the future.20
Another mine of information, both due to the massive amount of primary
sources exploited and the originality of the argument, is a book that came out only half a
decade ago: Necipoğlu’s Age of Sinan, possibly the most substantial contribution to the
field of Ottoman architectural history since Goodwin’s standard survey from 1971. As
hinted above, this author’s refocusing of inquiry from the question of style to that of
patronage has made practicable a closer look at the monumental architecture in the
provinces as well. More than an ordinary study, it is a pladoyer for a different Ottoman
architectural history.21
Another recent book, Faroqhi’s Artisans of Empire, has synthesized the
substantial body of research devoted to the Ottoman guilds.22 Its findings have been less
helpful for the purposes of this study than one might think, however, for one simple
reason: although seldom recognized in the literature, many if not most builders,
painters/decorators, and woodcarvers of the sort discussed in this thesis were simply
never part of (urban) guilds. Instead, their work was based on seasonal migration for
19 Hamdija Kreševljaković, “Esnafi i obrti u Bosni i Hercegovini” [1935/1951],
in: Izabrana djela, II. Sarajevo: IP “Veselin Masleša,” 1991, pp. 7-384.
20 Another important work, incidentally from the same decade, is Sreten
Petković’s Zidno slikarstvo na području Pećke patrijaršije: 1557-1614. Novi Sad:
Matica Srpska, Odeljenje za Likovne Umetnosti, 1965. While I often draw upon its
principal conclusion, I did not “mine” it to the extent I did with Mazalić’s, Vasiliev’s, or
Kreševljaković’s work. Yet another monumental work from the 1960s is Đoko Mazalic,
Slikarska umjetnost u Bosni i Hercegovini u tursko doba, 1500-1878. Sarajevo:
“Veselin Masleša,” 1965.
21 Gülru Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan: architectural culture in the Otoman Empire.
Princeton: University Press, 2005.
22 Suraiya Faroqhi, Artisans of empire: crafts and craftspeople under the
Ottomans. London: IB Tauris, 2009.
12
work from their mountain homes, which appears to have made them relatively invisible
in official documentation. That some scholars have chosen to translate the term tayfa
(tâ‘ife) as “guilds,” rather than as “workshop” or “team,” may also have led to some
confusion about builders’ and decorators’ organizations as tayfas. The important fact
that some of the region’s foremost artists continued to reside outside the major citieseven
when they enjoyed great successes – will be addressed in various sections of this
work.
There is some bias toward Bosnia (and, to a lesser extent, for Macedonia23) in
this study. This is less an echo of my own (better) acquaintance with the heritage of this
country than a result of the fact that, for Bosnia, Ottoman source material relative to the
study of architecture has been made available in a more complete form than for any
other Balkan region. The large amount of vakfîyes, inscriptions, chronicles, court cases,
decrees, travelogues, and other materials published by scholars such as Mujezinović,
Kreševljaković, Hasandedić, or Kemura have made possible my procession through,
parallel reading, and comparison of large amounts of primary material in translations or
transcriptions.24 Early Ottoman inscriptions in Thrace and other territories, more
rewarding than the later ones in terms of artist-related content, were handily published
in the compilation by Sönmez.25 I have also browsed several published tax-registers, on
one occasion stumbling upon information that has enhanced one of my arguments.26 In
some cases I have managed to fathom only after a while how to make use of pieces of
information that, and individuals who, seemed unconnected to anything or anybody,27
thus impeding proper analysis.28
23 In this work I use Macedonia and Macedonian in a regional, not
ethnic/national, sense. Where I specifically refer to the part of the historic region in the
South-Central Balkans that was included in, and seceded fromm the former Yugoslavia,
I shall write of “the Republic of Macedonia.”
24 Sometimes the preliminary conclusion simply was that a certain category of
sources was not very rewarding with regard to information about artists, whereby not all
of this work is cited.
25 Sönmez, Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar.
26 For the usefulness of one piece of information in the tax records of the Hersek
district in the late fifteenth century, see ch. 4.2.2. A list of all published tahrir defters is
found at http://www.ottoman.uconn.edu/Bibliography/Published_Tahrirs.htm.
27 In ch. 2.2.3, for instance, I discuss the implication of builders being invited to
figure as witnesses to notarial acts, such as the legalization of endowment deeds. Can
13
Anybody with but a slight interest in the Ottoman-Islamic and post-Byzantine art
and architecture of the Balkans will be aware of the fact that it is fairly impossible to
work on these topics without frequent recourse to the work of Machiel Kiel of the last
forty years. Kiel’s approach is (mostly) the micro-historical: monuments are analyzed
chiefly in the context of a given locale’s economic and religious development over a
long period of time, sometimes between the late fourteenth and late twentieth century.
While he would occasionally write of Christian artists or Muslim workmen, this was
usuallly without making them the focus of an article or book. In an article on Albania,
for instance, one of his earliest published studies, Kiel sought to explain the
peripherality of that land (and its architecture) as a result of the rugged terrain which
hindered the development of agriculture, hence preventing the emergence of large cities.
Its Islamic architecture, for Kiel, bore the imprint of neighbouring Macedonia, from
which, rather than the capital, he believed Albania received its architecture.29 Kiel has
also produced three substantial studies based on the so-called construction accounts of
Ottoman monuments in the Balkans.30 I should also like to highlight one article in
which Kiel discussed the spread of the so-called School of Thebes in the context of the
economic development of these painters’ native region, Boeotia (NW of Athens).
Ottoman tax registers, agriculture, and Ottoman-period Christian art that is flourishing
rather than dead; having all this together was so unusual for the mid-1980s, when this
research was presented at a conference, that it must be acknowledged.31
this serve as an indication for their elevated social status, or only for that of certain
individuals?
28 The various categories of sources and the use to which they can be put shall be
discussed in greater detail in ch. 1.3.
29 Machiel Kiel, “Aspects of Ottoman-Turkish architecture in Albania,” in: Vth
International Congress of Turkish Art, Budapest 23-28 September 1975. Ed. Géza
Fehér. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1978, pp. 541-65.
30 These studies are discussed and cited in ch. 1.3.2.
31 Machiel Kiel, “Byzantine architecture and painting in Central Greece 1460-
1570: its demographic and economic basis according to the Ottoman census- and
taxation registers for Central Greece preserved in Istanbul and Ankara,” in: From
Mantzikert to Lepanto: The Byzantine World and the Turks 1071-1571. Ninth Spring
Symposium of Byzantine Studies. Birmingham 1985 = Byzantinische Forschungen, XVI
(1991), pp. 429-46.
14
Regarding Ottoman architecture, also the inventories and studies by Ayverdi,
Eyice, and others deserve mention, in part because I cite them more rarely than might be
expected.32 Before Kiel, it was Anhegger who produced the most stimulating studies on
aspects of this heritage.33 In Bosnia, its study dates back to the period of Austro-
Hungarian rule (1878-1918), and some texts from this period are still useful today.34
Hungarian scholars have also conducted pioneering research, most recently in the field
of Ottoman archaeology;35 but as relatively few significant Ottoman monuments remain
standing in the Pannonian Basin and are well-preserved enough to enable comparative
stylistic study, I will only rarely venture north of Danube and Sava. It should still be
acknowledged that among the interesting works produced in Hungary was one article
that suggested that Hungary’s Ottoman architecture was very similar to Bosnia’s
because the architects or builders must have come to Hungary from nearby Bosnia.36
Better acquainted with the conditions of design in this period and context, we may now
assert that the similarity between domed mosques in Bosnia and Hungary was very
probably not due to architects and/or builders moving back and forth between these
places but because these monuments were built in a period at which the northern parts
of the peninsula, including both Bosnia and Hungary, were equipped with an Islamic
32 Ekrem Hakkı Ayverdi’s four-volume Avrupa’da Osmanlı mimârî eserleri
(Istanbul: İstanbul Fetih Cemiyeti, 1979-1982) remains the most complete inventory to
date. A bibliography that includes Eyice’s articles on the Balkans is found in
Kornrumpf, Osmanische Bibliographie, pp. 199-203.
33 Robert Anhegger’s “Die Römerbrücke von Mostar: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte
und Organisation des Bauwesens im Osmanischen Reich” (in: Oriens, VII/1 [1954], pp.
87-107) was perhaps the most conclusive study of this problematic until Necipoğlu’s
Age of Sinan.
34 I discuss some of this literature in my “Insufficiently oriental? An early
episode in the study and preservation of the Ottoman architectural heritage in the
Balkans,” in: Monuments, patrons, contexts: papers on Ottoman Europe presented to
Machiel Kiel. Eds. Maximilian Hartmuth and Ayşe Dilsiz. Leiden: Netherlands Institute
for the Near East, 2010, pp. 171-84.
35 As “evidence” for this claim can be cited the volume Archaeology of the
Ottoman period in Hungary (eds. Ibolya Gerelyes and Gyongyi Kovács. Budapest:
Hungarian National Museum, 2003), the like we lack for other ex-Ottoman regions,
including Anatolia.
36 Győző Gerő, “The question of school and master in the study of the history of
Muslim architecture in Hungary,” in: The Muslim East: Studies in honour of Julius
Germanus. Ed. Gyula Káldy-Nagy. Budapest: Eötvös Lorand Univ., 1974, pp. 189-99.
15
infrastructure that consisted of architectural types whose designs had been canonized at
the centre.
Concerning the relationship between centre and periphery and the notion of an
imperial style, reference should be made to a study by Denny, many ideas in which
were developed in Necipoğlu’s seminal Age of Sinan.37 Though not touching upon the
Balkans at all, the (supposed) problem of artists’ “anonymity” in Islamic contexts is
addressed in a more conclusive way than elsewhere in a little-known article by
Meinecke.38 Goodwin, the doyen of Ottoman architectural history, also barely
mentioned the Balkans in his seminal survey; but some interesting observations are
found in a seldom cited article, in which he concluded that buildings in the provinces
“rarely influenced the architects of the imperial monuments of Istanbul and Edirne,”
while conceding that “interesting work was achieved there by architects trained in
Istanbul.”39 Articles on the problematic of centres and peripheries by
Ginzburg/Castelnuovo and Hadjinicolaou, finally, have helped me make sense of
difference and possible reasons for it.40 Palairet’s article on the “Migrant workers” of
the late Ottoman Balkans stands in for a body of literature on work migration that has
proven essential to my understanding of artistic production in the Ottoman provinces.41
37 Walter B. Denny, “Provincial Ottoman architecture and the metropolitan style:
questions of meaning and originality,” in: Art turc/Turkish art. Ed. François Deroche.
Geneva: Van Berchem Foundation, 1999, pp. 243-52.
38 Michael Meinecke, “Zur sogenannten Anonymität der Künstler im
islamischen Mittelalter,” in: Künstler und Werkstatt in den orientalischen
Gesellschaften. Ed. Adalbert J. Gail. Graz: Akadem. Druck-u. Verlagsanstalt, 1982, pp.
31-45.
39 Godfrey Goodwin, “Ottoman architecture in the Balkans,” in: Art and
Archaeology Research Papers, IX (1975), pp. 55-9, cit. pp. 55-6. Quite helpful is his
observation that a Balkan provincial minaret was often “much more skilfully built than
its mosque and one wonders if masons trained in minaret construction travelled up and
down the peninsular.”
40 Carlo Ginzburg and Enrico Castelnuovo. “Symbolic domination and artistic
geography in Italian Art History” [tr. by Maylis Curie], in: Art in Translation, I/1
(2009), pp. 5-48, but first published in French as “Domination symbolique et
géographie artistique dans l’histoire de l’art italien,” in: Actes de la recherche en
sciences sociales, XL (1981), pp. 51-72; Nikos Hadjinicolaou, “Kunstzentren und
periphere Kunst,” in: Kritische Berichte, XI (1983), pp. 36-56.
41 Michael Palairet, “The migrant workers of the Balkans and their villages (18th
Century –World War II),” in: Handwerk in Mittel- und Südosteuropa. Mobilität:
16
1.3. The principal sources
1.3.1. “Artist signatures” (epigraphy), vitae/biographies, and manuals
In some cases our principal source for the attribution of a certain work to an individual
is epigraphy. The frequency of “artist signatures” varies to a great extent, however,
according to period and craft. They are most frequent in Orthodox Christian painting,42
while Muslim decorative painters of mosques – as some isolated examples (discussed in
ch. 2.2.6) might suggest – would only “sign” their work after the mid-nineteenth
century. It is in the same century that we find the recurring names of Orthodox Christian
builders on an increased number of new or renewed churches. This is the reverted
dynamic of what we see in Islamic architecture, where the names of builders and
architects seem to be quite common around 1400 but completely disappear after the Fall
of Constantinople.43 It must be stressed, however, that the positive information gained
from such inscriptions is at times limited, at least concerning the aims of this study.
The problematic nature of some inscriptions is perhaps best exemplified by those
on the Great Mosque of Didymoteichon in Greek Thrace.44 Completed in 1421, this
monument dates from a period in which “artist inscriptions” were more common.
Scholars have commonly – but, as I shall argue, very probably wrongly – interpreted the
slightly ambiguous inscription in a way that the early Ottoman statesman Hacı ‘İvâz
Paşa emerged as “its architect.” But what did it really mean to be considered a
building’s mi‘mâr by 1400 – or even by 1600? A name alone, even if in connection with
a professional title, might in fact tell us little about the actual contribution of that
individual vis-à-vis others, especially patrons, other artists, or “planners” of any sort. It
is rare that the same name is encountered on more than one or two buildings, hence
Vermittlung und Wandel im Handwerk des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts. Ed. Klaus Roth.
Munich: Südosteuropa-Gesellschaft, 1987, pp. 23-46.
42 For numbers pertaining to Greece, cf. Speros Vryonis, “The Byzantine legacy
in the formal culture of the Balkan peoples,” in: The Byzantine tradition after the Fall of
Constantinople. Ed. John Yiannias. Charlottesville: University of Virginia, 1991, pp.
17-44, cit. p. 30.
43 Cf. Sönmez, Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar, passim; also
Meinecke. “Zur sogenannten Anonymität der Künstler,” esp. p. 36. For the exception of
Dâvûd Ağa, who is mentioned in three inscriptions in late sixteenth-century Istanbul,
see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 508.
44 This mosque is briefly discussed in 2.2.6 and 2.5.1.
17
allowing for conclusions as to an individual’s “artistic development.” Reference to a
builder’s or decorator’s home locale is sometimes just as helpful a piece of information,
however. Both help us to establish certain patterns.
Viewed against the background of Western art history, the lack of a Balkan
tradition of artists’ vitae, which one might consider the earliest form of art-historical
narration, is a serious lack for the modern scholar. When in the second quarter of the
nineteenth century the Zagreb gentleman Kukuljević-Sakcinski ventured to compile a
compilation of vitae of South-Slav artists comparable to Vasari’s legendary Vite de’ più
eccellenti pittori, et scultori italiani (1550, revised 1568), he thus faced serious
problems when it came especially to the centuries of Ottoman rule over Southeast
Europe. The few artists’ names and careers he managed to produce are relatively
insignificant.45 More fruitful, though of very limited use for a discussion of artists based
in the Balkans, are the Vasari-like compilations of artist biographies produced in
Istanbul since the sixteenth century. These are largely restricted to the domain of
calligraphy, however; book painting is rarely addressed and architecture never.46 All
45 Ivan Kukuljević-Sakcinski, Slovnik umjetnikah jugoslavenskih. Zagreb: Lj.
Gaj, 1858. If one disregards the biography of Anastas Jovanović, a Bulgarian-born artist
contemporary to Kukuljević (for whose work he produced engravings), and who may be
disqualified also on the grounds that he worked in the Habsburg monarchy rather than
in the Ottoman domain, then the only substantial piece of information about any artist
active in the Balkans throughout the centuries of Ottoman rule is that about the
“probably Bulgarian” monk, painter, and calligrapher Filip. Around 1500 he produced
an illuminated gospel book in the Zograf monastery on Athos for the Moldavian prince
Ştefan cel Mare (cf. Kukuljević-Sakcinski, Slovnik, pp. 83-5). Less illuminating are the
couple of lines about the bishop and builder (graditelj) Jo(v)an, who around 1600
equipped the Dečani monastery with a water supply system (ibid., p. 124). Mentioned is
also the “probably Bulgarian” Josip Jabec, who in 1521 is said to have established the
first printing press in Thessalonikē (ibid., p. 119). Somewhat related is a Sofia-born
Jakov Krajkov – “the first-known Bulgarian who occupied himself with Slavic printing”
– who around the mid-sixteenth century went to Venice and, together with Jerolim
Zagurović from Kotor, produced a psalter and a prayer book (ibid., p. 207). A bit of a
curiosity finally is Vuk Konde (Konda?), known as a skilled goldsmith “in Old Serbia
or Macedonia” in the late sixteenth century. The only sources apparent are two silver
objects from the Dečani monastery whose inscriptions had been published in a Novi Sad
journal in 1831 (ibid., p. 124).
46 A foundational work here, if of limited relevance for the discussion of artistic
process in the Balkans, is the statesman Mustafâ Âlî’s Menâkıb-ı hünerverân (“Deeds of
the accomplished”), completed in 1587 for presentation to Sultan Murâd III. (For an
English translation and analysis of this work, see Esra Akin, “Mustafa Ali’s epic deeds
of artists: a study on the earliest Ottoman text about the calligraphers and painters of the
Islamic world,” Ph.D. dissertation [Ohio State University], 2007. A modern Turkish
rendering of the text has been available as Hattatların ve kitap sanatçılarının destanları
18
these works are largely a product of the centre, however. Where they make reference to
calligraphers with a Balkan-connection it is usually when they point to the birthplaces
of certain calligraphers. Calligraphers resident in Balkan towns seem to have been quite
invisible in this regard. Frequent epithets like “Belgradî,” “Bosnevî,” or “Arnavûd”
refer to their places of origin rather than to the sites of their production.47 What,
(Menakıb-ı hünerveran). Tr. Müjgan Cunbur. Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı
Yayınları, 1982.) This was a sultan at whose court the arts of the book especially
flourished, and it must not surprise that this work, which echoes the production of
contemporary texts in Safavid Iran (for which see David Roxburgh, Prefacing the
image: the writing of art history in sixteenth-century Iran. Leiden: Brill, 2001), deals
with various aspects of this genre, including book illustration and calligraphy.
Composed a half-century later, similarly upon sultanic commission, Nefes-zâde İbrâhîm
Efendi’s Gülzâr-i Savâb (“The rose-garden of proper conduct”) was both a manual as
well as a biographical history of, specifically, calligraphy. This well-known work
served as a fundament for later, continual updating of this stock of biographies. In
Suyolcu-zâde Mehmed Necib’s 1737 Devhatü’l-küttâb (“Genealogy of the scribes”),
this debt is expressed in a dialogue in the introduction (for which see the useful survey
by Tim Stanley, “After Müstakim-zade,” in: Islamic art in the 19th century: tradition,
innovation, and eclecticism. Eds. Doris Behrens-Abouseif and Stephen Vernoit. Leiden:
Brill, 2006, pp. 98-108, cit. p. 90), in which the author records his being commissioned
to write “a book on calligraphers, both those who have died and those who are still
alive.” His patron acknowledged that “the Gülzâr-i Savâb is a valuable work, but there
have been calligraphers since then.” The mark for later appraisals was then set by
Müstâkim-zâde Süleymân Sa‘deddin (d. 1788-9), who simply compiled all information
available to him without much selection. The tradition was continued by the Iranian
expat Habîb Efendi İsfahânî, whose Hat ve Hattâtân (“Calligraphy and calligraphers”)
was even printed in 1887/8 – a first. Two decades later this work, and the cumulative
tradition as a whole, was made available to an international audience in Clément
Huart’s Les calligraphes et les miniaturistes de l’Orient muselman (Paris: Leroux,
1908), a text largely based on İsfahânî, prefaced for a Western readership ignorant of
the implications of the discussion of the “art of writing.”
47 Though certainly a pattern, not all Bosnians ended up in Istanbul: Derviş
Hüsâmeddîn of Bosnia (d. 1591/2), for example, studied in Damascus with the Persian
calligrapher Kâni. This copier of manuscripts of old masters (his livelihood?) thus
became known as “Hüsâm of Damascus” (cf. Huart, Calligraphes, p. 261). Other
Bosnian-origin calligraphers, often kadıs or sons of kadıs, are noted to have worked in
places like Cairo, Baghdad, or Damascus (cf. ibid., p. 269, 278, 310). The probably
best-known Bosnian-born among the prominent calligraphers, though indeed better
known as a poet, was Mehmed Nerkesî, who benefited from his association with the
poet and kazasker Kafzâde Feyzullâh Efendi upon his arrival in Istanbul, where he was
trained in all variants of calligraphy and worked as a poet. Nerkesî was also known as a
very fast-working copyist, once having produced a copy of a famous Koran
commentary in only forty days. He died unexpectedly in 1634/5 in Gebze, at the onset
of the campaign to Yerevan, for which he was appointed chronicler, and was buried at
Eyüp. He had worked as a kadı, interestingly, exclusively in Rumeli (Gabela, Čajniče,
Thessalonikē [as deputy kadı], Mostar, Novi Pazar, Elbasan, Banja Luka, Bitola). The
bombastic style of his prose fell into disregard during the Tanzîmat, whereafter he was
19
moreover, complicates a discussion of calligraphers is that some of the most talented
may not have been professional but hobby artists, having gained an understanding of the
art in the course of their higher education at a medrese.48 For this and other reasons,
calligraphy as an art will only claim a marginal place in this study, which privileges
professional artists trained and working in the Balkans.
There exist biographical accounts of artists from the Ottoman Balkans, written
during the lifetime of these individuals in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries or
shortly thereafter, but these are exceptional cases rather than expressions of a tradition. I
have only come across three such texts, none of which compares with vitae written in
Renaissance Italy and other western contexts, and all greatly differ.49 The vita of Pimen
Zografski, for instance, is really that of a Sofia-born monk who was also a painter. He
trained in iconography at Mount Athōs with Thomas of Sofia and then returned to his
native region to begin a massive “restoration campaign,” which supposedly affected 300
churches and fifteen monasteries. As may be expected, the positive information about
Pimen’s art in his vita, composed by his disciple Pamfilije, is limited.50 Even the degree
of participation by Pimen as an artist in the abovementioned “campaign” may be
questioned.51 Better-established is the artisthood of the painter-monk Dionysios of
largely forgotten. Considerably more information is available about this individual, as
summarized in the EI2 article “Nergisī” by Christine Woodhead (VIII, p. 6).
48 We thus find in such compilations (cf. Huart, Calligraphes, p. 136, 348) two
seventeenth-century calligraphers named Mehmed Paşa of Belgrade and Kâtib Mehmed
of Belgrade, who both received their diploma from Hâfız Mehmed Efendi. Their only
apparent Belgrade connection seems to have been that this was their place of birth, their
career (and probably education) already taking place in Istanbul. More importantly, they
clearly had a primary career in administration, copying Korans in the free time. See also
the cases of the Bosnians Mehmed Kato (d. 1676/7) and İsmâ‘îl Muhâsib (d. 1748),
whose careers revolved around the palace in Istanbul (ibid., p. 137, 166), and the
previous footnote.
49 For the distinction between vita and biography, made in this thesis, see the
discussion in ch. 4.3.1 (footnotes).
50 This vita has been published most recently in a modernized Bulgarian version
as Monah Pamfilij, Žitie na prepodobnia naš otec Pimen Zografski. Sofia: Ljubomodrie,
2007.
51 While, curiously (given volume and repute), no signed work survives, there is
indeed a considerable number of churches painted in that period and region in which
Athonite influences, if largely devoid of metropolitan sophistication, can be discerned.
See Machiel Kiel, Art and society of Bulgaria in the Turkish period: a sketch of the
economic, juridical and artistic preconditions of Bulgarian post-Byzantine art and its
20
Fourna, who is also the subject of a vita. More than as a painter, he is known as the
composer of a popular iconographers’ manual (ermēneia tēs zōgrafikēs), which is also
discussed below. Dionysios’ “vios” was written by a certain Theophanēs, who
succeeded him as the abbot of a monastery in the town of Fourna. It has been
questioned, for good reasons, whether Theophanēs had actually personally known
Dionysios or had just compiled information about his predecessor from sources
available to him.52 More importantly, Dionysios, certainly an important art-historical
figure for the Balkans thanks to his comprehensive ermēneia, was eulogized by
Theophanēs not as a painter but as the founder (ktētōr) of the Fourna monastery. It must
be stressed that both vitae were written in acknowledgment of the painter-monks’
religious activity rather than their art. Strictly speaking they must not be considered
artists’ vitae.
A different, though similarly isolated, case is the vita of the Ottoman chief royal
architect Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa, which incidentally dates to around the same period as
Piment’s, that is, the early seventeenth century.53 Really a eulogy written by a client and
with some information intended for practical use (and hence termed risâle, or treatise,
though in the text it is also identified as a menâkıb-nâme, or book of deeds), this is a
source from the centre rather than from the province. While Mehmed Ağa’s vita makes
clear that he is to be considered the architect to be credited for the mosque of Sultan
place in the development of the art of the Christian Balkans, 1360/70–1700: a new
interpretation. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985, pp. 346-7; Rossitza Gradeva, Rumeli under
the Ottomans, 15th-18th centuries: institutions and communities. Istanbul: Isis
Press, 2004, p. 355. Interesting is that the vita does not really imply Pimen’s own
artistic participation in this “campaign,” and it is certainly rather extraordinary that in
none of the works created in such a project Pimen would leave a signature. In the famed
Istorija Slavjanobolgarskaja, completed by the monk Paisij of Hilendar in the Zograf
monastery in 1762 (cf. the French translation by Athanase Popov, “L'histoire slavobulgare
de Paisij de Hilendar: traduction et commentaire,” DREA (Inalco), 2005, p.
143), Pimen is clearly identified as an icon-painter by training and profession, however.
There it is similarly stated that he “built and restored” churches and monasteries in the
eparchy of Sofia at a time when the sultan gave him permission to do so. Long after his
death in 1610 his bones were discovered in the Čepino monastery, miraculously intact,
and were moved to another monastery at Suhodol.
52 K. Th. Dēmaras, “Theophanous tou ex Agrafōn vios Dionysiou tou ek
Fourna,” in: Ellēnika, X (1938), pp. 213-73, cit. p. 242-3; reproduction of the vita on pp.
248-54. I am indebted to Katerina Stathi for helping me with this text.
53 Cafer Efendi, Risale-i mimariyye: an early-seventeenth-century Ottoman
treatise on architecture: facsimile with translation and notes by Howard Crane. Leiden:
Brill, 1987.
21
Ahmed I in the capital, no specific work in the European provinces is attributed to him,
even though as the head of the Corps of Royal Architects (ser mi‘mârân-ı hâssa) the
designs of a number of monuments must have been produced by, or passed through, his
office. In the context of my study, this extraordinary source is well worth a mention, for
it illustrates how a man from the provinces – Albania in this case – made a career
culminating in an eventual promotion to the head of the Corps of Royal Architects.54
Interestingly, it also records that it was only after a series of jobs completely unrelated
to the visual arts that Mehmed could work as an architect.55 Though the text, at the
beginning of chapter five, promises an enumeration of the “many” mosques, mescids,
palaces, baths, and bridges built by/under him, as was the case in the texts about Sinân
that inspired Mehmed Ağa’s Risâle, this promise remains unfulfilled. We only find in
the manuscript, at the end of said chapter, a couple of blank pages presumably reserved
for the list of monuments that was never added.56 Again it must be stressed that the
Risâle is silent about Mehmed Ağa’s artistic contribution, or, to be more precise, the
causal relationship between individual and product. At least the motive behind the
composition of the Risâle is fairly clear: in the text it is claimed that menâkıb-nâmes had
been written about some previous chief architects – really only that by/about Mi‘mâr
Sinân has been discovered – and that therefore it was adequate to do the same for
Mehmed Ağa.57 In one version of Sinân’s vita, the outspoken model for the Risâle, it is
quite clearly stated that, “having become a weak old man,” the architect commissioned
a poet to “record his conversation in verse and prose,” for he wished “his name and
reputation to endure on the pages of time.” 58 Briefly put, the motive and setting was
54 The Risâle (p. 24) merely identifies Rumelia as his birthplace. The
specification to Albania is based on the description of the Central Albanian town of
Elbasan in Evliya Çelebi’s travelogue (from 1670), in which the famed voyager reports
of forty (sic) fountains “built by the Chief Architect who constructed the New Mosque
of Sultan Ahmed on the hippodrome in Istanbul,” that is, Mehmed Ağa. See Zeynep
Nayır, Osmanlı mimarlığında Sultan Ahmet külliyesi ve sonrası. Istanbul: İTU Mimarlık
Fakültesi Baskı Atölyesi, 1975, p. 40.
55 I shall discuss the biographical content of this vita in ch. 2.6.
56 For a list of constructions and repairs during the tenure of Mehmed Ağa, see
Nayır, Osmanlı mimarlığında Sultan Ahmet külliyesi, pp. 42-4.
57 Risâle, p. 23.
58 Cf. Sinan’s autobiographies: five sixteenth-century texts. Ed. and tr. Howard
Crane and Esra Akin. Leiden: Brill, 2006, p. 114.
@̃
22
identical to Condivi’s recording of Michelangelo’s vita: the eulogized was the subject as
much as the “author” of this text. The conduct seems to have been the same with
Mehmed Ağa’s Risâle, written by the poet Ca‘fer Efendi – presumably to endow the
text with some “neutrality” as well as literary style. In any case, the Risâle is an
exceptional source that alone cannot provide sufficient data to answer some principal
questions posed in this study.
While Mehmed Ağa’s text is, technically, not really a risâle (treatise) but a
menâkib-nâme (book of deeds), the iconographers’ manuals (ermēneiai,
“interpretations”) for use by Orthodox Christian painters are certainly the most
interesting texts of an instructive nature.59 They are also written by the artists
themselves, which makes them a privileged source for the study of artistic process in the
Ottoman Balkans. The known preserved examples of such texts date to between the
sixteenth and nineteenth centuries, but they evidently contain wisdoms much older than
that. Their popularization as a genre especially in the eighteenth century has been seen
as a reaction to the increased circulation of western prints, which had results seen by
some as undermining the aesthetic foundations of the Orthodox Christian iconographic
canon.60 On the other hand, three well-known ermēneiai, all produced in the 1720s and
30s, 61 demonstrate that there too existed trends beyond the conservative. These manuals
59 The extensive trilingual dictionary of termini technici that forms part of
Mehmed Ağa’s Risâle was obviously also meant to be of use to readers. The sometimes
blurred boundaries between the biographical and the instructive (see also the discussion
in ch. 4.3.1, esp. the first footnote) seems to justify the discussion of these seemingly
disparate categories of sources in one chapter. For the use of menâkıb in the context of
artists’ vitae, see also Mustafâ Âlî’s work mentioned earlier in this chapter (footnotes).
60 For this interpretation, see Emmanuel Moutafov, “Post-Byzantine hermeneiai
zographikes in the eighteenth century and their dissemination in the Balkans during the
nineteenth century,” in: Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, XXX/1 (2006), pp. 69–
79, cit. p. 76.
61 The best-known of these is certainly that composed by Dionysios of Fourna in
cooperation with his student Kirillos of Chios. It was discovered for Western research
when a Peloponnesian painter came to decorate the Orthodox chapel at Munich around
1830. Various translations of the work appeared until the end of that century, after a
French archaeologist (not knowing of the discovery at Munich) had discovered a copy
of the manuscript in an Athonite monastery in 1839. Praised by Victor Hugo for this
discovery, he believed to have discovered the reason for the “uniformity” of “eastern”
art in the iconographical prescriptions contained in this text. See Hans Belting, Likeness
and presence: a history of the image before the era of art. Tr. Edmund Jephcott.
Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997, pp. 17-9This manual is roughly
contemporary with two others, both composed by painters who moved back and forth
across the Ottoman Empire’s boundaries with Venice and Austria: those of Panagiōtēs
23
were aimed at guiding students in the study of their art, covering aspects from
iconographical conventions to the production of paints. Sometimes they also remind the
trainees of the holiness of their craft. In the 1851 ermēneia by Dičo Zograf of Tresonče
(near Debar), for instance, the painter warned future peers never to engage in sexual
intercourse and the work of icons on the same day, for this is a great sin. Instead, on
days of sexual activity one should be confined to grinding colours.62
While also among calligraphers, whose principal activity was the copying of Korans,
there may have existed similar codes of conduct, the situation was different, for this art
was not meant for autodidacts. Training consisted of private sessions with a teacher,
often unpaid; and also the prestige of a calligrapher tended to rest to some degree on the
renown of his teacher. Yet, it is only in the field of calligraphy that something in the
way of manuals of proper conduct were available.63 None existed among builders or
carpenters until late in the nineteenth century. This was not because such would not
have been helpful. Rather, widespread illiteracy among such “lower” crafts –
calligraphy and icon-painting required some more formal training than did decorative
painting or wood-carving – may have made the production of such texts unlikely.
Moreover, since “trade secrets” were passed on within individual workshops and
Doksaras and Hristofor Žefarovič. Doksaras had become familiar with treatises on the
arts by Leonardo and Andrea Pozzo while working on Corfu. He integrated lessons
from these texts into his own manual (which is often read as a manual for artistic
Westernization) in which he also demonstrates knowledge of renowned Western artists
and their vitae (which he advises readers to consult), such as Michelangelo, Tintoretto,
and Albrecht Dürer (“Albertos o Douros”). Hristofor Žefarović, born around Lake
Dojran in Macedonia, had come into contact with “Western” forms of art though
Doksaras’ translations into Greek of Renaissance treatises and his work in Habsburg
Pannonia, for Orthodox Christian patrons. For a thorough recent discussion of these
manuals and their authors, see Ivan Bentchev, Die Technologie in den griechischen und
bulgarischen Malerbüchern des 16. - 19. Jahrhunderts: Nektarij, Anonymus I und II,
Dionysios von Phourna, Georgi Damjanov, Panagiotes Doxaras, Christofor Žefarovič,
Zacharij Petrovič, Christo Jovevič, Cod. D. slavo 39, Dičo Zograf, Zacharij Zograf.
Recklinghausen: Museen der Stadt Recklinghausen, 2004.
62 Tr. in Moutafov, “Post-Byzantine hermeneiai zographikes,” p. 72. This
stipulation, however, only applied when working on painting of icons from one’s home,
as the artist would not have come into that temptation anyway when working in a
monastery.
63 This was the case, for instance, with the Gülzâr-i Savâb by Nefes-zâde
İbrâhîm Efendi, discussed in a previous footnote (this chapter).
24
families and jealously guarded – as best attested by the existence of “secret languages”64
used on the job – the making available of aids to the competition would have only
worked against their interests. For a similar reason, no “manuals of architecture” were
produced by the able architects trained in Istanbul.65 The making public of this
knowledge would have undermined the hierarchy from which the architect derived his
prestige.
1.3.2. Administrative sources and chronicles
A relatively little-explored category of sources are the Ottoman orders, budgets, and
other financial and administrative records sometimes referred to collectively, not
entirely correctly, as “building accounts.” Their applicability for the reconstruction of
the organizational process behind construction projects has been demonstrated in a
seminal two-volume publication by Barkan of the accounts related to the Süleymâniye
complex in Istanbul.66 Also the accounts (1758-62) of the Ayazma Mosque, similarly in
Istanbul, have been the subject of study.67 For the slightly earlier Nûr-u ‘Osmâniye
mosque there exists even a narrative account (Târîh, or “chronicle”) commissioned
from the scribe Ahmed Efendi, in addition to existence of accounts of a more
administrative nature. It must be stressed, however, that these are accounts of large
building projects patronized by sultans in the capital on one hand, and that these are
administrative records that are largely silent about the subject of design on the other.68
64 For some basic remarks, see Nikolaos Moutsopoulos, “Oi prodromoi tōn
prōtōn ellinon tehnikōn epostēmonōn: koudaraioi makedones kai ēpeirōtes maistores,”
in: Prōtoi Ellines technikoi epistēmones periodou apeleutherōsē. Eds. Paulos Kyriazēs
and M. Nikolinakos. Athens: Techniko epimelētērio Hellados, 1976, pp. 353-433, 449-
453, cit. p. 362.
65 There is, of course, also the possibility that such have simply not survived.
66 Ömer Lûtfi Barkan, Süleymaniye cami ve imareti inşaatı (1550-1557), 2 vols.
Ankara: 1972, 1979; Barkan, O. Lutfi [sic]. “L'organisation du travail dans le chantier
d'une grande mosquée à Istanbul au XVIe siècle,” in: Annales: Histoire, Sciences
Sociales, XVII/6 (1962), pp. 1093-106.
67 Sadi Bayram and Adnan Tüzen, “İstanbul Üsküdar Ayazma Camii ve Ayazma
Camii inşaat defteri,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, XXII (1991), pp. 199-288.
68 This is exemplified even by the narrative account of the building of the Nûr-u
‘Osmâniye mosque. Though the building constitutes a serious breach of tradition, this
25
Even the Istanbul-related accounts are of some interest here, however, for they
demonstrate how in times of need the sultan would mobilize his administrative network
in the provinces to acquire materials and find qualified workforce. While the
participation of workmen recruited from the provinces was not always entirely
voluntary, it was usually salaried. From Ahmed Efendi’s Târîh we also know that the
stone used in the Nûr-u ‘Osmâniye construction was quarried by Albanian quarrymen in
Bakırköy, and that they (successfully) requested from the sultan to bring in more
workmen from their home region in the Western Balkans.69 Of great interest are also the
highly detailed accounts left to us about the Süleymâniye, from which we learn, for
instance, that of 1060 masons whose names and home regions are revealed in the
records, the greater part (609) was from Istanbul, followed by 320 from Rumelia
(including the islands), and 131 from Anatolia. Of these masons, 83% were Christians,
the number being even higher for those from Istanbul and Rumelia. Interestingly, the
opposite trend is encountered with the stone-cutters: of the 618 persons identified by
their origins (vis-à-vis 504 unidentified), the majority was from Istanbul (259) and
Anatolia (242), while only 117 came from Rumelia. This profession was also dominated
by Muslims: they constituted 87% of the Anatolians, 85% of the Istanbullus, and 93%
of the Rumelians. Overall, the ratio of Muslims was 87% of all stoneworkers. Muslims
also dominated among the carpenters, whose numbers were far smaller. All in all, a
major contribution of workmen from the Balkans can be seen mostly in the supply of
non-Muslim masons. Of all workforce identifiable as brought in from Rumelia and the
islands (491) there were 300 Christians, and of these 281 were masons. The majority of
these hailed from Lesvos and other Aegean islands, but also from Thessalonikē, the
chronicle has little to say about style. It reveals, however, the various agents in the
process. While it is known that a certain Çelebi Mustafâ was at the head of the corps of
the imperial architects, he is not mentioned in the manuscript at all. Instead we learn
that the sultan appointed a certain Derviş Mustafâ Efendi as the binâ nâzırı as a direct
link between the sultan and the activities on site. Derviş Mustafâ Efendi then appointed
a certain ‘Alî Ağa as binâ emîni (leader of organization and costs), and ‘Alî Ağa
appointed the enigmatic Simeon as the binâ kalfası (here: foreman rather than assistant).
That the latter seems to have had a significant impact of the outcome is suggested by
Ahmed Efendi himself, who praises Simeon’s technical expertise as a builder (“fenn-i
san'atta mehâret-i tâmî olan neccâr kalfalarından kâr-âzmûde Simyon”). Cf. Tarih-i
Câmi-i Nuruosmânî (ed. Ali Öngül) in: Vakıflar Dergisi, XXIV (1994), pp. 127-46, cit.
p. 129; also Pia Hochhut, Die Moschee Nûruosmâniye in Istanbul: Beiträge zur
Baugeschichte nach osmanischen Quellen. Berlin: Schwarz, 1986, pp. 14-21, p. 125.
69 Hochhut, Die Moschee Nûruosmâniye, p. 25. They were even paid in advance
to motivate them to complete their work swiftly and efficiently.
26
Morea, etc. Most of the Muslim stone-cutters came from districts that were home to the
prime Muslim centres in the Rumelian heartland, such as Edirne, Skopje, Serres, and
Thessalonikē.70
Administrative accounts of construction activity in the Balkan provinces, thus
closer to the object of this study, seems to have come down to us – with one seemingly
significant exception – in those cases where the projects were undertaken by the state,
especially fortresses and infrastructural projects. In such cases usually the
correspondence between the dîvân and the local authorities (kadı, sancak-beği) has been
preserved. In chapter 2.4 we see, for instance, the account produced by the kadı of
Kjustendil on the occasion of the repair of that town’s Fâtih Câmi‘i in 1556, provides
some illuminating data concerning the question of the collaboration of Muslims and
non-Muslims on such sites.71 The only published account of the construction of a new
mosque in the Balkan provinces known to me concerns the mosque of the former
beğler-beği ‘Alî Paşa in Sarajevo. It documents that the royal architect Ferhâd b.
‘Abdullah, previously responsible for the monumental north portal of the Süleymâniye,
was sent to Sarajevo in 1559 to oversee the work on the mosque to be constructed
posthumously for the patron. When the construction was completed in 1560/1
(inscription), surplus building materials were taken to the construction site of the
mosque built by Ferhâd Beğ. Only a few hundred meters away and completed in 1561/2
(inscription), its construction similarly may have been supervised by Mi‘mâr Ferhâd.72
Other instances are recorded in the kadı’s court records, which are preserved for
some Balkans locales. An entry in the records of Sarajevo for the year 1563 shows, for
instance, that after a frontier raid by Habsburg(-supported) forces, which left some
buildings in Sarajevo devastated, officials, including an architect (Mehmed), were sent
70 Cf. Barkan, “L'organisation,” data from table 8 and p. 1106.
71 These accounts have been published by Machiel Kiel in his “Ottoman
Kyustendil in the 15th and 16th Century: Ottoman administrative documents from the
Turkish archives versus myths and assumptions in the work of academician Jordan
Ivanov,” in: Izvestija na Istoričeski Muzej, Kjustendil, V (1993), p. 141-69, esp. pp.
162-5.
72 Cf. Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 562, 565-6. Of the 432,997 akçe spent in total
for the project, 217,932 were spent on material and unskilled labour, 176,000 on salaries
(incl. wages of builders and artisans), 21,347 on a bath-house in “Mladina”
(Mladenovac?), 13,424 on wages for mosque staff and Koran reciters in the period
1558-61, 3,669 on carpets and other objects as well as wages, and 625 on the work on
books.
27
to the city to estimate the extent of the damage and the funds needed for the repair of
the infrastructure. Despite the interest of the state, which requested detailed financial
accounts for its archive, these repairs were to be financed by the vakfs that maintained
these structures. The state eventually appears to have contributed funds to save these
foundations from ruin, however.73 Similar documentation was produced in 1564 when
the (local?) mi‘mâr Kosta diverted the waterways he was ordered to build in Lefkada
(Aya Mavra) to also serve the houses of that town’s notables living in the suburbs,
resulting in a complaint by the dîvân in Istanbul sent to the kadıs of Aya Mavra and
Angelokastro;74 or when a decade later the dîvân admonished the (unnamed) architect
commissioned to build a fortress at Pylos (see ill. 17) “in the Frankish style” (firenk
üslûbında) to show presence on site and cooperate with Mi‘mâr Şa‘bân, presumably an
architect working under Sinân. From the same set of documents we learn that the
Morea’s sancak-beği successfully recommended to the dîvân to not recruit any devşirme
this year, for this would have painfully decreased the potential workforce to be engaged
in the construction.75
Chronicles, while extant, rarely provide much information related to the arts.
The “chronicle” (diary?) of the Bosnian Monla Başeski Mustafa, for example, records at
73 When state agents proceeded to rebuild the Sultan Mehmed mosque (sustained
by the vakf of ‘İsâ Beğ), local agents intervened, however. Under Mustafâ Subaşı, who
had been appointed emîn, workers had begun to break down a part of the remaining wall
to rebuild the structure on its foundation. But city notables (şehir a‘yân) and foundation
trustees kept them from doing so, maintaining that the damaged foundations could not
support the dome the state agents intended to build (or rebuild?). They moreover
claimed that the funds provided by the state for such a project were not sufficient, and
offered to raise the remaining money locally. This is how it appears the present-day
domed mosque from the sixteenth century, much extended in the nineteenth century,
came about. For the court record in question and a transcription of it, see York Norman,
“An Islamic city? Sarajevo’s Islamization and economic development, 1461-1601,”
Ph.D. dissertation, Georgetown University (2005), pp. 133-6, 242.
74 Cf. Machiel Kiel, “Remarks on some Ottoman-Turkish aqueducts and water
supply systems in the Balkans: Kavalla, Chalkis, Aleksinac, Levkas and Ferai
(Ferecik),” in: De Turcicis Aliisque Rebus: commentarii Henry Hofman dedicati, III.
Ed. Mark van Damme. Utrecht: Inst. voor Oosterse Talen en Culturen, 1992, pp. 105-
39, cit. pp. 120-2, 138 (translit. of doc.).
75 Machiel Kiel, “The construction of the Ottoman castle of Anavarin-i Cedid
according to the orders of the Imperial Council as preserved in the Mühimme Defters
19-31,” in: A historical and economic geography of Ottoman Greece: the southwestern
Morea in the 18th century. Eds. Fariba Zarinebaf, John Bennet, and Jack L. Davis.
Athens: American School of Classical Studies, 2005, pp. 265-81, cit. pp. 267-70.
28
least the names and professions of some individuals working in Sarajevo in the second
half of the eighteenth century. Usually the information provided is limited to their date
of death, however.76 Among the chronicles written at the Franciscan Catholic
monasteries of Central Bosnia (Kreševo, Sutjeska, Fojnica) in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries must be highlighted the one authored by the custos of Kreševo
(30km W of Sarajevo), Fra Marijan Bogdanović, covering the period 1765-1817. The
entry for the year 1767, two years after a major fire, includes a detailed account of the
rebuilding of the monastery church that year. It records the troubles in obtaining
permission, the necessity of repeated bribes (all duly listed), and the honoraries for their
Muslim advocate Beşir Ağa. Most significant for our discussion are those sections
related to the soliciting of builders and carpenters: the monastery had failed to mobilize
skilled builders through their network of priests in Central Bosnia, so they sent an envoy
to Mostar, where he recruited a team of “schismatics” (i.e. Orthodox Christians). It was
managed by Mihajlo Bovanović, we learn, but rested on the expertise of the master
builder Panto of Stolac. For the next step, the woodwork, the fratri expressed their
preference for Catholic carpenters, but also here the majority of workmen, including the
gifted Marko Vukaljević and his workshop from Tešanj, turned out to be
“schismatics.”77 This rare record, thus far unexploited by art historians, breathes more
life into the processes studied than any administrative or epigraphic document.
1.3.3. Oral traditions and travelogues
Another principal source, often shunned by historians, consists of oral traditions relating
the names or provenance or artists involved in the construction or decoration of
buildings.78 In the course of Peev’s research on the old mansions of Plovdiv in the first
76 Mula Mustafa Ševki Bašeskija. Ljetopis (1746-1804). Tr. Mehmed
Mujezinović. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1987². The Başeski occasionally also records
the dates of the renovation and restoration of major buildings after the devastating
Habsburg incursion of 1689.
77 Fra Marijan Bogdanović, Ljetopis Kreševskog samostana (1765-1817). Tr.
Ignacije Gavran. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1984. The record for the year 1767, most
of which dealing with church construction, is on pp. 65-83.
78 Prior to the later nineteenth century, it was mainly travellers who recorded
these traditions, not yet researchers, which is why I have chosen to discuss them in the
same section as travelogues.
29
half of the twentieth century, for instance, many of which dated back less than a
century, the names and provenance of builders could still be identified by the
descendents of the head of household who had commissioned the work.79 Similarly, the
case of Nikola and Mustafâ producing the woodwork for a konak between Sarajevo and
Mostar in the mid-nineteenth century was remembered less than a century later, when
Bejtić visited the site and interviewed the current occupant.80 But where traditions go
back further than a few generations, some caution is in order. For like most oral
traditions they are likely to have been adapted repeatedly in order to remain meaningful
within a given community. At times a story acquires fantastic elements, added for
purposes of entertainment or moralizing, but this does not necessarily prove the entire
story fictional.81
For the town of Mostar’s landmark monument, the “Old Bridge”, for instance,
there existed no less than three traditions purporting who built it. The (erroneous) idea
that this was originally a Roman bridge, with the 1560s Ottoman inscription only
relating to later repairs, seems to have originated among Western visitors unwilling to
attribute to “the Turk” a structure of remarkable sophistication.82 While this version was
widespread among the Catholics of Mostar, among the Orthodox Christians there
existed another tradition according to which its architect was a man named Rade. A
Christian slave in the service of the Ottomans, he regained his freedom by successfully
completing this near-impossible work – if only after walling up alive a pair of lovers in
the foundations. Both the name, Rade, and the topos of necessary human sacrifice are
far from limited to the Mostar bridge legend.83 While the topos of human sacrifice,
especially in the construction of bridges, is frequently found in legends all over the
79 Ch. D. Péew, Alte Häuser in Plovdiv. Berlin: Kupferberg, 1943.
80 Alija Bejtić, “Spomenici osmanlijske arhitekture u Bosni i Hercegovini,” in:
Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, III/IV (1953), pp. 229-97, cit. p. 283. For this
building’s interior and the artists responsible for it, see also ch. 2.4.
81 This problematic is addressed in Jan Vansina, Oral tradition as history.
Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985.
82 See Božidar Jezernik, “Qudret kemeri: a bridge between barbarity and
civilization,” in: Slavonic and East European Review, LXXIII/3 (1995), pp. 470-84.
83 Both are, in fact, found in the nobel prize laureate Ivo Andrić’s famed 1940s
historical novel Bridge over the Drina.
30
region,84 the name Rade appears in legends pertinent to a number of buildings
constructed between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries – possibly in reference to an
actual historical person.85 This likelihood of the fictitiousness of this tradition
concerning the Mostar bridge considered, whichever the motives, more credibility must
be given to a tradition about its builder once told among the Muslims of Mostar.
Recorded by westerners first in the nineteenth century, in this exceptional case it is
demonstrable that this narrative dates at least to the late sixteenth century, when it was
first recorded by the Ottoman traveller Mehmed Âşık.86 According to this version of the
story, the inhabitants of Mostar requested from Süleymân the Magnificent a solid bridge
of stone to replace the existing wooden edifice. The sultan thereupon sent his chief
architect Sinân to assess the feasibility such project. As he declared the task to be
impossible, the bridge project was abandoned until a builder local to the area asserted
his willingness to take up the task and responsibility. Against all odds, he would
succeed.87 It is interesting that Mehmed Âşık and the better-known polymath Kâtib
Çelebi, who both relate this story, both found it not too implausible that a task declined
84 Cf. Georgios A. Megas, Die Ballade von der Arta-Brücke: eine vergleichende
Untersuchung. Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1976. See also Donna Shai,
“A Kurdish Jewish variant of the ballad of “the Bridge of Arta”,” in: Association for
Jewish Studies Review, I (1976), pp. 303-10.
85 We find him/them mentioned not only as the supposed architect of the bridges
at Mostar and Višegrad but also for the Ferhâdiye mosque at Banja Luka (built by a
member of the Sokolović family). The source of this character may be an actual
historical person, the late medieval master builder Rade Borović, who – exceptionally –
had signed his name at the Ljuboštinja monastery in Central Serbia. In a folk song, a
“Protomajstor Borović Rade” was moreover associated with the 1370s Ravanica
Monastery and purported to hail from the Bay of Kotor. Cf. Otto Felix Kanitz, Serbien
und das Serbenvolk. Leipzig: Meyer, 1913, III, p. 785. For generic names of builders in
Serbia folklore, see Slavoljub Gacović, “Otkuda reč neimar u epici Balkana?” in:
Glasnik etnografskog instituta (SANU), IL (2000), pp. 155-60.
86 This version of the story was copied by the better-known seventeenth-century
Ottoman polymath Kâtib Çelebi in his cosmology Cihânnümâ. Through an early
nineteenth-century (partial) translation of the Cihânnümâ into German by Joseph von
Hammer-Purgstall, it all found its way elsewhere. For an analysis, see Anhegger,
“Römerbrücke.”
87 Anhegger, “Römerbrücke,” p. 88 and references.
31
by the great architect Sinân could be successfully dealt with by an unnamed local
builder.88
It must be emphasized that Mehmed Âşık, seemingly the first to record this
narrative, did so only some three decades after the bridge was completed in 1566, and
he even names his source: the local kadı Mevlânâ Derviş Hüseyin.89 We do not know if
this kadı had possibily even witnessed the construction thirty years earlier – he might
well have – but even if he did not, it still appears odd that such a narrative should
replace what may have been the actual course of events in the course of only one
generation. That this version came out of the mouth of a kadı, that is, a functionary of
the central government in the province, who would with this account of the events
practically lessen the reputation of the head of the Corps of Royal Architects,
additionally invests it with some credibility.90 Could this mean that the architect
Hayrüddîn, whom other documentation clearly identifies as the bridge’s architect,91
originally hailed from the region and returned from the capital for this project? Be that
as it may, one conclusion must be that oral traditions should not be instantly dismissed
but at least merit serious scrutiny. They are ideally analyzed in tandem with other kinds
of sources: epigraphy, documentary and material evidence. “Historically useable”
information potentially contained in traditions must be filtered through a variety of
88 Evliyâ Çelebi, by contrast, though he was acquainted with the work of
Mehmed Âşık, seemed to have simply ignored this account and put forward the claim
for Sinân’s authorship.
89 For these three Ottoman sources (incl. translations), cf. Anhegger,
“Römerbrücke,” pp. 97-107.
90 Interesting in this regard is a royal decree, published by Ahmed Refik in the
1930s (cf. Ahmet Refik. Türk mimarları: hazinei evrak vesikalarına göre. Istanbul:
Hilmi Kitaphanesi, 1936, p. 75f.; German translation in Anhegger, “Römerbrücke,” p.
98.), in which the architect of the bridge is identified as Hayrüddîn. The governor of
Herzegovina, a Hüseyin Beğ, had petitioned Istanbul for his services for the
construction of the fortress of Makarska on the coast. His career can be traced further:
Hayrüddîn seems to have joined the palace service in the 1530s, working within the
royal corps of architects until the 1560s in Istanbul, Skopje (as a “city architect”), and
Herzegovina-Dalmatia. Cf. Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 155, 157, 441, 529 (note 67),
and 564-5.
91 For Hayrüddîn, see also ch. 4.2.3.
32
tropes – in the case of Mostar: possibly the cliché of the local boy returning after
success in the capital.92
Just as the Kreševo chronicle contains one exceptionally interesting chapter,
nineteenth-century commentators, mostly travellers, historians, or ethnographers, also
often had a lot to say about subjects of great interest to this study. In the pioneer Balkan
historian Jireček’s systematic presentation of knowledge gathered during his travels in
Bulgaria are found, for instance, uniquely helpful elaborations on itinerant builders and
the various communities involved, their home locales and target areas, on work
terminology and hierarchy, organization within and without urban guilds.93 Kanitz’
three-volume work on Serbia is also obligatory reading, which contains his observations
from fifty years of travel. Vivid are his depictions of the competition in post-1830
Serbia between “untrained” master builders from the South and the foreigners or
foreign-trained. In addition we find dozens of observations recorded on single
monuments or projects in general. A trained painter, Kanitz moreover appended to his
texts drawings to illustrate his observations, including even a group portrait of a
builders’ company (ill. 14, 15).94
Travelogues produced by English or French-speaking travellers typically only
relate the course of a single journey and display a greater ignorance of the geography
and communities they traverse. That said, some of them record encounters with, or
observations of, builders, carpenters, and their arts. Highlighted, if for sheer volume and
originality, must be the work of the contemporaries Leake and Pouqueville, both
travelling in the Southwest Balkans in the age of ‘Alî Paşa of Iōannina.95 Finally must
be mentioned the work of Boué, who similarly attempted to write a comprehensive
92 For an in-depth discussion, see my forthcoming article “Oral tradition in/and
architectural history.”
93 Konstantin Jireček, Das Fürstenthum Bulgarien: seine Bodengestaltung,
Natur, Bevölkerung, wirthschaftliche Zustände, geistige Cultur, Staatsverfassung,
Staatsverwaltung und neueste Geschichte. Prag: Tempsky, 1891, pp. 208-14.
94 In actual fact, his study of architectural monuments in Serbia seems to have
been prompted by the dissatisfaction with the restoration work conducted by “Vlachs,”
and to some extent also by the new constructions, mostly of churches, booming in the
period of the semi-autonomous Serbian principality.
95 William Martin Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, 4 vols. London: Rodwell,
1835; F.C.H.L. Pouqueville, Travels in Epirus, Albania, Macedonia, and Thessaly.
London: Richard Phillips and Co., [1805] 1820.
33
survey of “la Turquie de l’Europe” at a time when old modes entered into competition
with new ones. Unique in Boué’s work is his attempt to record professions and their
objects of work in as many of the region’s languages as possible (see table 1)96:
Turkish, Serbian/Slavic, Albanian (with, rarely, distinctions according to the
North/South dialects of Gheg and Tosk), Aromanian/Vlach, and Greek. Curious is, for
instance, that in Serbian we find as German loanwords “bildaour” (from Bildhauer,
sculptor; modern Serbian: vajar), moler (German Maler, as opposed to slikar or zograf),
and gips (German Gips, as opposed to Turkish alçı). These later replaced terms reflect
the state of affairs in 1830s Serbia, where painting and sculpture in the forms described
were relatively new, foreign-derived arts. Very similar is the case with Turkish terms
included: “sculpture” is identified as oymacılık (carving), the “painter” a Turkish suretçi
(i.e. he who produces a suret = likeness, copy; alternatively: ressâm). “Engineer” is
similarly not translated with mühendis but as kumbaracı (grenadier) and “inschinir” –
apparently since his tasks were different from those traditionally expected of an Islamic
mühendis?
Finally must be mentioned the ten-volume travelogue of the Ottoman voyager
Evliyâ Çelebi, which I have used extensively.97 Like no other source, this account
composed in the third quarter of the seventeenth century provides a wealth of
information, even in things art-historical. A thorough survey of the Balkan-related
chapters for this dissertation has contributed vital arguments.
The various categories of sources, in sum, provide us with very different kinds
of information to be analyzed in this study. Unfortunately, none of these categories
provide us with data that can be comparatively studied in sequence: early fifteenthcentury
Islamic epigraphy differs in nature from that produced a century thereafter; the
most fruitful period for the comparative study of the ermēneiai is the eighteenth and
first half of the nineteenth century; painters’ signatures quadruple after the mideighteenth
century; and sources like the vitae of Pimen Zografski, Dionysios of Fourna,
or Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa are exceptional rather than reflecting a tradition.98 Therefore,
96 Ami Boué, La Turquie d'Europe [etc.]. Paris: Bertrand, 1840, III, p. 39, 68-9,
78-80, 87-8.
97 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi [etc.], 10 vols. Ed. Yücel Dağlı et al. Istanbul:
Yapı Kredi yayınları, 1996-2007.
98 The frequency and quality of “artist inscriptions” is discussed in greater detail
in ch. 2.2.6.
34
this dissertation is structured not according to the information that can be gathered
through the study of a particular category of sources. Rather, certain questions are
formulated and pursued in turn, using information from whichever kind of source is
appropriate. The aim is to approach toward answers that I acknowledge will remain
tentative in many cases. Incapable of supplying a complete history of artisthood in the
Ottoman Balkans, the aim of this study, to be sure, is to propose a system of artistic
production as a framework for the analysis of the role of the individual in it. Rather than
in the careers of iconic individuals, it is especially interested in the cases of structural
change, gradual or sudden, that can be tracked in the course of these long centuries.
1.4. Outline
The main body of this dissertation after the introduction is divided into three chapters
pursuing different purposes and methodologies. Chapters two and three use information
gathered from the scholarly literature, published primary sources, and the material
evidence to address two very fundamental aspects to the work of artists in the Ottoman
Balkans. Chapter two seeks to define the social and geographical framework of the
production of art, especially with regards to the resultant limitations for a line of work
that is usually seen as “creative.” Starting with an investigation of the impact of the
region’s physical geography on its artistic and professional geography, I continue with a
discussion of the social status enjoyed (or suffered) by artistically active individuals and
groups. Discussed will also be patterns of self-identification, career considerations,
trans-confessional cooperation among artists, and the impact of artists who came to
work in the region from outside the borders of the Ottoman Empire.
The subject of chapter three is, in essence, communication. The importance of
the patron’s part in the production of art in this period cannot be underestimated, his
interaction with the artist about the product being a key event in the becoming of
monuments, objects, and images. I try to look at this process from the perspective of the
artist, especially in his function as a provider of services. At the same time I will stress
that there were a number of “negative” factors at play in this “creative” process that
must be identified to attain a realistic picture of this process: images of the past have
informed artistic production, as did conventions specific to certain cultural traditions
35
and notions of appropriateness to the occasion. Chapter three tries to trace what artist
and patron talked about, and how.
Chapter 4, by contrast, rests upon comprehensive studies of individual
monuments, objects, phenomena, and artists. Drawing upon cases very different in
character, the common goal of these studies is to shed light on the causal connection
between individual and monument or object – a crucial issue in any art history, but at
the same time one typically far from being represented in the available source material.
I will first try to reconstruct the processes that led to the design of three monuments and
the actors involved. Having then questioned the role played by the functionaries that the
scholarly literature calls “city architects” or “provincial architects,” I shall proceed to a
discussion of aspects of the work by Mi‘mâr Sinân as it pertains to the Balkan
provinces. I must stress, however, that elsewhere I shall try not to foreground this
individual, whose life and work are well documented and have taken up a good part of
the scholarship in Ottoman architectural history. This has been the case to the extent
that other episodes become invisible, and it is the other participants in the processes in
question that I have tried to privilege. As will be seen, it is neither entirely possible nor
desirable to pay no attention to this iconic individual, resident in the capital. For his
career coincided with an architecturally very productive period in the Balkans. The final
sub-chapter will then examine two cases of divergence of metropolitan models and
discuss intentionality and the role of the artists involved.
It must be stressed at this point that the purpose of the first two chapters is not to
provide a history of art in the Ottoman Balkans and the role of artists in the process.
Such would require a far more comprehensive study of the secondary literature in all of
the region’s languages as well as the primary sources – an enterprise little short of
impossible. Instead, my aim is to propose a model for future analyses, which may well
proceed along such lines. I do not claim this part of my work to be an exhaustive
overview; in fact, I shall allow myself to not even mention some of the most celebrated
artists unless their case contributes to the discussion of dynamics and structures. I am
similarly not interested in the quality of specific works of art unless their formal merits
afford greater insight into the general subject of this thesis.
The fact that my inquiry theoretically covers the heritage of more than half a
millennium should also not deter from the fact that the majority of the works I deal with
date from two periods: the second half of the sixteenth century and the second and third
quarters of the nineteenth century.
36
The first period sees the expansion of Ottoman-Islamic architecture and the
consolidation of the “classical” style under Mi‘mâr Sinân and his immediate successors.
More than before, this architecture as well as its plastic and painted ornamentation is
based on a well-formulated vocabulary of forms, “managed” by agents of an efficiently
administered apparatus, in which hierarchies are clear. Monuments from this period
discussed at various points in this work include: the Alaca Câmi‘ at Foča (1550/1; ills.
18-20), which prior to its destruction in 1993 excelled not because of its relatively
monumental but ultimately generic architecture but because of its sophisticated and
well-preserved decorative program, distinguished by vegetal and geometric designs; the
so-called Karagöz Beğ mosque at Mostar (1557/8), a work claimed by Sinân, but whose
architecture is similarly generic but monumental and “metropolitan,” save for its
reduced ornamentation (possibly a result of provincial realities; ill. 35); the Zincirli
Câmi‘ at Serres (ill. 23), which I date to ca. 1590, and which constitutes a rare case of a
relatively sophisticated structural system exported from the capital to the provinces; and
the Yeni Câmi‘ at Komotinē (ills. 44-6), which I date to the early 1600s, and which
features extraordinary decoration dominated by Iznik tiles.
The same period is hardly artistically unproductive among the region’s non-
Muslims. The revival of the Peć Patriarchate in 1557 results in a number of
commissions within its jurisdiction, while the monasteries further south see in the
middle decades of the century the activity of some of the post-Byzantine period’s most
celebrated painters: Theophanēs the Cretan, the Kontarēs brothers from Thebes, or
Onufri from Central Albania. Also Christian architecture is anything but dead: churches
reminding of late medieval prototypes are built at locations like Novo Hopovo (1576;
ill. 29), Kučevište (1590s?), and Bačkovo (1604). In the field of non-religious
architecture, finally, I will make repeated reference to the Ottoman-built Italian-style
fortress at Pylos from around 1570 (ill. 17) and the Old Bridge of Mostar (1557-66),
whose construction by builders from Dubrovnik and Herzegovina, according to a plan
supplied by a royal architect, was managed by the aforementioned Karagöz Beğ.
The second focus period sees activity on a very different level. The many
remarkable churches built or rebuilt in the middle decades of the nineteenth century are
now intended for use by urban congregations rather than monastic communities. They
feature intricately carved iconostases, with wood-carving having become a veritable
fine art – as seen, for instance, at the Bigorski monastery (ills. 3-4) in the region of
Debar, which also supplied some of that era’s most renowned artists. Icon painters
37
embrace new formats, most importantly the portrait (ills. 8-12). Residences too become
sites of display for patrons and their painters, who work at relatively high levels of
sophistication. It is also now that there appear “artist personalities”; some are in great
demand and are sure to claim or defend what they perceive as their rightful status in
society. The little monumental Islamic architecture from this period usually dates to
between the 1820s and 40s and is sponsored by provincial strongmen – a class that
disappears thereafter.99 A remarkable example of patronage by this class in this period
is the Alaca Câmi‘ at Tetovo (1833/4; ills. 24-5): it does without a true dome and asks
to be appraised for its flamboyant murals. The relatively sophisticated design of the
domed Azîziye in Brezovo Polje (ca. 1863; ill. 34) is exceptional, but its purpose was
not: many of the mosques from this period are utilitarian structures erected for Muslim
refugee communities resettled by the state. The limited interest of Islamic architecture
in this period, at least if compared with the sixteenth century, is countered by a
relatively flourishing turn to the arts of the book, perhaps best exemplified by another
exception: the school of manuscript production at Šumen.
While the main body of this work is not arranged in a chronological manner but
according to historical problems, I shall try to provide in the concluding sections a
linear overview of major trends and structural changes that affected the lives of artists in
the Ottoman Balkans – or were caused by them.
99 I use the term “provincial strongmen” for a class of people typically identitfied
in the literature as a‘yân – a term possibly too specific to adequately describe a very
varied group of individuals.
38
CHAPTER 2
ARTIST, SPACE, AND SOCIETY
2.1. Space and individual: geographies of art(ists) in the Ottoman Balkans
2.1.1. Mountains, valleys, networks, and ideas: centres and peripheries of artistic
production
Considering the remarkable mobility of many artists whose names or home locales can
be identified in the sources, it seems appropriate to devote the first regular chapter of
this study to factors that might be defined in broad terms as geographical. To a
considerable extent, artistic production in the Ottoman Balkans was characterized by the
interchange of static and mobile factors. Irrespective of the period, the processes in
question typically saw the activity of one or more of the following groups: 1)
individuals or groups permanently resident in towns, where they were typically
organized in guilds; 2) individuals or groups that were very often (but not always) from
non-urban backgrounds, earning a livelihood through itinerant work; and 3) individuals
resident in the capital, dispatched to the provinces or supplying blueprints for work to
be undertaken there.
While research on Ottoman architecture has in recent decades witnessed an
important shift of interest from style and morphology to questions of patronage, in this
introduction to the artistic heritage in question I shall like to put more emphasis on the
factor of place. To a considerable degree, the extent to which a provincial monument
reflected the metropolitan style of Istanbul depended on its location. Mere geographic
vicinity, however, was not the determining factor. The “imperial style” followed
strategic routes along major communication arteries and rarely made an appearance
beyond the network of provincial administrative centres. These were typically located in
fertile valleys, where agriculture had facilitated the permanent settlement of large
numbers of people. In most of the region, mountains were never far away; yet,
mountainous areas did generally not see the development of large urban centres. Their
39
terrain could often only support a pastoral economy, this being a land-intensive
profession in which large populations meant an increasing danger of poverty.100 Islamic
architecture of note is typically found in settlements at elevations of less than 250m
above sea level – such as the case at Skopje, Serres, Plovdiv, or Banja Luka – or at
fertile plateaus of up to 850m (Korçë), as is the case with major cities of Sarajevo,
Prishtina, and Sofia, all of which are located on major roads traversing the Dinaric
system. Muslims, of course, also lived in the highlands; but monumental Islamic
architecture largely remained a feature of cities in the lowlands or on plateaus.
The situation was very different with Christian architecture. The construction of
architecturally monumental churches was for most of the Ottoman period restricted to
monastic establishments. Such were typically found in mountainous or hilly areas, if
often in the vicinity of larger urban centres.101 In the cities, by and large, no
monumental Christian (ecclesiastical) architecture existed until about the midnineteenth
century.102 To some extent, this was not necessarily a breach with medieval
patterns: monumental churches for large urban congregations were rare even in the pre-
Ottoman period, as were cities as such.103 On the other hand, the lack of monumental
urban churches before the 1860s was also a visualization of an Ottoman system of
stratification in which the scale and features of monuments reflected an individual’s or
group’s standing and ambition. While monumental Christian art and architecture as a
whole continued during Ottoman rule, it remained largely concealed from the public
(urban) eye. Often the interiors of the usually small urban churches, which are often
extensively painted and further embellished with magnificent wooden iconostases, stand
in stark contrast with their unassuming exterior. The decisive factor was not design but
visibility.
100 Unless, as shall be discussed below, a proportion of the mountain dwellers
could be send to the valleys periodically for seasonal work
101 Clusters of important monastic foundations were found in the vicinities of
Ottoman provincial metropolises like Skopje, Thessalonikē, Serres, Sofia, Belgrade, or
Plovdiv. Sarajevo is somewhat of an exception as the monasteries found in its Central
Bosnian hinterland are Catholic rather than Orthodox Christian.
102 Vassal states, like Walachia, Moldavia, or Dubrovnik, did not form part of
this regime. The Saborna Crkva (1837-40) at Belgrade, dominated by a belfry, seems to
be an expression of the freedom gained from central rule since the first uprising in 1804.
103 Exceptions include the large fourteenth-century urban churches extant at
Veliko Tărnovo and Prizren.
40
These general trends did not preclude exceptions. One such is the former town
of Moschopolis (Voskopojë), located near Korçë in SE Albania at almost 1200m above
sea level. Destroyed in the later eighteenth century by the bands of ‘Alî Paşa of
Iōannina and since reduced to a village, in the eighteenth century Voskopojë was an
international centre of trade and the arts. Not only did it boast a (Greek) printing press
and an “academy”; between 1712 and 1724 alone were completed four (urban)
churches, including one church recently qualified – due to the sophistication of its art –
as “the Sistine of the Balkans.”104 Beyond the fact that Voskopojë saw the construction
of churches that may be qualified as ambitious in an eighteenth-century Ottoman
context, the town was internationally well-connected, despite its secluded location. It is
telling that the most complete visual record of the town at its height is a woodcut
produced by a painter from Voskopojë in 1767 in Vienna, which at that point was home
to at least twelve merchants from the Balkan town.105
Though certainly an exception, Voskopojë was not a completely isolated case,
however. When in 1806 the British traveller Leake visited Ampelakia (near Larissa), he
was surprised to almost immediately hear there the news of the French victory in the
Battle of Jena. Despite its remote location, this wealthy Thessalian mountain town had a
biweekly postal connection with Vienna.106 Its grandest residence was built by an
entrepreneur known by the name of “Geōrgios Schwartz,” who had it embellished by
some of the period and area’s best decorative painters.107 At around the same time, the
SW-Macedonian town of Siatista (near Kozanē), located almost a kilometre above sea
104 Maximilian Durand, Sixtine des Balkans: peintures de l'église Saint-Athanase
à Voskopojë (Albanie). Paris: Somogy, 2008.
105 Max Demeter Peyfuss, “Voskopoja und Wien: österreichisch-albanische
Beziehungen um 1800,” in: Albanien-Symposion 1984: Referate der Tagung [etc.]. Ed.
Klaus Beitl. Kittsee: Österreichisches Museum für Volkskunde, Ethnographisches
Museum Schloss Kittsee, 1986, pp. 117-32.
106 Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, III, p. 390; see also p. 354 on
Germanophone mountain dwellers and p. 368 on Ampelakia.
107 Dendrochronological investigations have proven that the timber used in its
construction was cut in 1786 while an inscription purports it to have been completed in
1787. Peter Ian Kuniholm (“Dendrochronology,” in: The Oxford handbook of Byzantine
studies. Eds. Elizabeth Jeffreys, John F. Haldon, and Robin Cormack. Oxford:
University Press, 2008, pp. 182-92, cit. p. 184) has concluded that woodcutters “must
have been Vitruvius’ dictum (whether they had heard of Vitruvius or not) that one
should always use one’s wood fresh while it was still easy to cut.”
41
level, began to decline as a result of the economic depression in Austria. Many firms
connecting Siatista with Vienna (almost 1000km to the north) went bankrupt, and thus
that town’s “golden age” came to an end.108 It was despite their geographically
unfortunate situation that towns like Voskopojë, Siatista, or Ampelakia managed to play
a role in the artistic production of the Balkans in the eighteenth century. Rather than by
mere geography, the access to art of a metropolitan character, as well as the fate of
settlements as such, was determined by their integration into dynamic networks of
exchange of goods, ideas, and services.
May we thus consider towns like the aforementioned examples to have been
“artistic centres” or were they just destinations for artists and their art? Ginzburg and
Castelnuovo, writing of Italy, sought to define such as a place characterized by the
presence of a large number of patrons and artists, of institutions devoted to the training
of the latter, and an audience beyond the patrons themselves.109 Technically, of all cities
in Ottoman Europe only Istanbul fully met these requirements.110 It was there that the
wealthiest patrons had their base, even when temporarily on posts as administrators in
the provinces. To be sure, there existed wealthy merchants in Ottoman cities like
Sarajevo who did leave a mark on the physical fabric of urban settlements through their
patronage of architecture and infrastructure; but the volume and scope of this patronage
simply could compare neither with the concentration of moneyed patrons in Istanbul nor
with entrepreneurial Italian towns. Moreover, while there were certainly many
guildsmen, the “presence of a large number of artists” in the sense of Ginzburg and
Castelnuovo’s understanding of the term (i.e. individuals engaged in the fine arts) was
not a typical feature of any particular Balkan city. In fact, it seems that much of the
most remarkable work was done by itinerant masters – a point to which I shall return
below. And with the exception of medreses, which occasionally functioned as sites of
training in calligraphy, there also existed in no Balkan town an establishment devoted to
the institutionalized education and promotion of artists. A Liberal Arts training in
108 Alke Kyriakidou-Nestoros, “Folk art in Greek Macedonia,” in: Balkan
Studies, IV (1963), pp. 15-36, cit. p. 32
109 Ginzburg and Castelnuovo, “Symbolic domination and artistic geography in
Italian art history,” p. 9.
110 Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann (Toward a geography of art. Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 2004, p. 158) similarly finds it hard to determine such
artistic centres in the region of Central Europe before the nineteenth century.
42
architecture was only to be had at the palace in Istanbul, and much the same could be
said about Islamic miniature painting, a courtly art. Similarly, for training by the most
prolific calligraphers of the age, the capital was an almost obligatory destination.111 It
must be stressed that no example is known of a liberally-trained architect or manuscript
illustrator trained in Istanbul who then proceeded to work in the Balkan provinces for
provincial patrons.
While for the arts of Islam in Southeast Europe, then, Istanbul was the
undisputed centre after 1453, the situation is more complicated when it comes to the
Christian arts.112 Perhaps more than the capital, which was also the seat of the
Ecumenical Patriarch, Mount Athōs was an “artistic centre,” if also not necessarily in
the sense Ginzburg and Castelnuovo sought to define it. It was neither a city, nor was it
the residence of patrons of major works. This cluster of monastic establishments in
Macedonia did, however, attract large numbers of artists from various regions, and
usually the most prolific of their age. They found work in one of the area’s monasteries
and often contributed to the training of others. In many cases the monks were also
painters themselves. As we learn from Dionysios of Fourna’s ermēneia, the great works
of Orthodox Christian painting found in various Athonite monasteries did also serve
artists-in-training as models.113
The Holy Mountain functioned not only as a reference point for artistic
excellence and conservative tradition, however, but is also held to have been a site of
mediation of influences from Western art. It is, for instance, believed that the carvers
from the Debar villages and Samokov developed their Baroque-influenced style of
woodcarving while working on Athōs.114 They then passed on their expertise and style
111 The situation was different for Christian iconographers, wood-carvers, and
decorative painters. While especially in the last two fields work experience in the
capital may have been part of the training, it appears to have been possible to learn to
master these arts at a high, quasi-metropolitan level without leaving the provinces. This
must be inferred by the high quality of woodwork and murals found in Southwest
Balkans, in locales such as Kastoria, Berat, and the aforementioned.
112 On this point, see also Manolis Chatzidakis, “Contribution à l´étude de la
peinture postbyzyantine,” in: 1453-1953: le cinq-centième anniversaire de la prise de
Constantinople, 29 mai 1453. Athens: Imprimerie Nationale, 1953, pp. 193-216.
113 Dionysius of Fourna. The ‘Painter’s manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna. Tr.
Paul Hetherington. London: Sagittarius Press, 1974, p. 2.
114 For Debar, see Eleonora Petkova, Rezbata vo makedonskata kukja, od XIX I
početokot na XX vek. Skopje: Muzej na Makedonija, 1998, p. 10. Similarly, the origins
43
to local assistants recruited in the places they were commissioned to work. Such an
exchange is said to have occured, for instance, between the Debar masters and the
workmen they recruited for assistant work in the Ibar valley (in Serbia and Kosovo), the
Trăn district (north of Sofia), or Trjavna and Drjanovo on the northern outskirts of the
Stara Planina (North-Central Bulgaria).115 Similarly compelling is one author’s claim
that many builders received their basic training while on the job in Istanbul, which was
very often their target of seasonal migration.116
Though we may thus identify certain locales that indubitably played vital roles
in artistic production and stylistic dissemination, the question of schools remains
problematic. In the literature on painting is found, for instance, the “school of Thebes,”
but its naming after the town north of Athens from which hailed its representatives
downplays the fact that much of the art produced by them is not found in Thebes
(modern Thēva).117 In any case it did not constitute a local or regional variant. With
regards to Islamic architecture, it must be emphasized that the remarkable monuments
found in cities like Sarajevo, Skopje, or Serres essentially follow the style of the
Ottoman metropolis. None of these places have managed to bring forth a “school” of
architecture or any other art distinguished by a style appreciated for its divergence from
metropolitan models. Where we do see significant aberrations from the “Istanbul style,”
as in a number of cases discussed in later chapters, these are usually in quantities that
enable us neither to speak of a “school” nor of intention, in point of fact.
of the Samokov school of carving are believed to lie with the Thessalonikan “Atanas
Teladur,” who may have trained on Athos with carvers trained in the Italian manner.
(Dimitar Ќornakov, Petre Garkata. Skopje: Gjurgja, 1998, p, 9) Alternatively, the
iconostasis believed to be the model for later ones is said to have been begun by
Andōnēs of Athōs and was only finished by Atanas, who directed the work of locals.
(Mercia Macdermott, A History of Bulgaria, 1393-1885. London: George Allen &
Unwin, 1962, p. 307.)
115 Cf. Palairet, “Migrant workers,” pp. 28-9.
116 See e.g. Yanis Saïtas, Kastoria: Greek traditional architecture. Athens:
Melissa, 1990, p. 50.
117 Perhaps the best case for a “local style” borne by artists who worked in a
certain locale can be made for manuscript production in Šumen around 1850. (For
examples, see Stanley, “Shumen as a centre of Qur'an production.”) It must be
considered, however, that much of this work was produced for Istanbul. For a concise
discussion of work process at Šumen, see also ch. 2.1.2.
44
Some problems of this discussion are also illustrated by the case of the centrality
of artists associated with the city of Debar to the late Ottoman Balkans. Today a border
town between the Republic of Macedonia and Albania, it lacks monuments of any
significance. As far as we know, Debar as such has also not produced any artists of
note; rather, it was from the mountain villages of the Mala Reka region north of that
town that many of the region’s most prominent woodcarvers, builders, and painters
came. Since their district centre was Debar, however, it is by that name that they came
to be known in other regions, possibly because the names of the native villages
(typically Tresonče, Galičnik, Lazaropole, Gari, and Osoj) must not have meant much
to people outside NW Macedonia. Curiously, even as many moved away from Mala
Reka in the later eighteenth century, for instance to the surroundings of Plovdiv or
Veles as a result of increasing banditry or decreasing work opportunities in their home
region, they continued to be associated with the town of Debar. This was possibly
because by that time that toponym had become synonymous with distinction in the art
of wood-carving.118 In this sense it is perhaps more justified to speak of a “school,” for
there are certain similarities in different Mala Reka teams’ work, than in the case of the
so-called School of Thebes.119
In sum, it is different kinds of centres, rather than several “artistic centres”
competing with each other, that remain relevant for our discussion: 1) centres for artists
to practice their craft, thus becoming sites of consumption of art; 2) centres from which
artists hailed and where they may have received a basic training, but which probably
lacked patrons and a critical audience; 3) and centres, like Athōs or Istanbul, where
artists gained experience, but which were neither their native locales nor necessarily the
sites of production of their “best art,” however important in their artistic formation.
118 For example of westward mobility by Rekanci, cf. Krum Tomovski,
“Veleškite majstori i zografi vo XIX i XX vek: pregled na tvorčestvo,” in: Kulturno
nasledstvo, V (1959), pp. 51-9, cit. p. 51; Jasmina Hadžieva Aleksievska and Elizabeta
Kasapova, Arhitekt Andreja Damjanov, 1813-1878 = Architect Andreja Damjanov,
1813-1878. Skopje: Jasmina Hadžieva Aleksievska, 2001, p. 10; Pejo Nikolov
Berbenliev and Vladimir Hristov Partăčev, Bracigovskite majstori-stroiteli prez XVIII i
XIX vek i mjahnoto arhitekturno tvorčestvo. Sofia: Tehnika, 1963; Vasiliev Bălgarski
văzroždenski majstori, p. 190.
119 In the case of Thebes, it is the common place of origin, not the site or
similarities in the formal qualities of their work, which has given rise to the idea of a
“school.”
45
2.1.2. The itinerant artist in the context of the region’s professional and physical
geography
It was already mentioned in the introductory chapter that in his seminal article on “Late-
Ottoman architects and master builders” Cerasi has pointed to the supposed paradox of
the fabric of Ottoman cities as having been brought about not by city-dwellers but by
villagers.120 And while this situation may be considered paradoxical in some measure, it
is hardly inconsistent with the economic geography of the region. Periodic, seasonal
work migration (known as gurbet/gărbet or pečalba in the region) from, and to, some
areas of the Balkan Peninsula has long been acknowledged by historians as an important
feature of economic life especially in the late Ottoman Balkans. Yet, these migrations
are more often addressed as part of micro-histories than analyzed as a regional
phenomenon. Of great interest in this respect is a study by Palairet who, looking at clear
concentrations of villages in certain geographies, goes as far as to speak of “a
continuous pečalbar belt which in the late 19th century extended from the western
borderlands of Bulgaria and the adjacent regions of southeast Serbia to the west and
south through Old Serbia (Kosovo), the Macedonian vilayets and the Pindus.”121 While
pečalba is often portrayed as a phenomenon of the late nineteenth century, Palairet sees
its beginning in the second half of the eighteenth century or earlier; by the middle of the
following century it had become a mass phenomenon. Around 1900 some of the
(usually mountainous) regions in the “pečalbar belt” sent up to 90% of their ablebodied
male population into temporary work migration. To be sure, not all of these were
engaged in the arts and crafts: pečalbari included gardeners, coppersmiths, tailors,
confectioners, potters, and agricultural labourers.122 Yet, as I have tried to visualize in
ill. 6, virtually all of the villages significant as the birthplaces and winter residences of
120 Cerasi, “Late-Ottoman architects,” pp. 89-90.
121 Outside this “belt,” Palairet (p. 23) sees “significant concentrations of
pečalbar villages were to be found in central Bulgaria, particularly in the okrăg of
Veliko Tărnovo, in the Stara Planina and Sredna Gora, and in the Rhodope, especially
to the north of Komotini.” For Bosnia he claims that “there was less commitment to
migrant work.”
122 Palairet, “Migrant workers,” pp. 23-6, 44.
46
builders and decorators in at least the later Ottoman Balkans are located within this
“pečalbar belt” (ill. 5).123
Seasonal work was one way out of the scarcity of resources in areas with a
surplus of workforce.124 While sometimes debt or the loss of one’s stock may have been
the trigger for an individual seeking work elsewhere,125 in most cases the reason would
simply have been the overpopulation of areas whose means for the support of its
inhabitants’ livelihoods were limited.126 Periodic flows of workforce frequently
followed certain routes within the region (see e.g. ill. 7),127 but the direction of pečalba
was certainly driven more by demand. Traditional areas of work migration could be
adapted in line with changing realities. The (apparently usually Slavophone) builders in
the villages of the Rhodopes mountains, for instance, had traditionally worked more in
Western (i.e. Greek) than in Northern (i.e. Bulgarian) Thrace; but when the free transfer
of goods and persons across the Rhodopes was halted in 1885 and their villages were
123 In one case this situation has even left a trace in the toponymy of this region:
in the Greek Pindos near Konitsa, thus in the southern flank of Palairet’s “pečalbar
belt,” villages that furnished many itinerant builders over generations were (and are)
collectively known as the “Mastorohōria.”
124 The builders’ season began between the Feast of the Annunciation (March
25) and St George’s Day (April 23; a.k.a. Hızır İlyas Günü) and ended between St
Demetrius' day (November 8; a.k.a Kasım Günü) and the Archangels’ Day (November
21). Dates are according to the Gregorian, not Julian, calendar. See Kreševljaković,
“Esnafi,” p. 355; Kiel, “Construction of the Ottoman castle of Anavarin,” p. 269. See
also Petko Hristov, “Transborder exchange of seasonal workers in the central regions of
the Balkans (19th – 20th Century),” in: Ethnologia Balkanica, XII (2008), pp. 215-30,
cit. p. 221, and Despoina Veïkou and Danae Nomikou-Rizou, Siatista: Greek
traditional architecture. Tr. Philipp Ramp. Athens: Melissa, 1990, p. 14, for somewhat
different dates.
125 Ulf Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften auf dem Balkan: Wirtschaft und
Familienstrukturen im Rhodopengebirge. Vienna: Böhlau, 2004, p. 253-63; Palairet,
“Migrant workers,” p. 40. Hristov (“Transborder exchange,” p. 218) thinks that the
increase of seasonal work migration was conditioned “by the decay of well-developed
sheep-herding, which was previously organized and encouraged by the state for the
needs of the army in the early times of the Ottoman Empire.” While an interesting
suggestion, Hristov does not substantiate this claim by evidence.
126 Our modern imagination of mountain areas as disengaged and sparsely
inhabited is deceptive concerning pre-modern realities. On this point, see more
specifically the remarks in ch. 2.6.2.2.
127 See also the maps in Moutsopoulos, “Oi prodromoi tōn prōtōn ellinon
tehnikōn epostēmonōn.”
47
left on the Bulgarian side, they reoriented their work from the Aegean hinterland toward
the Thracian plain centred at Plovdiv. As late as 1926 the Greek government made an
exception and invited masons from a Bulgarian Rhodope village to build 200 houses for
Anatolian exchangees to be settled near Komotinē.128 The builders from Trăn (55km W
of Sofia), to give another example, had traditionally migrated to Serbia for work; but
when Sofia began to emerge as the Bulgarian metropolis and the construction industry
flourished there too, they were quick to replace the initially mostly Italian craftsmen
working there in the 1880s. Traditionally found and hired on Sofia’s “Djulger’s square”
thereafter, the Trăn builders remained only seasonal guests in the city that had become
the source of their livelihood. As late as the early twentieth century they would still
return to their mountain villages in the winter.129
The distances traversed by some artists, especially by painters, were often
considerable and sometimes went beyond the borders of the Ottoman realm. When in
1770 Orthodox Christians in the Buda eparchy were in need of a wooden iconostasis
complete with icons, it seemed not out of place to invite the workshop of Theodore
Simeonov Gruntovič from Voskopojë, 775km to the South.130 While Gruntovič was
painting in a more conservative manner – perhaps the reason why he was invited to
Hungary in the first place – the style of his contemporary Jovan Četirevič Grabovan,
who also hailed from what is now Albania but worked mainly in Slavonia, was
significantly influenced by the Baroque.131 But long-distance mobility is also
128 Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften, p. 256, 261
129 Palairet, “Migrant workers,” p. 29; Hristov, “Transborder exchange,” p. 222.
Djulger is the Bulgarian variant of the Turkish term dülger (builder, carpenter),
rendered dunđer in Serbo-Croatian.
130 See Dinko Davidov, “Serbische und griechisch-zinzarische Malerei in den
Kirchen der Budaer Eparchie Ende des XVIII. und zu Beginn des XIX. Jahrhunderts,”
in: Proceedings of the Fifth Greek-Serbian Symposium. Thessaloniki: Institute for
Balkan Studies, 1991, pp. 175-83, cit. p. 173, 180.
131 Dejan Medaković, “Die griechisch-serbischen Verbindungen in der Kunst der
neueren Zeit,” in: Proceedings of the fifth Greek-Serbian symposium. Thessaloniki: Inst.
for Balkan Studies, 1991, pp. 185-199, cit. p. 189. See also ch. 3.3.2. for the case of
“Teodor Kosta” and Nikola Krapič from near Thessaloniki, who built the monastery
church of Kovilj near Novi Sad in 1741. Better known is the case of Theophanēs
Strelitzas, who left his Cretan home to work in the monastic complexes of Athōs and
the Meteōra in the Ottoman mainland. The cases of Panagiōtēs Doksaras and Hristifor
Žefarovič, both of whom were born on Ottoman territory and went to work in Venice
and Austria respectively, are discussed in ch. 1.3.1 and 2.5.5.
48
documented in other crafts. Builders from mountain villages in the regions of Kastoria
or Debar, for instance, could end up as far away as Jerusalem or Alexandria.132 It
certainly was normal enough for them to be regular visitors to Belgrade, 4-500km to the
north.133 For the troupes of builders from the Popove Polje in Herzegovina or from Osat
(near Srebrenica) in the Bosnian Podrinje, by contrast, it seemed far more normal to
find work in relatively nearby areas, where their standing in the building industries at
times appears to have approached that of a monopoly.134 But generally it must be
stressed that in a centralized state like the sixteenth-century Ottoman Empire the
mobility of workforce and materials, especially for sultanic projects, was not considered
a problem. This is best illustrated by data recorded in the context of the largest building
enterprise of that century, the Süleymâniye.135
Next to the distances regularly traversed by artists of all kinds must be stressed
the multiple levels of interaction between various non-local actors. We can discern such
relations in some monumental construction for which documentation has survived. For
the famous bridge of Mostar, for instance, the royal architect Hayrüddîn was dispatched
from Istanbul to supervise its construction. This work was undertaken by skilled
builders requisited from Dubrovnik, probably working under Hayrüddîn and possibly
according to designs produced by the chief royal architect Sinân. The Dubrovnikans
were moreover assisted by (presumably less skilled) workmen from the Popovo Polje in
Herzegovina, while the costs and resources were managed by the Anatolian-born fiefholder
Karagöz Mehmed Beğ.136
132 See Palairet, “Migrant workers,” p. 46; maps published in Moutsopoulos, “Oi
prodromoi tōn prōtōn ellinon tehnikōn epostēmonōn.”
133 See ch. 2.2.4 and ill. 7.
134 The case of the Popovo Polje builders will be discussed in greater detail in
ch. 4.4.1. For Osat, see Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 355.
135 Curious is also the case of painters from Chios – named are “Nikola
Todoros,” his son Nikola, “Papa Kargopuli,” “Yani the son of Papalya,” and Kosta
Papas – ordered to the construction site of the Selîmiye in Edirne (cf. Necipoğlu, Age of
Sinan, p. 534). There was no logical regional connection between Edirne and this island,
nor would one guess that painters from Chios were already qualified in the decoration
of mosques
136 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 439-42; Anhegger, “Römerbrucke”; Machiel
Kiel, “The campanile-minarets of the southern Herzegovina: a blend of Islamic and
Christian elements in the architecture of an outlying border area of the Balkans, its
spread in the past and survival until our time,” in: Centres and peripheries in Ottoman
49
Another interesting case from a different period and geography, showing not
only the various levels of interaction between individuals hailing from different locales
but also between people involved in different phases of the production in different
sections of one town, is that of Šumen. Between the 1820s and 1870s this town in
Danubian Bulgaria flourished as a centre of manuscript production. Integrating work
done in homes and the çarşı, orders for manuscripts were usually received from
Istanbul, which was the principal destination of, and market for, Šumen work. In order
to meet the demand in a timely manner, several calligraphers would start producing
sections of the manuscript simultaneously. In that way, different contributors were able
to produce a Koran of around 900 pages in a single day. Once the writing was
completed, the manuscript was turned over to gilders and binders in the çarşı and
eventually sent to Istanbul.137
Unlike builders, wood-carvers, and painters specialized in the decoration of
architectural surfaces – all of which seem to have been accustomed to a considerable
architecture. Ed. Maximilian Hartmuth. Stockholm/Sarajevo: Cultural Heritage without
Borders, 2010, pp. 60-79, cit. p. 63. It remains somewhat unclear why also in sixteenthcentury
Sarajevo, where the construction industry was truly booming, the patrons of
Ottoman-Islamic infrastructures would invite masters from Dubrovnik although there is
already evidence (cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 41) for a local guild of builders and
carpenters. The Dubrovnikans were unlikely to be cheaper, so they may have simply
been considered the better masters. If we consider that there were numerous pre-
Ottoman precedents for participation of builders from the coast in construction projects
in the Balkan interior (see Cvito Fisković, Naši graditelji i kipari XV. i XVI. stoljeća u
Dubrovniku. Zagreb: Matica Hrvatska, 1947, pp. 97-102), we may even call this pattern
a “structure,” apparently undisturbed by political change. One also wonders whether the
quite bossy tone of Ottoman decrees demanding the provision of builders from
Dubrovnik, which are in principle not unlike the decrees sent to provincial kadıs with
orders to mobilize local workforce (usually for work on sultanic projects in the capital;
for examples, see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 158, 163, and esp. 180), was also
understood as an instrument to underline the vassal status of Dubrovnik, and was hence
perhaps even promoted rather than discouraged. This must remain on the level of
speculation, however.
137 The success of Šumen seems to have been based on the endowment at a local
medrese built in 1744/5 of the post of a teacher of calligraphy. Yet, the significant boost
seems to have been a result of the visit of sultan Mahmûd II (in 1837?), as a result of
which the ruler sent the excellent calligrapher İbrâhîm Şevki from the capital in order to
improve the quality of Koran production in Šumen. The fact of Šumen manuscripts’
ending up in the capital, and even in sultanic collections, seems to confirm the success
of this experiment. The industry there came to an end in the 1870s as a result of not only
Bulgarian quasi-independence but also the belated permission to produce Korans
through lithography. Süheyl Ünver, “Şumnu’da Türk hattaları ve eserleri,” in: Belleten,
185 (1983), pp. 31-6; Stanley, “Shumen as a centre of Qur'an production.”
50
degree of mobility – the work of “artists of the book” appears to have been significantly
more place-bound. Very often, the sites of production of calligraphers and illuminators
of manuscripts were monasteries and medreses.138 This was, of course, in part
conditioned by the fact that their activity was based on the copying of existing works,
which would be found, and maybe were not to leave, the libraries of these institutions.
Also the sites of production of portable icons were not necessarily the places where
artists sold their works. Wood-panels painted by the famous “school” of Samokov
(45km SSE of Sofia), for instance, are frequently found in village churches of the East
Serbian district centred at Pirot (100km NW of Samokov).139 They appear to have been
produced in Samokov, probably during the winter months, whereafter they were sold
either by the painters travelling through the region or in Sofia, which was the closest
large urban and economic centre for both areas.140 Stanislav Dospevski of Samokov,
who specialized in the painting of portraits, had to travel the region to solicit
commissions, however. The site of production was determined by the subject of the
artwork, and a greater degree of mobility may have become more profitable for painters
originally specialized in wood-panel icons when new opportunities arose.141
138 There is also evidence for manuscripts being worked on in homes or
elsewhere, for instance at the provincial courts of dignitaries. The case of an icon whose
inscription purports that it was painted in the house of voyvoda Ivan is mentioned at the
end of this chapter. Curious is also the case of one remarkably early illuminated Islamic
manuscript from Bosnia: it appears to have been written and illuminated by an itinerant
artist, Yûsuf b. Ahmed, in Sarajevo in 1475, as the colophon informs us. Only years
after the conquest of the area, this was much too early for any local to have mastered an
Islamic art form, nor had there been established a medrese. Perhaps it is most likely to
assume that Yûsuf was an artist who came to Sarajevo in the entourage of, or in order to
offer his services to, a governor. For this manuscript, discussed again in greater detail in
ch. 2.5.1, see Dorothea Duda, Islamische Handschriften II/2: die Handschriften in
türkischer Sprache, Textband. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der
Wissenschaften, 2008, p. 10, 79-80. For similar works by itinerant artists from Tabriz,
see Zeren Tanındı, “An illuminated manuscript of the wandering scholar Ibn al-Jazari
and the wandering illuminators between Tabriz, Shiraz, Herat, Bursa, Edirne, Istanbul
in the fifteenth century,” in: Art Turc –Turkish Art, 10th International Congress of
Turkish Art [etc.]. Ed. François Déroche. Geneva: Fondation Max van Berchem, 1999,
pp. 261-71.
139 Elena Popova, “Samokovski ikoni v selata iz Caribrodsko,” in: Niš i
Vizantija, III. Niš: Prosveta, 2005, pp. 377-82.
140 See Palairet (“Migrant workers,” p. 23) for the example of the icon-painters
of Trjavna, who painted in winters and then set out each summer to sell their products.
141 For remarks about Dospevski and portrait painting in general, see ch. 3.2.2.
51
Different yet is the case of monumental inscriptions, especially in Islamic
contexts. While today principally appraised for their informative value, there is
convincing evidence that establishes them as objects of art criticism by
contemporaries.142 Here, too, the text and calligraphic design of inscriptions could be
produced by individuals who had possibly never visited the town in which the
monument with “their” inscription would be found. A comparably well-documented
example seems to have been that of the so-called İhtisâb Çeşme at Ohrid (1821/2):143 its
lengthy inscription identified as its patron Mîr Celâlüddîn, the local strongman in pre-
Tanzîmât Ohrid, and as its composer the Istanbul poet (Süleymân) Fehîm Efendi. The
poet’s stressing in the text that Celâlüddîn was in fact the son of a vezîr and of his
already having equipped the city with a number of other water-providing structures
makes clear that patron and artist had communicated about the content and possibly the
formal qualities of the inscription. Yet, there is nothing to assume that Fehîm in fact
visited Ohrid. One might rather presume that he sent his text and formal design to
Ohrid, where it was transferred to stone by an able carver. Hence, at least three persons
in probably two distant locales were involved in the design and execution of this work:
a patron, a stone-carver, and a poet/calligrapher.144
Unfortunately, the exact circumstances of the production of an artwork are rarely
clear. Unusually rich in information as to the spatial, temporal, and social context of its
production, as well as the cosmos and perhaps even the motivation of an artist, is the
case of one Bosnian icon of the Virgin Mary, with which I shall conclude this chapter.
Its Slavonic inscription reveals that it was painted in Sarajevo in April 1568 by Tudor
Vuković from Maina (near Budva) in the house of voyvoda Ivan. We also learn that this
took place at a time when Makarije (Sokolović, Sokollu) was episcope (at Peć), Selîm
(II) was the sultan, and Ferhâd Beğ was the sancak-beği of Bosnia. The latter is
moreover identified as the brother of the mentioned voyvoda Ivan; both belonged to the
142 See ch. 2.2 and also ch. 3.3.1.
143 On my visit to Ohrid in 2007 I was not able to find the fountain on the Činar
Square, where it was supposed to be found. Instead there was a modern fountain. Unless
I err, this probably means that the fountain’s inscription was removed.
144 For the fountain inscription and notes about the poet, see the fundamental
study by Fehim Bajraktarević, “Turski spomenici u Ohridu,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu
filologiju, V (1955), pp. 111-34, esp. pp. 119-27; also Semavi Eyice, “Ohri’nin Türk
devrine ait eserleri,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, VI (1956), 137-45, p. 144 for a transcription
of the inscription.
52
Vuković-Desisalić family, as did the painter!145 It appears that Vuković, who had
evidently been trained in the (Italianate) style of the Adriatic coast, had come to
Sarajevo looking for patronage by a prosperous relative. Their extended family included
both Christian and Muslim members and by 1570 a Bosnian sancak-beği and a voyvoda
(tax-collector and/or clan leader). Stressing in the inscription that the icon was painted
in the voyvoda’s house, and that the voyvoda was the sancak-beği’s brother – our only
record of this connection – the painter may have aspired to stress his intimacy with his
patron, whose wealth may well have prompted the directionality of his migration in the
first place.
2.2. Social status
While the previous chapter sought to determine the place of the artist in the regional
networks produced by Ottoman society in the Balkans, the present chapter discusses the
status and place of the artist – or, perhaps, rather the statuses of individuals engaged in
various arts – in Ottoman provincial society. I have this far avoided the question of
what divides art and craft, for there is no ready evidence in the sources that points to an
equivalent to this essentially modern distinction. Could perhaps the relative wealth of
some individuals vis-à-vis the relative poverty of others engaged in the same profession
be an indicator for the appreciation of their work by their customers (and, by extension,
society)? Or did certain artistic or technical skills, however acquired, qualify individuals
for “elite status”? In any case, there is likely to have been a direct link between the
appreciation of an artist’s work and the readiness to expend money on it. If some artists,
in the eyes of their clients, deserved higher honoraries than others, this was necessarily
reflected in an individual’s financial standing vis-à-vis other members of society, and
other artists.
This chapter explores various ways of measuring the degree of respect exhibited
toward artists in Ottoman provincial society. Importantly, it also seeks to determine, to
the greatest extent possible, divergences between the different arts, in different periods,
145 Zaim (sic, Hazim) Šabanovič, “Bosanski namjesnik Ferhad-beg Vuković-
Desisalić,” in: Zbornik Filozofskog Fakulteta [Belgrade], VI/1 (1957), pp. 113-27, cit p.
113; Đoko Mazalić, “Nekoliko starih slika,” in: Glasnik Zemaljskog Muzeja, LIV
(1942), pp. 207-40, cit. p. 218.
53
and between individuals practicing the same art. I shall first discuss, and challenge, the
notion of a binary between architects and master builders, at least with regards to its
usefulness for a discussion of the provincial context. The second sub-chapter (2.2.2)
will look at “hard data,” or numbers gathered from probates and tax registers, to look at
stratifications within various groups of artists and/or craftsmen. The third sub-chapter
tries to suggest and explore other sources that might give us an indication of the
standing of an artist or artists in society. Chapter 2.2.4 will then discuss the first-hand
observations of, and conversations with, builders in Serbia and Bulgaria recorded by
one nineteenth-century traveller. Self-portraits by painters, a format that sees a moderate
boom in the middle decades of the nineteenth century, will be discussed for their value
as visual evidence for social standing and ambitions in 2.2.5. Finally, the last subchapter
discusses the claim for authorship – as expressed in inscriptions or otherwise –
not only as an indicator of, but as a potential claim for, status within Ottoman provincial
society.
2.2.1. Architect and/or master-builder: a binary?
In his article on “Late-Ottoman architects and master builders,” Cerasi put forward what
he believed to be a fundamental binary of “two distinct crafts – that of the architect and
that of the master builder.” While they cooperated in “the design and construction of all
kinds of structures,” Cerasi thought that differentiation between the two professions
began in the sixteenth century, when one came to be seen as the assistant of the other.
As a result, architects were “apt to be the more cultured and better integrated into
official institutions” than master builders, whose lesser education defined their lower
social standing. In the eighteenth century, master builders rather than architects began to
undertake “design and construction work in towns.”146 While I shall leave my
challenging of this claim to chapter 4.2, it suffices to state here that such a shift reminds
of that known to have taken place in Byzantium: according to Ousterhout, the
theoretically-trained architect (mēhanikos) of Antiquity, an intellectual, came to be
replaced by the practice-oriented master-mason (oikodomos).147 In the West, similarly,
146 Cerasi, “Late-Ottoman architects,” pp. 87-9.
147 Ousterhout, Master builders of Byzantium, p. 4, 40.
54
not so much the tasks but the classical concept of the architectus vanished. The
“medieval architect,” writes Kostof, “rose from the ranks of the building crafts,
carpentry, or the working of stone or commonly both, and took part in the actual process
of construction alongside the building crew as one of their own.” Rather than in task,
the change was one in social standing, for the master-builder was not expected to have a
thorough grounding in the Liberal Arts.148
While Cerasi has identified what appears to be one crucial change between the
sixteenth and nineteenth century, namely the loss of prominence of the mi‘mâr as an
agent in the monumental building projects, we must not forget that the nature of
architectural production in both periods was very different. The mi‘mârs we see
mentioned in the sources from the sixteenth century were by and large involved in the
equipment of Balkan towns with a monumental Ottoman infrastructure of ritual
buildings (mosques and mescids), those relating to communication (bridges), education
(mektebs and medreses), and hygiene and sociability (hammâms). The master builders
of the nineteenth century, by contrast, only very rarely built mosques or bathhouses; and
when they did, these structures were usually not very monumental. Builders, decorators,
and woodcarvers in the middle decades of the nineteenth century largely worked to
equip two newly-prominent groups, the proto-bourgeoisie and the non-Muslims in
genereal, with an infrastructure of pretension. The privileged building types were
churches and residences. That very fundamental difference in the types that a good
builder/architect had to master in different periods has not been recognized.
Cerasi was not incorrect in making a distinction between an architect/mi‘mâr
and a master builder, but the “Liberal Arts” training in institutional rather than personal
form seems to have been restricted to royal architects in the capital, for whom it is
attested. In the vita of Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa we read that this later chief royal architect
studied “the science of geometry and the art of architecture” with Mi‘mâr Sinân.149 In
the vita of the latter it is also revealed that a chief royal architect was expected,
depending on the challenge, to excel both as a theoretician (ilmî) and a practitioner
(‘amelî).150 In the provinces there was no possibility for future architects of attaining a
148 Spiro Kostof, “The architect in the Middle Ages, East and West,” in: The
architect: chapters in the history of the profession. Ed. Spiro Kostof. Oxford: University
Press, 1977, pp. 59-95, cit. pp. 60-1.
149 Cafer Efendi, Risâle, p. 34.
150 Sinan’s autobiographies, p. 118.
55
formal, academic education comparable to that received by Sinân and Mehmed in the
palace. The mi‘mârs that we see in sources related to the provinces were, as I shall
argue in chapter 4.2, neither architects in the sense of agents of planning and design, nor
did they receive a training that was necessarily more formal than the ordinary dülgers’
or neccârs’. In fact, these “provincial mi‘mârs” were chosen among the ranks of the
builders/carpenters.151
Though this is not evidenced anywhere, we might presume that for a towndwelling
builder in the provinces there were two tasks that elevated his status vis-à-vis
his peers. One was, of course, being appointed as the head of the guild of which he was
a member; another may have been to be employed as the person responsible for the
maintenance of the buildings of a vakf. While the latter livelihood may not have made
people rich, it did guarantee a steady income and did not necessitate the active
solicitation of work. According to the vakfîye of the Ferhâd Paşa mosque in Banja Luka,
for instance, the “architect” (here referred to indeed as mi‘mâr) employed was to receive
six akçe per day – the same as that mosque’s imam! – and his assistant four.152 This is
roughly what appears to have been an average daily salary of a builder in this period.153
We must consider, however, that this man received this sum every day, not just when he
was employed in construction projects. It would also mean that he would be paid in
winter, when one may assume many builders to have remained out of work. In sum, the
vakf-employed builder-carpenter may have to be considered rather well-off if compared
to his “ordinary” peers.
There is, of course, also the possibility that the salary of the mentioned
endowment’s mi‘mâr is an exception. Not many evkâf, at least not in the Balkans, seem
to have permanently salaried such a profession. More probably the vakf managers
normally used surplus money to employ a dülger when necessary.154 Another evidenced
151 For a discussion, see ch. 4.2.
152 Mehmed Mujezinović, Ferhad-pašina vakufnama iz 995 (1587) godine.
Banja Luka: Bošnjačka zajednica kulture “Preporod,” 2005 [1973], p. 12.
153 Cf. Kiel, “Building accounts,” p. 10.
154 Emre Madran (Osmanlı imparatorluğu’nun klasik çağlarında onarım
alanının örgütlenmesi, 16.-18. yüzyıllar. Ankara: ODTÜ, 2004, app. 2) lists 23 vakfîyes
from between 1220 and 1797 in which is mentioned an individual responsible for
keeping a building in good repair. The only case from the Balkans found in this list is
that of İshâk Paşa’s vakf (cf. Vehbi Tamer, “Fatih devri ricalinden İshak Paşa’nın
vakfiyeleri ve vakıfları,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, IV [1958], pp. 107-24, cit. p. 121), which
56
case is that of the Mustafâ Paşa mosque (1492) in Skopje, whose vakf sustained a
person (also referred to as mi‘mâr) at a daily rate of only two akçe, thus earning
considerably less than most other employees. Even the cook (four akçe) and the
storekeeper (kilerci) earned more.155 Perhaps this means that the post as that
endowment’s mi‘mâr was only a part-time job, contributing to an income otherwise
made on the market.156 Moreover, one might think that the naming of these positions as
mi‘mâr reflects not their institutional training, as suggested above, but simply their
employment in this institution as the person responsible for the maintenance of this
building’s architectural features and functions.
In sum, a binary of master-builder and architect, as suggested by Cerasi, is
problematic, for what was referred to by the term(s) mi‘mâr/architect appear to have
been different things. A person identified as a mi‘mâr in textual sources was not
necessarily a liberally-trained architect, as was certainly the case with chief royal
architects like Mi‘mâr Sinân. Rather, and this is an argument that will be expanded in
chapter 4.2, it was a term used for offices whose responsibilities included constructionrelated
tasks. The mi‘mârs employed at the two mentioned evkâf in Skopje and Banja
Luka had probably never designed anything of note, nor had they received a formal
institutional training. What qualified them were practical skills acquired in the
construction industry, for what they had to do was to keep “their” buildings in good
repair, not to design new buildings.
2.2.2. The wealth of urban builders, painters, and carpenters: the evidence of tax
registers and court records
foresaw a salary of two dirhem for two mi‘mârs keeping in good repair his institutions
in Thessalonikē and Sidērokavsa.
155 Cf. Mehmet İnbaşı, “Osmanlı idaresinde Üsküb kazası,” dissertation (Atatürk
Üniversitesi [Erzurum]), 1995 p. 94.
156 If we consider that among the witnesses undersigned in Ferhâd Paşa’s vakfîye
(cf. Mujezinović, Ferhad-pašina vakufnama, pp. 20-1) could be found the dülger Hacı
Nezir and the neccâr Deli Sipâhî, presumably residents of Banja Luka, could this post
have been overpaid because the patron intended to employ one of these two
acquaintances as the mi‘mâr of his foundation there?
57
Surviving records of expenditures in building projects suggest that in Sarajevo in the
last third of the eighteenth century a master-builder could count on a per diem of
between 42 and 66 akçe (or its equivalent in para). Though the incomplete nature of the
data only partly allows us to draw such conclusions, it seems that it was customary that
his assistants/workmen (ırgâdân) would earn about a quarter less than their master and
that itinerant builders earned less than the locals (presumably guildsmen), even when
they came from places that were renowned for their excellence. In 1793, for instance,
the dülgers from Sarajevo received 20 para (60 akçe) plus “a lot of bread” for their
daily work, while their peers from Herzegovina, engaged in the same project, would
earn only 12 para, that is, almost half! In 1831 the Sarajevo-based dülgers received
15% more than those from Osat, a village near Srebrenica that was renowned for the
work of its builders, especially in Central Serbia at that time. The ırgâdân still earned
about a quarter less than the (local) masters.157 There are two tentative conclusions to be
drawn here. Firstly, the social differentiation between masters and their assistants
cannot have been that great, for the differences in their income were not either – at least
in this period and place. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the gap may have
been greater, with an ırgâd earning about half of a master.158 Secondly, a rural
workforce coming to work in cities may have generally received less pay than locals. It
remains open whether this was because their work was less valued or because the local
guilds managed to defend the interests of local builders vis-à-vis newcomers.
That it was indeed possible to accumulate money seems to be suggested by the
case of the Sarajevo dülger Hüseyin Beşe: he had a work partnership (ortaklık) with
İbrâhîm Beşe, and their common capital was 28,876 para at the time of Hüseyin’s death
in 1839. While Hüseyin was indeed highly indebted to a cash-loaning vakf, to which he
owed 27,840 para, he owned a house that was worth 24,000 para and other assets
valued at 66,496 para.159 A comparison of nine deceased dülgers’ assets, as registered
at the kadı court of Sarajevo between 1779 and 1798 (see table 3), seem to show, in
fact, that within this group there were immense economic differences: their heirs
received cash or goods at values ranging between as little as 1,740 and as much as
206,716 akçe! Also the immense gap between average and median value (47,517 vs.
157 For these numbers, cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 169.
158 Cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 330; Kiel, “Building accounts,” p. 10.
159 For these data, cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 172.
58
10,260) shows the inequality in wealth.160 While this is in part due to the fact that in
some cases real estate was part of the estimate of a deceased’s assets and in other cases
it was not – Ca’fer Beşe’s house was valued at 28,800 akçe, thus constituting more than
half of his total wealth – this is not the only reason.161 While we must expect
fluctuations in price levels in the period of nineteen years spanned by these cases, the
trend these numbers show is clearly that within the community of dülgers there was a
considerable degree of stratification. If guilds really saw their purpose in levelling grave
differences between its members – a supposed objective that has been summarized with
the motto “equality in poverty”162 – this was certainly not the case in late-eighteenth
century Sarajevo. With an inheritance worth 206,716 akçe, Tanasije surely belonged to
an urban professional elite, while Jovan, who left only 1,740 akçe (9% of which his,
comparatively cheap, tools), may be seen as representing the urban poor.
A similar tendency is noticeable in the artistically flourishing town of Samokov
(45 km SSE of Sofia) in the 1840s, for which we have exceptionally detailed
information in the so-called temettu‘ât defterleri.163 Of the 98 households recorded in
this census as being supported by a dülger as their head and breadwinner, the annual
income could be as low as 50 akçe or as high as 560! Even among these dülgers’
assistants/foremen (kalfa), the range would be between 50 and 160. Hence the lowestearning
master dülger would earn as little as the lowest-paid kalfa! Among the
carpenters (doğramacı), of which in Samokov we find only four, the gap is still
considerable but not as great as with the dülgers: the best-earning doğramacı claimed an
income of 320 akçe annually, the least-earning 150. There were also two book-binders
160 What concerns the tools’ value, the average and the median are very close,
whereby it is safe to say that a dülger in Sarajevo in the last quarter of the eighteenth
century had to count on spending around 600 akçe for tools. Still, one could get by with
tools worth as little as 160 akçe or spend as much as 1260.
161 The house of the taşçı Hüseyin Beşe, who died in 1783 and who is not shown
in table 3, was worth 14,400 akçe, hence only about half of Ca’fer Beşe’s. Cf.
Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 173.
162 Cf. Faroqhi, Artisans of Empire, pp. 74-5.
163 For the problematic nature of these records, available to researchers only
since 1988, see the various contributions to Hayashi Kayoko and Mahir Aydın (eds.),
The Ottoman state and societies in change: a study of the nineteenth century Temettuat
registers. London: Kegan Paul, 2004. The data for Samokov has been published in
tables in the contribution to this volume by Svetla Ianeva, “Samokov: an Ottoman
Balkan city in the age of reforms,” at pp. 46-76; the relevant numbers are on pp. 60-5.
59
(mücellid) in town, one claiming to earn 200, the other almost three times more (580).
Five households, finally, were supported by individuals whose profession was identified
as nakkaş (painters-decorators), and here the gap is the greatest: with 340 akçe the leastearning
painter still made more than any carpenter and most of the dülgers, while the
wealthiest painter-household claimed to accumulate 1410 akçe annually! The average
annual income of a painter was 834 akçe, which was almost three times the salary of
that town’s mosque preacher (hatîb) or about the same as the better-earning of the two
mine clerks (ma‘den kâtibi). One could only expect a higher average annual income as a
clerk of sorts (various averages), a draper (çuhacı; average annual income: 1293 akçe),
a cattle-dealer (celeb; 1582), or a candle-maker (mumcu; 1039). The remaining 60 crafts
and services professions paid dramatically less.
In sum, the evidence of salaries and inheritances recorded between the mideighteenth
and mid-nineteenth centuries in two Balkan locales seems to suggest that one
could earn very well as a builder, painter, or carpenter, but also that work in such
professions did not automatically make you prosperous. The seemingly grave economic
differentiation between individuals working in the same fields suggests, as hinted to
above, that clients were ready to pay more for the work of some than they were for
others. This certainly reflects the perceived quality of the work by some, possibly the
laziness of others, and in other cases perhaps simply bad luck.
2.2.3. Indicators for social standing: patronymics, musical virtuosity, and the
witnessing of notarial acts
While not evidence as “positive” as the numbers just discussed, there are also other
indicators for the relatively high social position of individual artists. The sources for
such claims are extremely varied. There is evidence, for instance, for the existence of a
family of notables (a‘yân) in seventeenth-century Kjustendil whose name was Nakkaşzâde.
164 This seems to imply not only that a painter, decorator, or designer (nakkaş) was
these notables’ ancestor, but also that it was under him (or them) that the family rose to
164 This family is mentioned in Hedda Reindl-Kiel, “‘On Monday the bread of
the baker Malco has to written’: property, maintenance, market and crime in the early
17th-century court of Küstendil,” in: Mélanges Prof. Machiel Kiel. Ed. Abdeljelil
Temimi. Zaghouan: Fondation Temimi, 1999, pp. 429-55, cit. p. 433.
60
prominence: otherwise they would not have taken this individual’s profession, but
someone else’s name or profession, as their “patronymic”. Potentially meaningful is
also an encounter the traveller Leake made not far from Athens in the early 1800s: he
met in a monastery at Livadeia (130km NW of Athens) a painter-restorer who was, he
was told, also “the most celebrated performer on the violin in this part of the country,
and fails not to be in attendance whenever there is an assembly at the monastery.”165 If
we presume that the violin was essentially a foreign instrument in provincial Greece in
this period, and that this painter managed to become a virtuoso at it, possibly through
formal training, should we consider him as the representative of at least some kind of
elite?
Another indicator for the relatively high social status of some builders may be
their appearance as witnesses in notarial acts of legalizing evkâf at the kadı court. This
was something typically reserved for trustworthy individuals esteemed in a given
community. In the Mostar vakfîye of Murâd Ağa b. ‘Abdurrahman of 1571 is found, for
instance, a Neccâr Hasân;166 in that of Hüseyin Beğ b. İlyas for a mosque in Rogatica
near Sarajevo (1558) a certain Mi‘mâr Yûsuf, possibly the mi‘mâr-başı of Bosnia (see
also chapter 4.2), and hence probably a local builder whose career took a lucky turn.167
In the Banja Luka vakfîye of Ferhâd Paşa (1587) we even find two witnesses identified
there as builders or carpenters: the dülger Hacı Nezir and the neccâr Deli Sipâhî.168 The
name of the latter translates as “the mad cavalryman” and must be a reference to that
man’s other occupation, which would have earned him a fief and elite status. The name
of the former, which includes the title of hacı, at least tells us that also that man was
affluent enough to undertake the pilgrimage to Mecca.
Despite occasionally being well-positioned to do so, it seems to have been
exceptional for builders or decorators to figure as patrons of arts or architecture, which
would be another indicator of their social position. It should not surprise us that the
Albanian-born chief royal architects Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa and Kâsım Ağa became
165 Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, I, p. 320.
166 Vakufname iz Bosne i Hercegovine (XV i XVI vijek). Ed. Lejla Gazić.
Sarajevo: Orijentalni Institut, 1985, p. 178.
167 Ibid., p. 135.
168 Vakufname, p. 232 and Mujezinović, Ferhad-pašina vakufnama, pp. 20-1.
61
sponsors of architecture,169 usually of “minor” structures.170 Exceptions for what
appears to be a general lack of foundations by builders and decorators are the mosques
of the Bosnian Mi‘mâr Sinân and the Neccâr İbrâhîm in Sarajevo.171 An inscription on
the kiosk in the northern wing of the Rila monastery informs us that Krstjo (from
Lazaropole near Debar) rebuilt it after a fire in 1832/3 with his own hands and
money.172 Could voluntary work at existing foundations have been a more typical way
for builders, decorators, and carpenters to contribute to a community’s flourishing, than
cash donations or institution-building?
2.2.4. Records of encounters with Balkan artists
For the nineteenth century, thanks to the increased frequency of travellers in this period,
there are also a number of observations recorded that shed light on the social position of
artists. While Boué’s claim that the artisans in Ottoman Europe were relatively
privileged compared with their European counterparts – they were, he wrote, not tucked
away in half-dark spaces, they did not work excessively, and they were not as belittled
as they were in the West – is interesting enough,173 it is in the long-term observations
recorded by Kanitz that we find the perhaps most insightful hints. In an account of his
residence at Belgrade, which coincided with the construction of barracks under Knez
Miloš, he observed the following spectacle:
[F]rom my window I watched a Macedonian Vlach commence work. To save
rent, he had apparently slept at the site of his artistic operation. An examination
of his much-wrinkled shirt and the [consequent] necessary treatment of
169 For both, see Artan, “Arts and architecture,” pp. 456-7 and references.
170 Although some of the buildings they sponsored were located in the European
provinces, their case is only of partial relevance for this chapter.
171 These shall be discussed in greater detail in ch. 4.2.
172 Michael Margaritoff, “Das Rila-Kloster in Bulgarien: Der Versuch einer
historischen und stilistischen Eınordnung,” dissertation (Univ. Kaiserslautern), 1979, p.
26.
173 Boué, La Turquie d’Europe, III, p. 117.
62
innumerable insects made considerable demands on his time. After his thirst for
revenge was satisfied to some extent, he put around his waist a belt of raw wool,
certainly six metres long, and washed his face and hands superficially with water
from a jug, dried them with a not very clean towel, arranged his protection fur in
a flirtatious way, as if he would go to a ball, and finally he proceeded to a heap
of clay in order to liquefy it again by pouring water on it and to thereby produce
plaster sufficient for an hour and to be stored in a coffer. Thereafter he would
begin to work on the splitting of pillars and planks with predictably primitive
tools instead of the saw, [which was] unknown to him.174
While Kanitz’ rare account of a builder at work is replete with moderate detestation of
his lifestyle, informed by class difference, Kanitz would readily acknowledge the
extraordinary work carried out in the domain of church-building by another
Macedonian, Andreja Damjanov, whom he, exceptionally, identified by name.175
During his travels through Bulgaria, he would even make the personal acquaintance of
the famous Nikola Fičev (referred to by Kanitz as Fiçoğlu, i.e. with a Turkish
patronymic!) in the 1870s. The latter was described as “a simple Bulgarian from the
Balkan [mountains], undistinguished by dress or anything else from the most simple
villager.” Interesting is also how the portrait continues:
That said, he [i.e. Fičev] did speak with justified pride of his work [the bridge
over the Jantra] and stressed that it had cost 700,000 piasters (i.e. 70,000
Gulden) – for Bulgaria an enormous sum. Yet, he did not seem to realize that he,
who knew little more than the meagre essentials, had completed a construction
which, excepting Constantinople, must be considered the most perfect hydrotechnical
building of Turkey, being certainly a credit even to the most proficient
of technicians. 176
174 Kanitz, Königreich Serbien, I, p. 87 [transl. MH]. He continues (p. 87-8) with
the following remark: “Now [i.e. 30 years later] even these foreign masters, still very
present in construction in Belgrade, have learned from the Occidental ones and have
acquainted themselves with our, time-saving, work tools.”
175 Kanitz, Königreich Serbien, I, p. 140.
176 Felix Philipp Kanitz, Donau-Bulgarien und der Balkan: Histor.-geogr.-
ethnogr. Reisestudien aus den Jahren 1860-1876. Leipzig: Fries, 1877, II, p. 32 [transl.
MH].
63
On a similar note, elsewhere Kanitz recorded it as curious that “primitive sons of the
mountains, who often barely manage to use a pen, succeed to solve difficult tasks such
as the construction of multi-arched stone bridges or domed churches simply thanks to
their acumen and innate talent.”177 He also had no problem speaking of them as
“architects,” not as masons or builders.178
In sum, neither Kanitz nor Boué portray persons involved in the arts and crafts
as elite representatives, but they acknowledge that they were neither loathed by the
upper classes nor unable to succeed in tasks that require complex technical thinking. In
fact, Kanitz seems to imply that the skills of some would entitle them to elite status in
the West, were it not for their lack of formal (i.e. institutional) education and the
consequent expectations and ambitions.
2.2.5. The visual evidence of self-portraits
While Kanitz’ drawings (ill. 14/15) are possibly in some way generic in the sense that
they might reflect patterns, trends, and clichés rather than “accurate” portraits of
individuals – they are identified by name neither in the main body of the text nor in the
captions – there also exists an interesting, if small, body of self-portraits by artists,
usually painters of icons and/or portraits.179 In the nineteenth century these tasks were
often undertaken by the same individuals, and most of the examples of painters’ selfportraits
also date to this period. An early example, here useful in serving as a point of
comparison, is the self-portrait of the painter Mutul at Bordeşti (150 NE of Bucharest)
(ill. 8): he is painted as a short-haired man with a moustache and in a garb perhaps best
described as inconspicuous. The contrast with the self-portrait of the Samokov-based
painter Petăr Valkov, found in the Rhodopean village churches of Varvara (1845) (ill.
177 Kanitz, Königreich Serbien, III, p. 107. Only what concerns their
commitment to stylistic purity, Kanitz adds, one must not be too critical.
178 F[elix] Kanitz, Serbien, historisch-ethnographische Reisestudien aus den
Jahren 1859-1868. Leizpig: Fries, 1868, pp. 334-5.
179 The wood-carvers of the Garkata workshop represented themselves at work
twice, in Skopje (Sveti Spas) and at the Bigorski monastery (see ill. 4), though it
remains open to what extent these must be understood as actual portraits.
64
10) and Goljama Belovo (1852) (ill. 11) is already considerable: Valkov portrays
himself as a European gentleman, though sporting a fez. (That he was as well-dressed
when he operated with paints in this village context is, of course, unlikely.) Selfportraits
are also preserved of another Samokov painter, Zahari Zograf, again on
frescoes, such as in the (presumably more prestigious) context of the Bačkovo
monastery’s catholicon. Most remarkable, perhaps, is that Zahari is depicted in the
company of that institution’s dignitaries (ill. 12) – a remarkable “promotion” of the
painter’s profession, it seems. Of some of the Samokov painters there even exist selfportraits
on canvas.
Self-portaits were not restricted to painters from that locale, however. In the
village church of Tešovo in the Nestos Valley between Bansko and Drama, for instance,
is found a triple-portrait of the Macedonian painters Mino, Marko, and Teofil from the
1880s (?) (ill. 9). They are depicted with fezes, moustaches, and even sideburns. All in
all, however, it may have indeed been the background of the Samokov painters – they
hailed from a relatively wealthy and culturally rather active town rather than a mountain
village – that informed their claim for status as expressed in their self-portraits. Their
services were sought after in a wider region and their home locale was internationally
well-connected enough to broaden their horizon, especially with regards to an
awareness of the status of, and services rendered by, painters in the West and of clothes
as a marker of class distinctions.
2.2.6. The claim for authorship: an expression of status or ambition?
The formulation of inscriptions mentioning artists, thereby creating a connection
between individual and product on the spot in a quasi-public manner, must also be
considered in a discussion of the self-identification of artists in Ottoman Balkans
society.180 The claim for authorship over a certain artwork, something far from the rule
180 Kris and Kurz have argued that the recording of an artist’s name depends not
upon his skill, which cannot be objectively ascertained, “but upon the significance
attached to the work of art.” The “urge to name the creator of a work of art” indicates
that his art no longer exclusively serves a ritual purpose: “its valuation has at least to
some extent become independent of such connections.” See Ernst Kris and Otto Kurz,
Legend, myth, and magic in the image of the artist: a historical experiment. Tr. Alastair
Laing. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1979, pp. 3-4.
65
in this place and time, must itself be taken as an expression of an ambition – the
ambition of being known, of being remembered, or simply to record pride in what has
been produced.181 The claim for a connection between the existence of artist signatures
and social status is also not entirely new: Kalopissi-Verti has found that painters in
Byzantine Greece were more likely to sign their work the lesser the social gap with the
patron.182 While I cannot draw such a conclusion based on the evidence available to me,
this may very well have been the tendency in the Ottoman period as well.
There are often found in the generalist literature claims that most artistic
production in the Ottoman Balkans, with the exception of Christian religious painting,
was anonymous.183 And while the number of artists known beyond the region is tiny,
whether or not a name was mentioned also depended much on traditions in a certain
genre: while more or less the rule in the arts of the book and frequent in fresco-painting,
Ottoman-Islamic architects by and large ceased to be mentioned on inscriptions after the
mid-fifteenth century,184 which was still a peak period for such attributions in the
Islamic context.185 The subsequent lack of architects’ names, it has been argued, was to
underscore the primacy of patrons on one hand and to imply a “collaborative notion of
181 Inscriptions very often provide only the most fundamental information, a
rather typical example probably being that found associated with the frescoes in the
naos of the Naum monastery in Ohrid, which dates from 1806 and reads (in Greek,
rather than Slavonic, quite evidently the artist’s mother tongue): “Painter Terpo [son] of
the Painter Constantine from Koritsa [i.e. Korçë in SE Albania].” Given the common
practice that walls were repainted in later centuries, there are naturally far more such
inscriptions from the later periods than from the Middle Ages.
182 Sophia Kalopissi-Verti, Dedicatory inscriptions and donor portraits in
thirteenth-century churches of Greece. Vienna: Verl. d. Österr. Akad. d. Wiss., 1992, p.
26.
183 For the Islamic context, this cliché is addressed in Meinecke, “Anonymität
der Künstler,” pp. 31-4.
184 Sönmez, Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar, passim. An exception
is one long inscription of 1719/20 on the Vidin fortress, which praises the skills
(including those in geometry) of the architect Mustafa Ağa. For this inscription, see
Vera Mutafčieva (ed.), Rumelijski delnici i praznici ot XVII vek. Sofia: Izdatelstvo na
Otečestvenija Front, 1978, p. 71. For the contribution of others in this project, see ch.
2.5.2. The mention of Mi‘mâr Dâvûd Ağa on one Istanbul inscription is discussed in ch.
4.1.1.
185 Meinecke, “Anonmität der Künstler,” p. 36.
66
authorship for buildings” designed within the Corps of Royal Architects on the other.186
In Foucault’s terms, this meant that the “author function,” dealt to different contributors
in various cultures, 187 here lay primarily with the patron. According to the eighteenthcentury
Macedonian painter Žefarovič, the painter from whom a patron commissioned
an icon was “obliged to put in his name.”188 There was also a debate around the import
of one name found on an Italianate Baroque painting in a Central Bosnian monastery:
was “Stjepan Dragojlović” the name of the painter, as traditionally assumed, or that of
the patron?189 And if ‘İvâz b. Bâyezîd, a grand vizier, was in the Arabic inscription
(1421) on the Great Mosque of Didymoteichon referred to as the “the pride of engineers
and the revered man of architects, the skilful master of his profession,” did this really
mean that he was the (and an) architect in our modern sense, as is generally believed,190
or simply, as I tend to believe, that he was the administrator under whose responsibility
the project was implemented?191
A quantification of data is possible in the Greek case, where scholars have been
able to compile the names of 750 “Greek painters” active in the eighteenth century.
Notably, this was two and a half times more than in the previous century. Moreover, the
second half of the eighteenth century saw such a spectacular rise that from this half-
186 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 135.
187 Michel Foucault, “What is an author?” [1969], reprinted in Paul Rabinow
(ed.), The Foucault reader. New York: Penguin Books, 1984, pp. 101-20, esp. pp. 107-
8, where he posits that “an author’s name is not simply an element in a discourse
(capable of being either subject or object, of being replaced by a pronoun, and the like);
it performs a certain role with regard to narrative discourse, assuring a classificatory
function ... [W]e could say that in a civilization like our own there are a certain number
of discourses endowed with the “author function” while others are deprived of it.”
188 Cited in Sotirios Kissas, “Icons of a Kozani nenologion,” in: Balkan Studies,
XVII/1 (1976), 93–113, cit. p. 113.
189 See Sanja Cvetnić, “Bezgrešno začeće donatora Stjepana Dragojlovića
(1621),” in: Svjetlo riječi, XXV (2007), pp. 62-3; Ivana Prijatelj Pavičić, “Contributo
alla ricerca delle pale d’altare di Baldassare D’Anna nei conventi francescani della
Dalmazia, Quarnaro e Bosnia,” in: Ikon, III/3 (2010), pp. 327-42.
190 Salih Pay, “Baş Mimar Hacı İvaz Paşa,” in: Bir Masaldı Bursa. Ed. Engin
Yenal. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi Yayinlari, 1996, pp. 177-85.
191 For a transcription of this inscription, see Sönmez, Anadolu Türk-İslâm
mimarisinde sanatçılar, p. 423. For “intermediaries” see also ch. 3.5.
67
century are preserved four times more than from the preceding one.192 Differently
stated, while in the period of 1600-1750 approximately three artists per year signed their
name, in the period 1750-1800 it was as much as four times as many! In part, this
situation may be due to the lack of “signatures” in cases of buildings being repainted in
the course of time, which necessarily resulted in a greater number of names from more
recent dates. The gap between ca. 1600 and ca. 1800 is so great, however, that it is hard
not to suggest that something must have happened between these dates that made it
more desirable for artists to have their name recorded for eternity (or at least until the
next intervention). One reason might be the better economic conditions in that period in
some areas, leading to a larger volume of patronage of art. On the other hand, the rural
(rather than urban or monastic) backgrounds of most of these painters and their lack of
“formal” training, resulting in what is sometimes derided as “folk art,” are not
necessarily factors one thinks to be conducive to ambitions of upward social mobility.
While in the Islamic context after ca. 1500, one would generally not find the
names of architects chiselled on inscriptions, this privilege was often granted to those
responsible for the composition and formal design of inscriptions: poets, epigraphicists,
and calligraphers. We may presume that these were often one and the same person.193
The evidence of Evliyâ Çelebi seems to show that such inscriptions were indeed objects
of art criticism.194 A survey of artist inscriptions in various genres, as is possible in the
well-documented case of Bosnia, actually suggests that it was much more common for a
goldsmith to “sign” objects produced by him than for an architect or builder,
woodcarver, or decorative painter.195 Should we moreover presume that a Muslim
decorative painter had a somewhat lower status in his respective community than a
Christian iconographer, for what the former produced was not “sacred,” nor did it
necessarily require knowledge of very strict conventions and the skills to faithfully
copy?196 The abovementioned trend for an increase in “painters’ inscriptions” in
192 For these data cf. Vryonis, “Formal culture,” p. 30.
193 A rare biography of such an individual from the nineteenth century is
supplied by Nametak, Fadil-paša Šerifović.
194 See ch. 3.3.1.
195 Mazalić, Leksikon, passim.
196 It must be stated more generally that painting in Orthodox Christian churches
was incomparably more important than the painted decoration in mosques.
68
Orthodox Christian contexts after 1750 was, it seems, generally not shared in Muslim
contexts. I have been able to find only three such inscriptions, all from mosques and
dating to the middle decades of the nineteenth century: Aşcı-zâde Ahmed signed
himself at Jambol in 1831/2;197 Ahmed Receb Hari, who seems to have repainted a
sixteenth-century domed mosque in Gjakova in 1844/5;198 and Fagin Mustafa, who
worked in Sarajevo in the 1860s and 70s (and left even two depictions of Mecca and
Medina).199
Lastly shall be discussed the phenomenon of “artist inscriptions” in the Ottoman
Balkans in the context of European art history and the regional economy of the arts.
Hauser thought that the rise in status of the artist in Renaissance Italy was due to a
deliberate misinterpretation of the social status of artists in antiquity. Their consequent
emancipation from guilds, an important step in the genesis of the modern concept of the
artist, was not a result of heightened self-respect, however. Instead, it resulted from the
competition for their services. Artists’ self-respect was, according to Hauser, “merely
the expression of their market-value.”200 To be sure, processes in Renaissance Italy
were only partly echoed in the Ottoman domain, or even in transalpine Europe, for that
matter. Hauser’s making a connection between status and market value, with artist
inscriptions possibly (also) being a sign of increased competition, is certainly
interesting. Possibly unconnected, but worth discussion in this context are two 1750s
inscriptions on residences in the Pindos region: one reads, “If you ask, sir, from where
hails the prōtomastoras: he is from the Konitsa vilaeti, and the name is Iōannis
Dēmētriou,” and the other: “If you ask, sir, who was the mastoras who built this, Nakos
197 Cf. Franz Babinger, Beiträge zur Frühgeschichte der Türkenherrschaft in
Rumelien (14.-15. Jahrhundert.) Brno: Rohrer, 1944, p. 50.
198 Cf. Zeynep Ahunbay, “Ottoman architecture in Kosova and the restoration of
Hadum Mosque in Gjakovo (Ðakovica),” in: Centres and peripheries in Ottoman
architecture, pp. 108-17, cit. p. 111.
199 For these inscriptions, cf. Mehmed Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika u Bosni
i Hercegovini, Sarajevo: “Veselin Masleša,” 1974-82, I: p. 274, 277-8
200 Arnold Hauser, The social history of art [1951]. London: Routledge, 1989, II,
pp. 50-9. Hauser also purports that it was then that the attention shifted from art to artist.
Rather than his art, the artist became the object of veneration. While it once had been
the job of the artist to praise the patron, now the patron was exalted simply by
association with a certain artist.
69
is the name, from Konitsa.”201 These inscriptions are interesting in the sense that they
anticipate that an audience, including potential future customers, might inquire about
the identity and whereabouts of the builders this work, which they apparently were
anticipated to admire.
Acknowleding that the beginning of changes in artists’ self-perceptions must be
sought in Renaissance Italy, Hauser sees the real change happening in the eighteenth
century. It saw the rise of the concept of genius and intellectual property, the end of the
domination of Church and court in the patronage of art, and the emergence of a public
interested in art without the intention of buying it. The artist responded to the challenges
of an increasingly free market in which his services were a commodity.202 While I dare
not claim to be able to track the emergence of the concepts of genius and intellectual
property in the Ottoman Balkans, the rise of a proto-bourgeois class in the eighteenth
century is hardly contested. In terms of the result being an enlargement of the base of
patrons and an audience for art, one may similarly see parallels. An increased
competition for the services of certain artists or workshops would be a logical
consequence.203
In sum, the claim for authorship as reflected in artist inscriptions may be said to
echo an artist’s self-respect and/or a patron’s acknowledgment of status, or simply of
good work; but, depending on the case, there may also be other factors at play. It is
certainly a paradox that the theoretically-trained Ottoman royal architects were less
likely to “sign” a work than comparably minor provincial builders. In addition, whether
or not a work was commonly “claimed” or not depended on the tradition in the relevant
artistic genre. It is certainly not unreasonable to propose to link what appears to be a
201 Cf. Moutsopoulos, “Oi prodromoi tōn prōtōn ellinon tehnikōn epostēmonōn,”
p. 370.
202 Hauser, Social history, II, p. 47, 62; III, pp. 148-9. Also Kristeller thought
that it was in this century that the concept of creativity emerged to characterize the artist
and his activity. Losing patronage of Church and court, the artist lost guidance and
instead turned to intuition. Paul Oskar Kristeller, “‘Creativity’ and ‘tradition’,” in:
Journal of the History of Ideas, XLIV/1 (1983), pp. 105-13, cit. pp. 106-7.
203 A good example might be the case of Plovdiv before the 1860s (for which see
Péew, Alte Häuser in Plovdiv, passim), where we find not only a large number of
affluent entrepreneurs but also a variety of artists from various locations – not only from
Trjavna, and Debar, but even from Istanbul. The diversity of artistic modes in this
context – with perhaps a basic distinction between “occidentalizing” and “orientalizing”
– might suggest deliberate choice. This may have made the services of specific artists
and/or their workshops a prized commodity.
70
general increase in artists’ inscriptions in the late period with the prosperity of many
locales and a possibly resultant competition for some artists’ and teams’ services. By
the middle decades of the nineteenth century, thus even before many regions’ secession
from Ottoman rule and a consequent transplantation of European-type institutions of
learning, there seems to have emerged in the Balkans the image of an artist that was
already fairly close to that of modern Western Europe. The acknowledgment of some
artists’ skills usually also translated into their relative affluence. One may assume that
names of artists like the builder Andreja Damjanov or the painter Zahari Zograf were
already familiar to circles beyond their former clients and associates, and that clients
may have competed for their services.
2.3. Identities
This chapter seeks to tackle the question of identity in terms of the artists’ self-image.
While identity as it pertains to class consciousness and respectability has been discussed
in chapter 2.2, the present chapter more specifically deals with identity as expressed
through notions of sameness and association with a group of people. In the existing
academic literature, questions of identity are most often addressed in terms of ethnic,
less often religious, identity. Ethnicity in the modern understanding, as we shall see,
appears not to have been the predominant marker of identification, however, both by the
self and by others, and certainly not until the nineteenth century. It is also questionable
that, as has been a claim, the work of artists in the late period must be understood as
their contribution to a general “national renaissance.”204 As a result of these former
suggestions, the artists’ interest in such matters merits consideration in this study.
This chapter begins with an inquiry into self-identifications by artists given in
various sources, weighed against the modern categories used to classify these artists
204 Vasiliev (Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori, p. 147, 740-1), for instance,
claims that the flourishing of the arts in the nineteenth century was “stimulated by
revival ideas,” and the output revealed “national” specificity. In another book (Dimitar
Drumev and Asen Vasilev, Die Holzschnitzkunst in Bulgarien. Tr. Michail Matliev.
Sofia: Balgarski Hudoschnik, 1955, p. 14), even the representations of lions fighting
dragons, birds tearing up snakes, or men in folk costume slaying monsters, as they are
found on iconostases of the late Ottoman period, have been interpreted as due to artists
aiming to motivate “the people” for resistance during the “hard years of Turkish foreign
rule.”
71
today. It continues with a discussion of the known cases of artists who chose to figure as
cultural and/or political activists; considered are also the reasons why the evidence for
their enthusiasm for such movements may be slighter than the literature suggests.
Finally will be explored the “networks of trust” that appear to have mattered to artists,
and the question to which degree they were important for their identity, or identities.
2.3.1. Notions of (collective) identities as expressed in inscriptions, contemporary
discourse, and textual documents
Our lack of generous information on artists’ self-identifications before the modern
period is certainly to a great extent conditioned by the fact that artists not engaged in the
fields of calligraphy and iconography were generally illiterate. Thus, they left few “ego
documents” that would help us in such inquiry. There is, however, the evidence of many
inscriptions and, far less numerous, other types of texts. If an interest in “national” ideas
were to be measured through demonstrative ethnic identification in modern terms, it
cannot be said that these sources are very conclusive in this respect. In fact, selfidentifications
by artists in “ethnic” terms are sometimes perhaps more confusing than
they are enlightening. The eighteenth-century painter/designer Hristifor Žefarovič, for
instance, who was born in the area of Dojran (north of Thessaloniki) and died in 1753 in
Moscow, identified himself in autographs on various artworks as an “Illyrian,” an
“Illyro-Serbian,” and an “Illyro-Rascian.”205 This has left enough ambiguity to claim
him as a “national” artist of the modern Serbs, Bulgarians, Macedonians, or even
Greeks.206 The Macedonian mason Ǵorǵi Pulevski – a rare example of, apparently, a
man of letters – chose to identify himself “ethnically” as “a Mijak from Galičnik”
(Mijak galjički) on the cover of his trilingual conversational dictionary published in
Belgrade in 1875.207 While these are indeed self-identifications by the individuals in
question, a privileged source, the confusion does not stop at identification by others.
205 Kissas, “Icons of a Kozani menologion,” p. 102.
206 Max Demeter Peyfuss, “Gibt es eine aromunische Kunst?” in: Studien zur
rumänischen Sprache und Literatur, 6 (1984), pp. 29-41. p. 40.
207 Đorđe Puljevski, Rečnik od tri jezika. Belgrade: Državna Štamparija, 1875.
See pp. 46-8 for a number of “ethnic” groups the author identified as living in
Macedonia (Brsjaci, Mijaci, Kržaliji, Kucovlasi, Karakačani, etc.)
72
The pioneering Balkan historian Jireček, who claims to have “often” had the
chance to converse with masters from the mountains of western Macedonia during his
travels in Bulgaria, informs us that they were known there, despite their Slavonic
tongue, as “Arnauti” (Albanians). Though one reason may have been that they
occasionally used, as Jireček recorded, Albanian as their “secret language,” perhaps it
was really their hailing from the mountain geography in the SW-Balkans (“Albania”)
that earned them this appellation.208 Jireček thought that it was because of their
“Albanian” clothes. He also noted that in neighbouring Serbia the masons from
Macedonia were collectively known as “Cincari,” a term used interchangeably with
“Vlachs,” despite their “being” Greeks, Vlachs, and Slavs.209
Less ambiguous, but perhaps even more expressive of the flexibility expressed
by, and perhaps necessitated from, many artists of the pre-modern period is the case of
Nikolaos Iōannou Talēdoros (d. 1817?): born around the mid-eighteenth century on
Ottoman-held Naxos, he relocated to Hungary to work as a wood-carver later that
century. In an Orthodox Christian environment that largely spoke Serbo-Croatian, the
artist came to be known as Nikola Janković. In fact, he even re-hellenized this Slavic
name via Hungarian orthography in an inscription in Eger, where he resided, while at
the same time pointing to his Greek (“Romaic”) origins (“ΝΙΚOΛΑΟΣ ΙΑΝΚΟΒΙΤΣ
яΜΑIΟΣ ΤΑΛH‘OΡΟΣ”). His seal, on the other hand, consisted of the Cyrillic
characters ИА (for “Iankovits”).210
So how, other than in ethnic terms, did artists identify themselves on
inscriptions, and to what extent does this help us in determining which factors were
important for their identity? When the painter Hadži Koste (d. 1894) signed himself as a
“painter and photographer” (zograf i fotograf) at a monastery near Veles in 1855,
perhaps one might assert that he liked to think of himself as a technological
innovator.211 This, however, is a rare case, and in many instances the sole information
208 The inclusion of Albanian in Puljevski’s Rečnik, cited in the previous
footnote, as one of Macedonia’s three languages seems to suggest that the mason from
Galičnik was well versed in Albanian and had some knowledge of Turkish – both of
which he reproduced in Cyrillic letters, however.
209 Jireček, Fürstentum, pp. 208-9. On Macedonian Slav masters as “Albanians”
see also Vasiliev, Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori, p. 147.
210 Márta Nagy, “Nikolaos Iōannou Talēdōros (Jankovicz Miklós) ca 1750-1817
and his wood-carver's workshop in Eger,” in: Balkan Studies, XXX/1 (1989), pp. 43-66.
211 Tomovski, “Veleškite majstori,” p. 56.
73
other than the names of artists that we find is that of their place of origin, usually a
village. It is also from this information that the centrality of certain villages as producers
of artists can be determined.212 Less often, and perhaps more typical in the late period,
we find notions of places of origin that were larger than villages. In the central
Peloponnesus around 1900, for instance, we see inscriptions identifying teams of
builders as “Macedonians” or “Epirotes” – two regions still under Ottoman rule.213 Was
this because of an increasing regional awareness, or perhaps because in times of
competition between teams from various regions (as is apparent from these
contemporary inscriptions) the identification with certain areas helped advertising
expertise in certain areas of work?214
2.3.2. Artists as cultural activists and nationalist agitators
While the cooperation between individuals and groups from different ethnoconfessional
backgrounds will be discussed separately in chapter 2.4., with one
conclusion being that especially in non-Muslim circles cooperation beyond borders was
widespread, there are cases of what might be called “ethnic” conflict, or of artists
actually taking action in political affairs. Very interesting is, for instance, a case I have
found brought before the vâlî of Rumeli, as recorded at the kadı court of Bitola (then
that vâlî’s seat) in 1836. He was petitioned by the “Bulgarian” dülgers/neccârs of Bitola
to replace an unnamed dülger-başı “from the Greek community” (Rûm tayfasından)
with one of their own ethnicity, this being the Bulgar tayfası. The man they proposed
212 Kōnstantinos Giakoumēs, “Kritikē ekdosē epigrafōn sinergeiōn apo to
Linotopi stis perifereies tēs Orthodoxēs Ekklēsias tēs Alvanias,” in: Deltion tēs
Christianikēs Archaiologikēs Hetaireias, XXI (2000), pp. 249-66.
213 Argyris Petronitis, Arcadia: Greek traditional architecture. Tr. Philipp
Ramp. Athens: Melissa, 1986, p. 68.
214 In the late Ottoman period, Epirotes were widely known as skilful builders of
bell-towers specifically (cf. Petronitis, Arcadia, p. 68), for instance, while Macedonians
enjoyed regional repute as carpenters (cf. e.g. János Asbóth, Bosnien u. die
Herzegowina: Reisebilder u. Studien. Vienna: Hölder, 1888, p. 171) and
Herzegovinians as masons (cf. Bogdanović, Ljetopis kreševskog samostana, p. 71).
Branislav Kojić (Stara gradska i seoska arhitektura u Srbiji. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1949,
p. 13) also speaks of the following division in Serbia: builders from Osat (E-Bosnia)
built chalets, those from Macedonia urban houses, and those from the Pirot area peasant
dwellings.
74
was a certain “Stale” (a hypocorism for Stanislav?) from Smilevo, a village that had
traditionally supplied the town of Bitola with builders.215 It is also well-established that
the builder Grozdan Nasalevski from Trăn (W-Bulgaria), while on migrant work in the
nearby Serbian town of Ćuprija, organized his fellow workmen into a detachment of
volunteers to fight under the aegis of the “Bulgarian Legion” in the Serbian-Ottoman
war.216 A third case is that of the Galičnik mason Pulevski (d. 1893), mentioned above,
who also took part in military action against the Ottoman armies in Serbia and Bulgaria
in the 1860s and 70s. Better known as the first propagator of the idea of a Macedonian
nation,217 both might establish him indeed as what we might call a political activist.218 A
lone career of an artist-turned-politician, finally, was that of Petar Nikolajević, known
as “Moler” (after German “Maler,” painter). Born in a village near Valjevo (W-Serbia)
in the late eighteenth century, the artist, whose perhaps best-known works are the
frescoes in the so-called Karađorđe Church at Topola (63km S of Belgrade), seems to
have fled the Ottoman domains after participating in the revolt under Karađorđe in
1804. He returned for the second uprising in 1815/6, eventually being named a voyvoda
(now usually interpreted as “prime minister”) in the government of the emerging
principality under the leadership of Miloš Obrenović.219
On the whole, however, such careers seem to have been absolute exceptions.
Artists appear not to have been in the first row of nationalist movements, and perhaps
this had to do with the nature of their work. Living and working in what were then, and
are in part still today, multi-lingual environments, we should expect them having been
versed, at least for purposes of conversation (including agreements over the products of
215 Turski dokumenti za makedonskata istorija, V (1827-1839). Skopje: Institut
za Nacionalna Istorija, 1958, p. 88 (doc. 37), 171.
216 Hristov, “Trans-border exchange of seasonal workers,” p. 222.
217 Puljevski, Rečnik od tri jezika, p. 49 (“Makedoncive se narod i mestovo
njivno je Makedonija”). The Turkish column writes (in Cyrillic) “makedonlular
kavmdir.”
218 For an early appraisal of his biography as a national hero, see Blaže Koneski,
Towards the Macedonian Renaissance: Macedonian textbooks of the nineteenth
century. Skopje: Institute of National History, 1961.
219 Kukuljević, Slovnik, p. 321. He had probably learned the art from his uncle,
who was the archimandrite at the Bogovađa monastery near his native Valjevo. After
leaving Ottoman Serbia in 1804, Nikolajević appears to have continued training under
Stevan Gavrilović in Sremski Karlovci, on the other side of the Danube.
75
their work), in more than one language. As mentioned above, the Debar masters would
occasionally use Albanian as their working language when in Bulgaria, probably in
order not to reveal their trade secrets to the local Slavs. Acquaintance with another
language, of course, does not automatically make one sympathetic to another culture or
enhance the prospect of assimilation into it. Perhaps more importantly, we must also
consider that most of the areas from which our masters hailed were also to become the
frontiers between modern territorial states. This was, of course, in part due to their
usually mountainous aspect, which made them natural barriers. Yet, the establishment
of barriers that were political circumscribed the orbit of builders more than the physical
boundaries they had managed to traverse for centuries. Thus, when the Rhodopes
became the border between Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire, later Greece, its pečalbar
villages had to redirect their working habits toward the Thracian interior, as discussed in
chapter 2.1.3. The western section of the “pečalbar belt,” with district centres like
Debar, Kastoria, and Korçë even came to be split between three modern countries by
1913, all housing the same linguistic and confessional groups. This region having been
the most active “producer” of skilled artists for much of the later Ottoman period, their
business began to decline. Undoubtedly, this was in part because the advent of modern
technologies and institutionalized education made obsolete their traditional ways, but
also because the itinerant masters lost the areas closest to them as natural destinations
for their workforce. Jireček, who wrote in the late nineteenth century, also mentions that
the emigration of Muslims from Bulgaria deprived these masters of one traditionally
moneyed group of customers for their services.220 This would have been the same all
over the region.
Debar, for instance, lost all importance in the twentieth century, after it became a
border town between Yugoslav Macedonia and Albania. The surprisingly “urban”
architecture one sees today in the deserted mountain “village” of Galičnik (ill. 1/2),
from where some of the region’s best builders hailed, stands in stark contrast with the
peripherality of the divided Debar area today. While they may not have been able to
predict the technological and educational advance that eventually made their traditional
ways of work obsolete, the builders, decorators, and carvers were very well aware of the
fact that their livelihood depended on the absence of barriers such as political-cumeconomical
borders, as had been the case in the Ottoman context. When this situation
220 Jireček, Fürstentum, pp. 209-10.
76
changed, so did their lives. Would this have made them unlikely participants in projects
whose ultimate aim was the creation of borders?221
2.3.3. Alternative networks of trust: tribal, micro-regional, and professional
identities
While there certainly existed a basic awareness of “being” Slav, Greek or Grecophile
(as the case with many Vlachs), or “Muslim,” which may have been so basic that
nobody felt the need to articulate it, textual sources, especially inscriptions, show that
villages, later regions, of origin were a, and perhaps the, principal marker of identity.
The languages of inscriptions, usually Greek or Slavonic, very rarely Romanian/Vlach
(written in Greek or Cyrillic), must not be taken as an indicator of artists’ identities,
however; they more likely reflect the choice of the patron in whose control the content
of the inscription would remain. We must moreover consider that literacy was probably
still an exceptional skill. There was, as we have seen in the case of Pulevski, also an
awareness of belonging to factions like the Mijaci, which are now seen as a sub-group
of the Macedonian Slav ethnicity. Beyond that, there is also evidence for an identity
based on professions, very often within work in guilds. On a more metropolitan level,
Necipoğlu has taken it as evidence for a corporate professional identity within the Corps
of Royal Architects at Istanbul that Mi‘mâr Sinân wished his vakf to be overseen by
succeeding royal architects.222 In provincial guilds such a “corporate identity” may have
been promoted through inner-guild socializing events, such as periodical excursions
(teferrüc, teferič) joined by the members of a certain guild – masters, foremen, and
assistants alike.223 Many guilds pooled resources to be used for such and other purposes.
221 The district of Debar Maalo (“Debar mahalle”) in today’s Skopje is a
testimony to many builders’ families’ fate during the interwar period. They moved from
the Debar area, which was now a border district, to a low-income suburb of Skopje,
where they hoped to find work. Unlike previous times, they settled there permanently
and came to accept other lines of work. Palairet (“Migrant workers,” p. 46) also notes
that immigrants from the Debar villages had their own quarter in interwar Thessalonikē.
In Sarajevo in 1934 there were 17 families from Galičnik, which at that time still had
more than 3,000 inhabitants; by 1971 it was virtually uninhabited.
222 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 148,
223 Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 63.
77
The considerable surpluses accumulated in their coffers in some prosperous areas were
also sometimes channelled into the patronage of architecture, usually of churches or
clock-towers. Occasionally they were used to send young locals to abroad for study,
often to acquire skills in “Frankish” crafts for which the demand rose in the nineteenth
century. Enough of a surplus had been accumulated in Svištov on the Danube, for
instance, to send the young Nikolaj Pavlovič to study art in Vienna and Munich between
1852 and 1858.224
While such actions by guilds are largely known from the nineteenth century,
which saw the blooming of many crafts, there is evidence for guild corporatism or what
we might call a profession-based identity already in an earlier period. The problem,
again, is one of sources. Of great interest in this respect is a census undertaken in
Sarajevo in 1788. As a result of the war with Austria the Bosnian vâlî Bekir Paşa
requested a guarantee (kefilleme) by the local Christians against their defection to the
enemy. 574 adult Christian men were recorded that day in twelve mahalles and three
hâns. Their professions are almost always recorded as well, and thus the kefilleme
defteri includes the names of 79 members of the guild of the dülgers (which included
builders and carpenters, but also plumbers, glass-cutters, lime-experts, and merchants of
building materials).225 This document would not have been as useful had the official not
asked the recorded to identify those individuals, and their professions, ready to vouch
for them. As this constituted a lawful agreement with potentially unpleasant
consequences, data in this defter may be seen as an indicator of trust between
individuals associated with that guild. And indeed, of the 92 named dülgers (at least)
exactly half (46) chose one or more individuals who worked in the same profession, that
is, as dülgers in the broadest sense, as their guarantors (see table 2)! What this appears
to be proof of is an immense degree of acquaintance and trust between members of the
dülgers’ guild. We may go as far as to conclude that membership in this guild appears
to have been a cornerstone of their identity in the social context of Sarajevo in the later
224 Virginia Paskaleva, “Die Entwicklung des Handwerks und die kulturelle
Vermittlungsfunktion von Handwerkern bei der ‘Europäisierung’ Bulgariens im 19.
Jahrhundert,” in: Handwerk in Mittel- und Südosteuropa. Ed. Klaus Roth. München:
Südosteuropa-Gesellschaft, 1987, pp. 129-35. Paskaleva (p. 134) names as examples of
churches built by guilds the churches at Trjavna and Široka Lăka, known for their
carpenters and builders respectively.
225 This source has been published and introduced by Hamdija Kreševljaković,
“Ćefilema sarajevskih kršćana iz 1788 godine,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju,
III/IV (1953), pp. 195-214. Only two of the 92 individuals had Muslim guarantors.
78
eighteenth century. There is no reason to believe that the situation was radically
different in other locales.
In sum, we have seen that in those rare cases in which we do have selfidentifications
by artists in “ethnic” terms or recognition of artists’ identities by others
in regions in which they worked, they are occasionally greatly at odds with the modern
categories through which scholars have chosen to view these artists. Their work in
various environments also seems to have demanded from them a certain degree of
flexibility. And while the incident at Bitola indeed reveals a conflict between the local
Bulgarians and Greeks over their representation in the 1830s, we must also note with
caution that most evidence presented here, and the conclusions drawn from it, pertains
exclusively to Orthodox Christians. In part, this certainly reflects their traditionally
greater share in both the region’s population and in many professions. It also reflects
conventions in the sense that an Orthodox Christian, throughout the period in question,
was far more likely to sign his work than a Muslim (calligraphers excepted), a Catholic,
or a Jew. This brings to the fore the question over the collaboration between members
of different confessional groups, the theme of the following chapter.
2.4. Nikola and Mustafâ; or, could art bridge the confessional divide?
2.4.1. Settlement patterns as the infrastructure of cooperation
The Balkans, as is well known, is one of Europe’s most religiously diverse regions, and
naturally this had an enormous impact on the art produced within this space. In much of
the land south of the Danube-Sava border, Orthodox Christianity was traditionally the
principal denomination, due to the erstwhile Byzantine hegemony. During Ottoman
rule, Catholicism was relatively strong in the western parts of the peninsula, especially
in Central Bosnia, the Adriatic coast and its hinterland, and the tribal borderland
between Albania and Montenegro known as Malësia. There were also pockets of
Slavophone Catholics in the mining areas of the Central Balkans, in towns such as
Janjevo (Kosovo) or Čiprovci (W-Bulgaria), who were descended from German settlers
desired here in the Middle Ages for their experience in the mining business. Another
important Catholic community were the Dubrovnikan merchants, found in colonies in
cities along their principal caravan roads, such as in Sarajevo, Sofia, Skopje, and
Prizren. Finally, in Plovdiv and in the area of Nikopolis/Svištov in Danubian Bulgaria
79
were found Catholics said to be converts from the Paulikian medieval heresy.226 It is
important to realize that, more than the various Orthodox groups, the Ottoman Balkans’
Catholics were dispersed and a phenomenon composed of very diverse communities.
Apart from the cluster of monasteries in Central Bosnia, where there is at least a record
of some art produced (though not necessarily in the country), they lacked centres like
the Athonite monasteries, Ohrid, or Peć, within the Ottoman realm.227 Traditionally
treated with greater suspicion than the Orthodox Christians, they were also more
vulnerable in instances of warfare with Venice and Austria.
While some of the earliest Muslims (or nominal Muslims) in the Balkans were
pastoral nomads (yörüks) settled in the vicinity of newly Ottoman towns, where soon
there would be found an urban elite transplanted from Anatolia, in some parts of the
peninsula Islam largely remained an urban phenomenon. Muslims were the majority
population in most major administrative centres in the peninsula, while their agricultural
or mountainous hinterlands sometimes remained relatively untouched by Islam.228
226 Technically outside the scope of this study, there were also Grecophone
Catholics on Aegean and Ionian islands.
227 In the monastery at Kraljeva Sutjeska (33km NNW of Sarajevo), for instance,
were found before their removal to Zagreb around 1873 panel paintings in oil and
tempera ascribed to fifteenth-century artists of Styria (S-Austria and E-Slovenia) and SDalmatia.
See Aleksandra Bunčić, “Bosanskohercegovačko pokretno naslijeđe u
rasijanu = The dispersal of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s movable heritage,” in:
Baština/Heritage, IV (2008), pp. 441-62, cit. pp. 447-50.
228 In the Skopje district, for instance, could be found in 1453/4 in the city 516
Muslim and 312 Christian households as opposed to 229 Muslim, 3817 Christian
households, and 134 Christian widows in the countryside. In 1568 there were 1559
Muslim households, 333 Muslim bachelors, and 511 non-Muslim households in the city
and 983 Muslim and 6084 non-Muslim households in the countryside. (For these
numbers cf. Eran Fraenkel, “Skopje from the Serbian to Ottoman empires: conditions
for the appearance of a Balkan Muslim city,” dissertation [University of Pennsylvania],
1986, p. 51.) If we presume an average household-size of five members, we reach
approximate population numbers of 4140 (62% Muslims) for the city and 23,335 (5%
Muslims) for the countryside in 1453/4 and 10,683 (76% Muslims) and 35,335 (14%
Muslims) for 1568 respectively. Thus, while the district of Skopje saw an immense
growth in the course of a century, from maybe 27,475 to 46,018 inhabitants, the
percentage of Muslims grew at an even higher rate, almost tenfold. In the district their
percentage increased from 14% to 28%, thus affecting even in the countryside. 69% of
the district’s Muslims lived in the city in 1453/4 (1568: 62%), compared to only 7% of
the district’s Christians (1568: 8%). While there obviously existed rural Muslims, the
immense gap in these numbers demonstrate the connection between being a Muslim and
being a town-dweller. Given the degree of Macedonia’s “Ottomanization” already at an
early period, the gap must have been considerably greater in more northern territories.
80
While Orthodox Christian art largely flourished in extra-urban monastic contexts, with
work undertaken by itinerant painters’ workshops, Islamic art in the Balkans was in the
main one of cities. The earliest centre of regional importance, certainly by 1450, must
have been Edirne; on the western frontier it was soon followed by Skopje, where by
1500 some of the most sophisticated Islamic cultural production in the peninsula took
place.229 Fifty years later Sarajevo was already in the process of establishing itself as the
cultural metropolis in the Northwest. Such a role was perhaps claimed by Buda, of
whose Ottoman fabric close to nothing remains, for the extreme North. The sixteenth
century also saw the establishment of another religious group, the Sephardic Jews, in
major Ottoman Balkan towns, such as Thessalonikē or Sarajevo. They were an
exclusively urban community; their little-known visual culture, as the exceptional case
of the Sarajevo Haggadah might suggest, was influenced by their Iberian “homeland”
more than it was by that of other Balkan communities.
In sum, the Balkans was a religious mosaic rather than divided into clearly
delineable regions with clear majorities and respective centres. One result of this
spatial-religious overlap was that districts like the region of Sarajevo in the centuries of
Ottoman rule were significant artistic centres for Muslims, Orthodox Christians,
Catholics, and Jews alike. The purpose of this chapter is to inquire to what extent
confession mattered in the artistic trades. Was there significant cooperation between
members of various groups in the production of certain artworks? And, if so, was this
the rule or an exception? What and where were the borders for such collaborations? In
the literature, cases of collaboration have been either highlighted (see also chapter 4.4.1)
or negated. To Ćurčić, for instance, there appeared to have been “virtually no
professional interaction between builders of Christian churches and builders of Islamic
mosques.”230 The findings presented in this chapter will demonstrate quite the contrary.
229 The sophistication seen, for instance, in the ornament and architecture of
Skopje’s three (!) large Friday mosques built around 1500 was probably due to
outsiders. Still, more than other places in that region, Skopje exhibited what was
considered metropolitan and Ottoman.
230 This he found “all the more surprising if one recalls that residential
architecture of Christian and Islamic communities showed no appreciable differences.”
Slobodan Ćurčić, “Byzantine Legacy in Ecclesiastical Architecture of the Balkans after
1453”, in: The Byzantine Legacy in Eastern Europe. Ed. Lowell Clucas. Boulder:
Colorado, 1988, pp. 59-81, cit. p. 66.
81
2.4.2. Trans-confessional collaboration before and after the advent of Ottoman
rule
Before discussing a number of interesting, at times curious, cases that shall bring us
closer to a conclusion in these matters, it must be stressed that trans-confessional
cooperation in the arts is already attested in the pre-Ottoman Balkans. The perhaps most
illustrative, well-documented example is that of the construction of the Orthodox
Christian monastery church at Dečani (Kosovo) in the late 1320s: the inscription of this
funerary church of a Nemanjid king prominently reveals its architect to have been the
Catholic friar Vita of Kotor, cooperating with the archbishop Danilo.231 For later
cultural activists, such as the proto-Yugoslavist supporters of the “Illyrian” movement,
this was a welcome instance in their trying to make the case for a trans-confessional,
“national” unity among the South Slavs.232 Extraordinary in this example, however, is
only that we know the name of the architect, for builders from the coast are known to
have been active in several projects in the Balkans interior in the Middle Ages.233 It
seems that this was one pattern continued into the Ottoman period. While I dwell on the
phenomenon of the participation of Catholic builders from Dubrovnik in the
construction of much of Bosnia’s sixteenth-century Islamic architecture elsewhere in
this study, in the context of the problematic of this chapter I might add that they
certainly did so under the supervision of a (usually, but, as we shall see below, not
always) Muslim architect dispatched from Istanbul. As discussed in chapter 4.4.1, teams
including Dubrovnikan masters might also comprise assistants from Herzegovina, who
were either Catholic or Orthodox Christians. Such cooperation is perhaps best attested
in the case of the Old Bridge of Mostar: the responsible architect being Mi‘mâr
Hayrüddîn, with the finances overseen by the prominent large-scale fief-holder Karagöz
Mehmed Beğ, it was constructed by builders from Dubrovnik who were assisted by
workmen from the Popovo Polje in Herzegovina.234 Orthodox Christian builders from
231 For Dečani, see Bratislav Pantelić, The Architecture of Dečani and the role of
Archbishop Danilo II. Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2002.
232 Kukuljević, Slovnik, p. 203.
233 Fisković, Naši graditelji, pp. 97-102. For protomajstor Rade Borović,
supposedly similarly from Kotor, and his connection with the medieval monuments at
Ljuboštinja and Ravanica in Serbia, see ch. 1.3.3, esp. the footnotes.
234 See Kiel, “Campanile-minarets,” pp. 62-3.
82
Herzegovina were also hired, perhaps even sought after, by the prominent Muslims of
Sarajevo who initiated the rebuilding of the so-called Latin Bridge in Sarajevo in 1797
with funds left for that purpose by a wealthy local Muslim merchant,235 and in the
reconstruction of the Catholic monastery at Kreševo in 1767, as shall be detailed below.
In mid-nineteenth century Sarajevo, Orthodox Christian builders and carpenters were
involved in the construction of the Catholic church of St Anthony, the woodwork of the
so-called Magribija mosque, as well as the new casern commissioned by sultan
‘Abdülmecîd.236
These few cases already suffice to tentatively conclude that neither among
Orthodox Christians nor Muslim patrons was there a categorical rejection of having
Catholics work in their building projects, nor would Catholic patrons or builders
necessarily object to the involvement of Orthodox Christians even when Catholic
builders may have been available. The case of the reconstruction of the monastery
church of Kreševo, which is fortunately documented in unusual detail in the chronicle
of Fra Marijan Bogdanović, also shows that this was not necessarily without bias,
however: the friar specifically identified the builders from Herzegovina as
“schismatics,” as certainly not untypical for a Catholic clergyman at the time. Yet, this
chronicle also records that the “schismatic” builders seem to have agreed to the request
of the Franciscans to bend the Ottoman regulations and build a church that was slightly
larger than the foundations of the older church, which legally were the limit for the
dimensions of the rebuilt church. Given the severe punishment that might have been
expected – and the chronicle notes that the district’s Muslims were very suspicious
already at the beginning of the project – this “favour,” even though certainly
remunerated, seems worth consideration.237
Although we have already tentatively concluded that most patrons seemed little
concerned with the confessional background of the artists they employed, it remains to
highlight the case of Samokov and late Ottoman decorative painting in general. It is
easy to note the striking similarities of painted interiors in the southern Balkans in the
235 Džemal Čelić and Mehmed Mujezinović, Stari mostovi u Bosni i
Herzegovini. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1969, p. 97.
236 Cf. Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 126 (Risto Savić and the woodwork of the
Magribija mosque), p. 144-5 (Stojan Vezenković of Bitola involved in the building of
church and casern).
237 Boganović, Ljetopis kreševskog samostana, pp. 65-85, esp. p. 73.
83
eighteenth and nineteenth century, relatively irrespective of their setting. It appears that
the same masters, very probably Orthodox Christians from the Southeast Balkan
mountain areas, possibly originally non-monastic icon-painters, worked in residences
and sanctuaries of Muslims and non-Muslims alike. Since few of these ensembles are
signed, their attribution to the same Orthodox Christian troupes must remain a
speculation. Only in the case of Samokov, where a “school” of painting emerged among
artists engaged in the painting of icons, portraits on canvas, and walls of buildings
flourished in the middle decades of the nineteenth century, it is clear that it was these
Orthodox Christian Slavs that painted the local mosque, the local church, and also the
residence of a wealthy Jewish family.238
2.4.3. Trans-confessional collaboration as obliged by demography
To some extent, the composition of the groups working in the construction of Ottoman
monuments was certainly simply an echo of realities in these respective areas (see
2.4.1.), as some examples from the reign of Süleymân might suggest. The Alaca Câmi‘
(ill. 18) in the Bosnian-Herzegovinian town of town of Foča (45km SE of Sarajevo),
was completed in 1550/1 as a result of the collaboration of – as the usage of the
Dubrovnikan cubit suggests – Catholic builders from Dubrovnik and – as suggested by
Evliyâ Çelebi – the Ottoman-Muslim architect Ramazan Ağa, who worked under
Mi‘mâr Sinân.239 Must the presence of the Dubrovnikan builders be explained with the
practicality of their employment as a result of their city’s vicinity to the sites of
construction in Ottoman Bosnia and Herzegovina?
While the extensive repair of the Fâtih Câmi‘i of Kjustendil (70km SW of Sofia)
in 1556, being an intervention for which written documentation is preserved, was
certainly supervised by a (presumably Muslim) architect in Istanbul, here, in Rumelia
proper, skilled Muslim workmen paid a more significant role. The source in question
records the work of the day-labourers (ırgâdân) Hüseyin, Dimitri, Mile, Nikola, Stojan,
238 On Samokov, see Anna Roškovska, Văzroždenska dekorativna stenopis ot
Samokovski zografi. Sofia: Izdatelstvo Bălgarski Hudožnik, 1982.
239 See my “Oral tradition and architectural history” (forthcoming). This mosque
is the only Ottoman monument in the Balkans to have been the subject of a critical
monograph: Andrej Andrejević, Aladža Džamija u Foči. Belgrade: Inst. za istoriju
umetnosti, 1972.
84
and Todor, paid 4 akçe per diem; the carpenters Bâyezîd and Murâd, paid 8 akçe; and
the masons Aymir, Murâd, Mustafâ, Mehmed, Nikola, and Hasan, who received 9 akçe.
The lead-worker Mihail received a lump-sum for his work. We see that most Muslims
received almost twice as much as the Christians involved, but this really seems to be a
reflection of their rank as skilled labourers: the ırgâd Hüseyin received as little as his
Christian peers (4 akçe, that is), and the mason Nikola as much as his Muslim
colleagues (8 akçe). The fact that the Muslims were overrepresented in skilled jobs
seems to reflect the composition of Kjustendil by the mid-sixteenth century, which was
already three-thirds Muslim.240
The construction accounts of the “New Fortress” (kal‘a-i cedîd) of Thessalonikē,
which provide somewhat different kinds of data compiled after the completion of the
structure (and, presumably, the payment of the builders and other workmen, whose
names are not mentioned), reveal that a certain ‘Alî Beğ, a commander of infantrymen
(ağa-i ‘azebân-ı Rûmeli), was installed as the superintendent (emîn) of the construction,
with a certain Behrâm being the scribe; other than that also the names of Ahmed Küçük
and Hüseyin are mentioned as holding offices apparently related to the management of
materials (hâfız-ı anbar and hâfız-ı mahzen). The architect of this project, which took
place between 1537/8 and 1539/40, was the well-paid Mi‘mâr Kosta.241 While possibly
also being somebody dispatched from Istanbul, it is interesting that in this case Sinân
(or his predecessor in the post of chief royal architect) entrusted a non-Muslim with this
office.242 Could this be because Mi‘mâr Kosta’s native tongue, certainly Greek, was
considered an asset in a city where many workmen would have spoken Greek? In fact,
Thessalonikē around 1535 appears to have had a population of 20-30,000 of which
more than half were Sephardic (and hence Ladino-speaking) Jews, the remainder being
almost equally divided between Muslims and Christians. Some of the latter were in fact
registered with Slavic rather than Greek names.243 Still, Greek may have been
considered the lingua franca of Thessalonikē – next to Turkish, with which Mi‘mâr
240 For this data, see Kiel, “Ottoman Kjustendil,” esp. pp. 162-5.
241 These documents are transliterated in Barkan, Süleymaniye, II, pp. 245-8.
242 In the 1530s, also the non-Muslims Francesco (a Portuguese naval
architect?), Dimitri, and Anton were recorded as working under the royal architect. Cf.
Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 564.
243 Cf. Heath W. Lowry, Studies in Defterology: Ottoman society in the fifteenth
and sixteenth centuries. Istanbul: Isis Press, 1992, p. 100.
85
Kosta was certainly more than familiar. Considering also the case of the potentially
Slavophone Mi‘mâr Hayrüddîn’s employment in the empire’s western, Slavonicspeaking
borderlands, discussed in greater detail in chapter 4.2.3, we must admit the
possibility that the mother-tongue of a mi‘mâr may have been considered an asset and
may have determined who would be dispatched to which provinces to oversee work
conducted by locals.
2.4.4. From collaboration to teamwork and tuition
If we can generalize from the example of ‘Alî Paşa of Iōannina, it may be proposed that
the disinterest in Ottoman patrons’ confessional backgrounds of artists, as illustrated by
the cited sixteenth-century cases, was continued into the late period. Around 1800 he
employed in his architectural projects a Calabrian convert and a Petro(s) from Korçë,
certainly an Orthodox Christian, as well as decorative painters identified by one
traveller as Armenians.244 Since Epirus is not known to have had a considerable
Armenian community, let alone one excelling as artists, we may presume that he had
them come from Istanbul, where Armenians were quite present in the arts around that
time.245 Even more interesting are those cases where workmen of different creeds
worked together in teams. The famed nineteenth-century Bulgarian architect Nikola
Fičev is known to have, at an early stage of his career wandered around in search for
work with Italian masons.246 Very interesting is also the case of the wood-carvers
Nikola and Mustafâ, who proved responsible for the work in the Beglerovići house in
Repovci (40km SWW of Sarajevo) in 1850/1, as is attested by the relevant inscriptions.
To what extent they worked as a team is unclear, however. Somewhat ironically, Nikola
244 Pouqueville. Travels in Epirus, p. 56; Leake, Travels in Northern Greece, I,
p. 223.
245 There is, of course, also the possibility that these painters were Armenians
from outside the Ottoman Empire, possibly from an Adriatic port (such as Venice).
246 Nikolai Todorov, Kolyo Ficheto. Sofia: Foreign Languages Press, 1966, p. 7,
40 and Milko Bichev, Architecture in Bulgaria: from ancient times to the late
nineteenth century. Sofia: Foreign Languages Press, 1961, p. 73.
86
rather than Mustafâ is said to have proven responsible for the more “oriental” aspects of
the interior.247
Similarly interesting, and better-documented, is the case of the Central Bosnian
builders Muhammed Kaplan and a certain “Mirković”. An order preserved in the court
records of Jajce show that in 1693 they collaborated in the construction of a mosque in
the Vinac fortress south of town before both were ordered to discontinue their work
there and appear at Travnik to build for the vâlî of Bosnia.248 While this may not be
enough to argue that Mirković and Muhammed Kaplan worked as a team, the fact that
both were ordered from one site to another suggests that they collaborated on more than
one occasion.
Another case of cooperation between Christians of different confessions, which
may have been more frequent than that between Muslims and Christians, is that of the
konak of the local governor of Zvornik being decorated in the 1840s by, as one traveller
witnessed, an Orthodox Christian from Montenegro and a “German” (probably a
Catholic from Austria).249 This episode ended unsuccessfully, however, due to mistrust
between the patron and the artists. As a Serbian-Ottoman dispute over the neighbouring
settlement (Mali Zvornik) arose, the Montenegrin (along with the unlucky “German”)
were thrown into prison by the paşa, who accused the Montenegrin of being “a Servian
captain in disguise.” In an age of increasing secessionist movements, as this case might
suggest, it may not yet have become rare that such collaborations occured, but they
could be affected by conflicts of a kind that had not existed in the sixteenth century. In a
247 Bejtić, “Spomenici osmanlijske arhitekture,” p. 283. According to an oral
tradition, recorded by Bejtić as it was told by the current owner of the house, Nikola’s
surname was Borić, and he hailed from the nearby village of Lisičići on the road from
Konjic to Sarajevo,
248 The mosque at Vinac, certainly a rather minor structure, was eventually
completed by the builder Receb from Jezero (4km W of Jajce). See Ćiro Truhelka,
“Pabirci iz jednog jajačkog sidžila,” in: Glasnik zemaljskog muzeja, XXX (1918), pp.
157-75, cit. p. 160; also in Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 69, 97, 122.
249 Andrew Archibald Paton, Servia, youngest member of the European family,
or, a residence in Belgrade and travels in the highlands and woodlands of the Interior,
during the years 1843 and 1844. London: Longman, Brown, Green, and Longmans,
1845, pp. 143-4 writes only of a Montenegrin, not an Orthodox Christian, but since the
Catholic inhabitants of today’s Montenegro are concentrated in the (fomerly Venetian)
Bay of Kotor, which would not have been considered Montenegro but Dalmatia in the
mid-nineteenth century, it seems pretty clear that this was an Orthodox Christian.
87
time and space of changing power relations, such collaborations, while continuing, may
have involved a feeling of increased distrust.
Curious, finally, are a couple of cases in which the stage of training in the artistic
formation of individuals took place under the guidance of masters from a different
confessional background. Nikola Fičev’s apprenticeship in the workshop of Italian
builders was already mentioned, and the assistance of possibly Orthodox
Herzegovinians from Popovo Polje in projects commissioned from Dubrovnikan
builders is touched upon in chapter 4.4.1. Even more interesting is perhaps that in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries it could happen that Orthodox Christians from
Herzegovina would go to nearby Dubrovnik for training by Catholic painters. This was
the case, for instance, with Simo Miloradović, who is on record in 1481 as being a pupil
of a certain Matko Alegretović in Dubrovnik. Even an (Orthodox) monk of the Tvrdoš
monastery (20km NE of Dubrovnik), Marko Stevanović, had studied painting in
Dubrovnik with (the Catholic) Matko Milić in the early 1500s. The case of Miloslav
Miljenović from Dabar, who learned from Stjepan Ugrinović in Dubrovnik just before
the arrival of the Ottomans – he is on record as a student in 1471 – and who thereafter
painted Orthodox churches in the Bay of Kotor in an Italianate alla greca style, shows
that what Orthodox Christians learned in Dubrovnik was actually useable. But with this
style even Catholic Dubrovnikans were seen fit to paint for Orthodox patrons. This at
least is suggested by the case of the Dubrovnikan Vice Dobričević, who in 1510 painted
alla greca in the church of the Orthodox monastery at Tvrdoš.250
2.4.5. Identifying boundaries
Considering all the cases discussed in this chapter, we may proceed to tentatively
identify boundaries that certainly existed, and which must not be overlooked. Within the
two Christian confessions there seemed to be few obstacles to cooperation, though the
comments of Fra Bogdanović cited above may suggest that an awareness of otherness
indeed existed. Except in the case of Dubrovnikan painting around 1500, the
“orientalizing” elements of which would also appeal to the sensibilities of the region’s
Orthodox, it is evident that trans-confessional cooperation among Christians was much
250 For these cases, usually without much detail, see Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 96,
130, 97, 39.
88
less complicated in the case of architecture than in painting, where artists were trained
in their respective Christian tradition. A Muslim calligrapher had, of course, no mandate
in a Christian church, but there is also no known case of a Muslim builder responsible
for a church, and it is unlikely that there ever was one. The churches in the wider
surroundings of cities like Skopje, Banja Luka, Bucharest, and Iaşi, on which can be
seen Islamic ornament, are unlikely to have been their work but were probably that of
non-Muslim builders’ who had worked on Muslim sites.
While thus it was apparently customary for Catholics and Orthodox Christians to
be involved in the construction and decoration of religious and residential structures
made for the use of Muslims, this did apparently not work the other way round. On one
hand, this may be simply a result of the general dominance of non-Muslims in
professions related to construction and decoration.251 In the case of Kjustendil, then a
largely Muslim town, we have also seen that the participation of Muslims, very
probably urban guildsmen rather than itinerant builders, could be greater in such
circumstances. On the other hand, it must not have been very practical to have a Muslim
involved in the repair or reconstruction of churches. As the Kreševo chronicle
demonstrates, the monastic patrons may try to discount the Islamic regulations and
clandestinely enlarge or embellish their structures in the process of “rebuilding,”252 even
when the local Muslim community (as it did at Kreševo, at least initially) volunteered to
verify the legality of such interventions. For non-Muslim patrons to work with non-
Muslim artists was certainly safer; nor may a Muslim builder have liked to be known as
an accessory in non-Muslim interests. In conclusion, trans-confessional collaboration in
the arts seems to have been widespread throughout the Ottoman period, but there
existed certain boundaries that were rarely, or possibly never, crossed. It is important to
stress that these boundaries were not the same as those between the three confessional
communities in question. Conceptions of boundaries were, it seems, more nuanced.
251 There seems to have existed at least one case of a Muslim “builders family”
of the nineteenth century comparable to the frequent cases of non-Muslim families with
such a professional specialization: the Neimarovići (“sons of the architect”) of Travnik,
for which cf. Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 102.
252 This also seems to have been the case at Bačkovo in the early seventeenth
century (cf, the plans in Kiel, Art and society, p. 197), and probably in several other
cases.
89
2.5. Foreigners and foreign influence
The present chapter deals with the question of the existence and importance of foreign
artists – by which I refer to individuals who were not Ottoman subjects – that worked
on Ottoman soil in Europe between the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries. I am
especially interested in the potential role of such artists as agents of change. While there
is ample evidence for their existence in all periods of Ottoman rule, they are rarely
discussed in the literature and have not been discussed, as this chapter attempts, from a
regional perspective. I should also like to contrast the material to be presented with the
claim that the Ottoman system – deliberately, it is implied – had isolated the region
from the achievements of European art during the period of “the yoke,” especially from
the art of the Renaissance.253 This chapter, by contrast, will argue that the Ottoman
borders appear to have been remarkably open to both artists and artistic influences from
the outside. It will start with the question of inputs from other Islamic cultural traditions
and continue with the question of foreign models (and experts) in the specific case of
military architecture. I shall then turn to the question of communication of artists across
the Balkans’ Adriatic, Aegean, and Pannonian borders more generally and its impact on
artistic products within the Ottoman realm. Significant changes occur in the nineteenth
century, in which new patterns evolved in changed circumstances, as shall be discussed
in the concluding section.
2.5.1. The early Ottoman state and its Mamluk and Timurid connections
There is ample epigraphic evidence to suggest that medieval Anatolia, especially
between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries, was quite an attractive area for the
activity of artists hailing either from the Persianate East or the Arab lands to the
253 For this reproach, cf. Kiel, Art and society, p. 341, esp. ref. to the article “The
cutting short of the Bulgarian Quattrocento.” On the information plate next to the
church of Hagios Nikolaos at Mystras (ills. 30-1) (titled “Constantinople in other
hands... life goes on”), a large and beautifully decorated church, we read that: “In Post-
Byzantine times the Ottoman conquest put an end to the production of religious art.”
This, of course, contradicts even Greek scholarship on the matter. The plate continues
to concede that: “Churches were still erected to cater for the needs of the subjugated
Christians.”
@̃
90
South.254 On European soil, Mamluk-inspired features, such as arches with decoratively
interlocking stones or chevrons, can be found on the Eski Câmi‘ of Edirne or the Great
Mosque at Didymoteichon,255 but in neither case do the extant inscriptions reveal the
participation of foreigners.256 This may either mean that Mamluk-inspired forms, soon
to be outdated in Ottoman conduct, had entered into the vocabulary of local builders, or
simply that the foreigners did not choose, or were not expected by the patrons, to record
their names on inscriptions. Could this have been because their contribution was more
in the domain of skilled manual labour, and thus perhaps to forms of arches and
ornaments, than it was in the domain of planning, in which case their name was more
likely to be recorded?257
While in the fourteenth century and the early years of the fifteenth century
Mamluk forms retained their attraction for Ottoman patrons, in the period following the
recovery from the humiliating invasion by Tamerlane (Timur) and the successful
establishment of Mehmed I as the legitimate heir of Bâyezîd I it is Timurid forms that
come to be very popular.258 The best-known monument to this trend is the Yeşil
Complex in Bursa, for which tile-makers from the Akkoyunlu capital Tabriz produced
tiles in the “international Timurid style.” This they did under the supervision of an
Anatolian-born designer (nakkaş) trained in Timur’s capital Samarkand. Signing as “the
masters of Tabriz” at Bursa, they seem to have moved on to Edirne, which under Murâd
II acquired some prominence as a centre of power in the sultanate’s European half. In
the 1430s they embellished the interior of his Murâdiye with tile revetments in both the
254 In the decades around 1400 we have, for instance, evidence for the agency of
what appear to be three generations of a Damascene family of builders working for the
‘Osmân-oğlu and Aydın-oğlu states in Anatolian towns like Amasya, Merzifon, Ankara,
and Ayasuluğ (Selçuk). Cf. Sönmez, Başlangıçtan 16. yüzyıla kadar Anadolu Türkİslâm
mimarisinde sanatçılar, pp. 347-51, 403-9, 415-22.
255 Both buildings were commissioned by sultans around 1400, but their
completion was delayed as a result of the War of Succession (1402-13), and finished
under Mehmed I (r. 1413-21).
256 For one reading of both inscriptions, see Sönmez, Başlangıçtan 16. yüzyıla
kadar Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar, p. 388, 423.
257 Cf. e.g. ibid, pp. 347-51.
258 On the monumental ambitions and prestige connected with these artistic
traditions in the late medieval period, see Bernard O’Kane, “Monumentality in Mamluk
and Mongol art,” in: Art History, XIX/4 (1996), pp. 499-522.
91
cuerda seca and underglaze techniques. This is a singular monument on European soil –
a testimony to the attractiveness of Persianate forms in the Ottoman fifteenth century
during the reigns of Mehmed I and Murâd II. While, unlike at Bursa, they did not leave
a “signature” in Edirne, it is clear that these must have been the same masters from
Tabriz. The lack of truly comparable ensembles similarly suggests that after the
completion of their work they must have left again.259 It is not clear why, but by the
mid-sixteenth century the development of an industry at Iznik and of an Ottoman court
style had made obsolete the services rendered until then by artists from the East. The
“masters of Tabriz” left a remarkable monument in Edirne, but their style did not
produce offshoots in the Balkans. In fact, tiled interiors remained an absolute exception
in this region throughout the Ottoman period.260
The influence of eastern centres such as Tabriz was still noticeable in the
fifteenth century in other artistic media. Although, for reasons explained in the
introductory chapter, illuminated manuscripts are beyond the scope of this study,
mention should be made of an unusual case of a copy of Şeyhî’s frontier romance
Hüsrev ü Şîrîn, which is found in the Austrian National Library. It is unusual because,
unlike other cases where we cannot be sure where a manuscript was written or
illuminated, the colophon clearly attributes it to a certain Yûsuf b. Ahmed and locates
and dates its production to Sarajevo in the August of 1475.261 Only within years of the
Ottoman conquest of the area, this is much too early for a local painter/decorator to
have produced something in such a thoroughly Islamic mode. The Persianate style may
indeed point us in the direction of its having been the work of one of the itinerant artists
from Tabriz and other places travelling the Ottoman realm in the fifteenth century in
search of work.262
259 Gülru Necipoğlu, “From International Timurid to Ottoman: a change in taste
in sixteenth-century ceramic tiles,” in: Muqarnas, VII (1991), pp. 136-70. On the Edirne
Murâdiye specifically see Rudolf M. Riefstahl, “Early Turkish tile revetments in
Edirne,” in: Ars Islamica, IV (1937), pp. 249-81.
260 For one exception in Komotinē, where we find Iznik tiles from the last
quarter of the sixteenth century, see ch. 4.1.3.
261 For this images and a short description of this manuscript, see the inventory
by Duda, Islamische Handschriften, p. 10, 79-80.
262 For these artists, see Tanındı, “An illuminated manuscript.”
@̃
92
There is another “Persian” link with a later work of architecture in Sarajevo, the
mosque of Gâzî Hüsrev Beğ (Paşa). Completed in 1530/1 according to its inscription,263
its design is usually attributed to the chief royal architect Acem ‘Alîsi (“Ali the
Persian”) a.k.a. Esîr ‘Alî (“Ali the captive”). Acem ‘Alîsi was, according to one
tradition, amongst the artists brought to Istanbul after Selîm’s (impermanent) conquest
of Tabriz in 1514, but there are in fact earlier mentions of ‘Alî in the sources.264 His
involvement in the design and/or construction of the quite grand mosque in Sarajevo is
in fact not at all unlikely, given that Acem ‘Alîsi indeed was the chief royal architect of
the period. The patron, a son-in-law of Bâyezîd II,265 was evidently well-connected, and
the building monumental enough – both in terms of size and (unusual) plan – to have
required the involvement of a skilled architect.266 But even if we accept that Acem
‘Alîsi, as his sobriquet suggests, was from Tabriz or another land east of the Ottoman
borders, there is nothing in the outcome that betrays an inspiration from beyond Istanbul
– much in the same way that the agency of Dubrovnikans in Sarajevo at the same time
(see below) did not automatically result in an Italianate imprint on the buildings in the
construction of which they were involved. The lesson is, clearly, that a certain cultural
background did not necessary affect the artistic product, for its form was to a large
extent determined by the expectations and directions of the patron or a certain tradition
unrelated to the origin of the artist.267
263 Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, I, pp. 294-5.
264 See Stefanos Yerasimos, “15.-16. yüzyıl Osmanlı mimarları: bir prosografya
denemesi”, in: Afife Batur’a Armağan. Eds. Deniz Mazlum et al. Istanbul: Literatür
Yayıncılık, 2005, pp. 37-62, cit. p. 41. As the predecessor of Sinân in that post, this
architect is usually also connected with, inter alia, the construction of the Selîm I
complex in Istanbul in the early reign of Süleymân.
265 An early biography of this statesman was supplied by Ćiro Truhelka, “Gazi
Husrefbeg, njegov život i njegovo doba”, in: Glasnik Zemaljskog Muzeja Bosne i
Hercegovine, XXIV (1912), pp. 91-232.
266 The mosque consists of a central domed space, flanked by two smaller domed
spaces and a large semi-domed space in the Southeast; the portico has five domed bays.
It is the largest of the Sarajevo mosques, even surpassing the Hünkâr Câmi‘i rebuilt
around 1560. Elements of the plan are more typical for the last quarter of the fifteenth
century than they are for ca. 1530.
267 Although there are numerous Bosnians and Hungarians mentioned in the
registers of palace workshop artists (cf. İsmail Hakkı Uzunçarşılı, “Osmanlı sarayında
Ehl-i hiref (Sanatkârlar) defteri,” in: Belgeler, XI/15 (1986), pp. 23-76), their products
seem to bear no imprint of that. The artists commissioned to create an Islamic
93
2.5.2. Italian models and Ottoman military architecture: a case apart?
It has long been argued that Italian artists played a major role at the Istanbul court of
Mehmed II.268 Next to the famed portraits by the likes of Bellini, it is believed that these
individuals had contributed to the planning of major sites like the Topkapı Palace, the
Fâtih Complex, and the star-shaped Yedikulle fortress.269 The sources, however, are
silent as to the concrete contributions of foreigners to these projects. More important for
the scope of this study is that none of Fâtih’s projects seems to have had a noticeable
echo in the Balkan provinces, and given the centrism of Istanbul in this era this should
not be a surprise. There are, however, interesting cases in the domain of military
architecture. In the chronicle of Doukas (completed ca. 1462), for instance, we read that
at Lapseki on the Dardanelles in ca. 1402 the Genoese nobleman (evgenēs) Salagruso de
Negro figured as the builder (oikodomos) of a fortified tower for Emîr Süleymân.270 The
combination of the wording oikodomos and the reference to the Genoese’s noble
descent seem to suggest that he actually planned the building rather than built it with his
own hands or paid for it. After the tower was destroyed in a Venetian attack in 1416,
and the conquest of Constantinople in 1453 had made essential a better defence of the
Dardanelles, Mehmed II had two new fortresses built around 1460: Sultâniye (later:
mukarnas-type of ornament for a pavilion in the Topkapı palace grounds in the 1590s
were non-Muslims (cf. Faroqhi, Artisans of empire, pp. 61-2).
268 For what appears to be the earliest critical appraisal, see Josef von Karabacek,
Abendländische Künstler zu Konstantinopel im XV. und XVI. Jahrhundert: Italienische
Künstler am Hofe Muhammeds II. des Eroberers, 1451-1481. Vienna: Alfred Hölder,
1918.
269 Marcell Restle, “Bauplannung und Baugesinnung unter Mehmet II. Fâtih,” in:
Pantheon, XXXIX (1981), pp 361-7; Çiğdem Kafescioğlu, Constantinopolis/Istanbul:
cultural encounter, imperial vision, and the construction of the Ottoman capital.
University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009.
270 “There was in Lampsakos [i.e. Lapseki; opposite Gelibolu] a man who was
erecting for [Emîr] Süleymân [“Mousoulman”] an enormous tower [pyrgon] on the
promontory opposite Kallioupolis [Gelibolu]. The builder [oikodomos] was Salagruso
de Negro, a Genoese nobleman [evgenēs]. After Süleymân observed that the tower was
constructed to his satisfaction he rewarded the builder with large sums of money.” This
translation largely follows Doukas, Decline and fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman Turks.
Tr. Harry J. Magoulias. Detroit: Wayne State University, 1975, p. 106, with adaptations
according to the Greek/Latin text in Immanuel Bekker (ed). Corpus scriptorum
Byzantinae [etc.]: Michaelis Ducae Nepotis Historia Byzantina. Bonn: Ed. Weber,
1834, p. 88.
94
Çanakkale) and Kilid ül-Bahr (Kilitbahir). Interesting is the striking contrast in design:
while the former was a forbidding and relatively simple rectangular kal‘a with a
similarly rectangular keep in the middle, the latter shows a formally sophisticated plan
of keep and curtain based on a trefoil.271 It follows that the planning of the two
fortresses had been entrusted to different individuals, the one on the European shore
probably having been a Venetian or Genoese – perhaps even the same person
responsible for the very Italianate Yedikulle at Istanbul.
Another fortress from the early period merits our attention in this regard: the
Eptapyrgio/Yedikulle of Thessalonikē (ill. 16). While it has traditionally been dated to
the pre-Ottoman period, a recent re-reading of the inscription (1431) emphasized that it
does not refer to an Ottoman repair to the building, as long locally held, but to an ex
novo construction.272 Even before this re-dating, which is yet to be studied from its
potential implications for art history, archaeologists have maintained that this annex to
the urban enceinte indeed dates from a single construction period.273 This is of interest
to our discussion because one part of the layout of the Eptapyrgio might constitute an
early version of “Italian” fortresses with pointed bastions. This was a type only
contemplated on paper in fifteenth-century Italy but which became the norm after the
failure to defend Italian cities during the French invasion at the end of that century.274
While this case merits a far more detailed investigation, it may again not be unlikely
that also here an Italian planner was involved. Only a few years later a Burgundian
pilgrim spoke in Constantinople to the Genoese nobleman “Messire Benedic” who
admitted that he aided “the Turks” in their conquest of Thessalonikē from Genoa’s rival
271 For these two fortresses, see Simon Pepper, “Ottoman military architecture in
the early gunpowder era: a reassessment”, in: City walls: the urban enceinte in global
perspective. Ed. James D. Tracy. Cambridge: University Press, 2000, pp. 282-313, cit.
pp. 300-5; p. 286 for the destruction of Süleyman’s pyrgos at Lapseki.
272 Heath W. Lowry, The shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, 1350-1550: the
conquest, settlement & infrastructural development of Northern Greece. Istanbul:
Bahçeşehir University Publications, 2008, ch. 3, esp. p. 112.
273 Vasileios Koniordos and Philippos Oreopoulos, “Heptapyrgion. Thessaloniki,
Greece,” in: Secular medieval architecture in the Balkans 1300-1500 and its
preservation. Eds. Slobodan Ćurčić and Evangelia Hadjitryphonos. Thessaloniki:
Aimos, 1997, pp. 192-5.
274 See Horst De la Croix, “The literature on fortification in Renaissance Italy,”
in: Technology and Culture, IV/1 (1963), pp. 30-50.
95
Venice in 1430.275 The Ottomans had already lost this important city once, in 1402, in
the wake of the Timurid invasion; could this have made Murâd II more open to
experiment with innovative designs supplied by an ally against the Venetians, a captive
hoping for manumission, or a renegade? The Yedikulle of Istanbul and Kilid ül-Bahr
certainly attest to a will for experimentation with regards to military architecture in the
middle decades of the fifteenth century. We also know that in the library of Mehmed II
were found a number of Italian military treatises.276 Finally, there is the earlier
precedent of a Genoese builder of the pyrgos at Lapseki.
While the Yedikulles at Istanbul and Thessalonikē may be, if at all, considered
early examples of experimentation with models established (materially, and in a much
more formalized variant) in Italy only in the sixteenth century, the hexagonal inner keep
(içhisâr) of the 1570s fortress of Anavarin-i Cedîd at Pylos (Navarino) on the Morea is
an Italian-type fortification system of that age (ill. 17). Even an Ottoman order from
1573 speaks of the fortress as designed “in the Frankish style” (frenk üslûbında).277 The
“foreign” plan was also not lost on Evliyâ Çelebi, who fittingly compared it with the
contemporary (Habsburg) fortress of Nové Zámky (Uyvar) and described it as “lowlying”
278 (süflâ) and hexagonal.279 The latter comparison is remarkably apt, for the
Castrum Novum built there by the Habsburgs at the same time as Anavarin-i Cedîd
follows a very similar, Italianate design. There is, in fact, evidence to suggest that
Anavarin-i Cedîd was the work of a foreigner. The fortress was built for Murâd III by
his grand admiral (kapudan paşa) Kılıç ‘Alî Paşa. A Calabrian-born, he was known to
275 Bertrandon de la Brouquière, Voyage d’Outremer. Ed. Ch. Schefer. Paris:
Ernest Leroux, 1892, p. 142. (“Et me dist ledit Messire Benedic qu'il avait esté cause de
faire perdre Salonique aux Venissiens pour leur faire dommage etla faire gaignier au
Turc; de quoy ll fist grant dommaige.”)
276 Cf. Florio Banfi, “Two Italian maps of the Balkan peninsula,” in: Imago
Mundi, XI (1954), pp. 17-34, esp. p. 23.
277 Kiel, “The construction of the Ottoman castle of Anavarin-i Cedid,” p. 276
for a transcription of the decree, p. 267-8 for a translation. See also Necipoğlu, Age of
Sinan, p. 430 and 530 (note 137). The mosque has not been destroyed, as Necipoğlu
believes.
278 In order to adapt to a different siege technology, the “Italian” fortifications
were indeed significantly lower than the medieval ones.
279 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, VIII, pp. 141-2 for a transcription; translation
into English in Ian McKay, “Evliya Çelebi’s account of Anavarin”, in: A historical and
economic geography of Ottoman Greece, pp. 215-22, cit. p. 218-9.
96
have had in his service a number of renegades and slaves, including many carpenters,
and also a personal architect. An order of Murâd III refers to an unnamed architect,
supposedly working for Kılıç ‘Alî, and orders him to cooperate with another architect
named Şaban who was already on site.280 For Necipoğlu, it seems clear that this
unnamed architect was, like his patron, an Italian renegade.281 The hexagonal design
with pointed bastions, thus far unprecedented in Ottoman architecture, and the fact that
the (presumably non-Muslim) architect remained unnamed, would certainly point in that
direction.
The Ottoman attitude toward military architecture appears to have been among
the many things that changed as a result of the numerous Habsburg-Ottoman
confrontations between the mid-seventeenth and mid-eighteenth century. Around 1720
were refortified two major strongholds on the new borders, at Niš and Vidin, to whose
medieval fortifications the Ottomans had added little over the centuries. Interestingly,
Vidin on the Danube acquired its modern, Vauban-type fortification as a result of
involuntary Habsburg assistance: after that possession, far inside formerly Ottoman
territory, had to be given up as a result of the Treaty of Passarowitz in 1718, the
Ottomans merely completed in 1722/3 what the Habsburgs had begun to build a couple
of years earlier.282 Interestingly, the master builders were brought from as far away as
Crete, the building of “tabyas” (in this context perhaps referring to bastions) being
considered their speciality.283 In 1650 Cretan builders had similarly participated in the
280 Cf. Kiel, “Construction of the Ottoman castle,” p. 267.
281 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 430; see also p. 102, 167, and 530 (note 137).
282 Rossitza Gradeva, “Between hinterland and frontier: Ottoman Vidin, fifteenth
to eighteenth centuries,” in: Proceedings of the British Academy, CLVI (2009), pp. 331-
51, cit. p. 335-6.
283 As leader of the works in 1719/20 is recorded the mi‘mâr Vanko of Chania,
assisted by “Fotya” (Fotis?) of Ērakleio. Vanko was later replaced by the mi‘mâr
“Manyo” (Manolis?), similarly of Chania. See Suraiya Faroqhi, “Fifty years after the
conquest: eighteenth-century reforms in Ottoman Crete,” in: The Eastern
Mediterranean under Ottoman rule: Crete 1645-1840. Ed. Antonis Anastasopoulos.
Rethymnon: University of Crete Press, 2008, pp. 243-254, cit pp. 246-7. Interesting in
this respect is also an entry in the (now lost) sicill of Skopje from 1735, published by
Gliša Elezović (in “Turski spomenici u Skoplju [part II],” in: Glasnik Skopskog
Naučnog Društva, II [1929], pp. 243-61, cit. pp. 259-60), in which three masters – Giga,
Nikola, and Tanas – are identified as able candidates for the construction of a bridge
near Skopje, for they had “built” the fortress of Vidin. The above makes it obvious that
these three masters were not work-leaders, but merely working under them. Still, a
97
building of a pentagonal (initially hexagonal?) fortress with pointed bastions facing the
besieged city of Ērakleio (Candia).284
Very interesting in this regard is also the case of Niš: it was similarly refortified
along Vauban principles, yet had been held by the Habsburgs only for a couple of
months each in 1690 and 1737. After Passarowitz, which established Niš as a Habsburg-
Ottoman border town, Köprülüzâde ‘Abdullâh Paşa, the beğler-beği of Rumelia, was
put in charge as the supervisor of the construction of the new fortification at Niš.285 It
appears that he simply oversaw a construction along the lines of what the Habsburgs
had started at Vidin. The model was foreign indeed, but in this case, apparently, no
foreign expertise was required.286 Yet, it was also later in the same century that, at least
in Istanbul, the Ottomans came to rely on the expertise of mostly French engineers for
their strengthening of defences along the Bosporus.287
2.5.3. Painting in the Italianate Mediterranean sphere and the Balkan interior
While the examples of military architecture pertain in all cases to works commissioned
by the sultans, the best case to support the claim that the Ottoman borders were quite
open to outsiders – or their art – is probably that of the artists connected with Crete.
Under Venetian rule since 1203, the island’s largely Greek population had come into
contact with Italian forms, cultivated through commissions by Catholic patrons and an
participation in this project seems to have enabled them to advertise themselves for
future projects.
284 Elias Kolovos, “A town for the besiegers: social life and marriage in Ottoman
Candia outside Candia (1650-1669),” in: The Eastern Mediterranean under Ottoman
rule, pp. 103-75, esp. pp. 103-5.
285 Nejat Göyünç. “The procurement of labor and materials, in the Ottoman
Empire (16. and 18. Centuries),” in: Economies et sociétés dans I’empire Ottoman (fin
du XVIII-début du XX siécle), Eds. Jean-Louis Bacqué Grammont and Paul Dumont.
Paris: CERS, 1986, pp. 327-33, cit. p. 331f.
286 The leading builders/masons in this project were brought from the island of
Lesvos. Cf. Göyünç, “Procurement,” pp. 331-2.
287 Kemal K. Eyüpgiller, “Preliminary results from the survey of Rumelikavağı
fort,” in: Monuments, patrons, contexts: papers on Ottoman Europe presented to
Machiel Kiel. Eds. Maximilian Hartmuth and Ayşe Dilsiz. Leiden: NINO, 2010, pp.
129-42, provides several examples from the 1780s and 90s.
98
acquaintance with Italian engravings.288 Yet, while at home they mostly painted
representations of saints on wood panels, the Athonite monasteries who invited the
famed Theophanēs Strelitzas in the early decades of sixteenth century demanded that he
paint walls in fresco. This adaptation is visible in his early works.289 The Cretans’
Italianate style coexisted with the “Palailogan” style that saw a revival in the same
period in the Central Balkans as a result of the restoration of the Peć Patriarchate.290
Patrons were apparently able to choose from a variety of stylistic modes. This was
acknowledged from the seventeenth century onward in iconographers’ manuals written
in the Ottoman realm, which came to include sections on “how to work like the
Cretans” and “how to work like the Muscovites.”291
At the same time, reflections of the Cretan style, possibly mediated via Athōs,
could be felt in distant Bosnia, Herzegovina, and even southern Pannonia.292 Venice too
was an important centre of Orthodox communities on the eastern Adriatic. Icons painted
there (or in Crete) in the “Italo-Cretan” style found their way into the Balkan interior, as
we know from the notebook of the eighteenth-century Prizren merchant Petar
Andrejević (d. 1787).293 Yet, Catholic-Orthodox “hybrids” did also have a prehistory in
the Ottomans’ north-western borderlands, where around 1500 a number of exchanges
took place across the Venetian-Ottoman-Ragusan borders. Several Orthodox Christians
288 On Italian engravings as models, see Manolis Chatzidakis, “Marcantonio
Raimondi und die Postbvzantinisch-kretische Malerei,” in: Zeitschrift für
Kirchengeschichte, LIX (1940), pp. 147-61. I am grateful to Anestis Vasilakeris on his
insightful comments concerning Cretan artists.
289 Chatzidakis, “Contribution à l´étude de la peinture postbyzyantine,” pp. 199-
202.
290 Petković, Zidno slikarstvo, passim. This, no doubt, had to do with the
conservatism inherent in the institution and its particular goals.
291 See e.g. The ‘painter’s manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna (tr. Hetherington),
pp. 11-2. While Dionysios based these sections on an earlier work, the so-called First
Jerusalem Manuscript from the seventeenth century, it must be noted that he chose not
to copy that text’s praise for the Cretan Theophanēs, only that for his personal favourite,
the “Palaiologian” Panselēnos. See Bentchev, Technologie, p. 67.
292 Mazalić, Slikarstvo, p. 168f.; Kiel, Art and society, p. 305; Petković, Zidno
slikarstvo, p. 226.
293 Nenad Makuljević, “The trade zone as the cultural space: traders, icons and
the cross-cultural transfer at the Adriatic frontiers in early modern times”, in: 11th
Mediterranean Research Meeting. Florence: European University Institute, 2009 (CDRom).
99
from Herzegovina went to Dubrovnik to be trained by Catholic masters.294 At the same
time, Catholic Dubrovnikans painted “alla greca,” not least on Ottoman territory, while
Orthodox “pictores graeci” worked in Catholic churches in the (Venetian) Bay of
Kotor.295 In this relatively compact region, divided between three states, borders seem
to have been crossed quite liberally.
A curious case of what appears to have been an Ottoman subject painting purely
in the Italian style is that of Stjepan Dragojlović, active around 1600.296 The Catholic
Bosnian, who signed his works in Latin and Cyrillic, had received his training in
Venice, possibly under Veronese. The few preserved works of the talented painter, who
may have been a friar, are found in the monastery at Kraljeva Sutjeska and
surroundings.297 Given the connections between the Bosnian Catholics and Venice and
Rome in this period, this may not have been a singular case.298 Yet, among the effects of
the Habsburg-Ottoman wars in the second half of the seventeenth century was a sharp
reduction of the number of monasteries in Bosnia through demolition – Kraljeva
Sutjeska was one out of three (of formerly nine) that survived – and an emigration of a
fairly wealthy class of Catholic merchants certainly figuring as donors.299
294 These cases have been discussed in ch. 2.4.4.
295 Cf. Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 39, 97, 96, 130, 147. See also the cases of “mixed
style” of Tudor Vuković-Desisalić (p. 148-9), Marko Skorojević (p. 128), and Jovan
Mangafa (p. 85), the latter possibly of Greek or Vlach origin. On the “pictores graeci”,
see Klaus Wessel, “Pictores graeci: über den Austausch künstlerischer Motive zwischen
Orthodoxie und Katholizismus in Montenegro,” in: Jugoslawien: Integrationsprobleme
in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Ed. Klaus-Detlev Grothusen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
und Ruprecht, 1984, pp. 98-104.
296 For the claim of Dragojlović being a patron rather than artist, see ch. 2.2.6.
297 Mazalić, Slikarstvo, p. 44-8.
298 See also the case of Marko Skorojević (fl. 1660), similarly from around
Sutjeska, in Kukuljević, Slovnik, p. 419.
299 For these developments, see Ivan Lovrenović, Bosnien und Herzegowina:
eine Kulturgeschichte. Vienna: Folio, 1998, pp. 121-2.
100
2.5.4. Islamic architecture and the Adriatic factor
Foreign influences are much harder to trace in the Balkans’ monumental religious or
residential architecture than they are in military architecture, painting, or the plastic arts.
The noteworthy monuments of Orthodox Christian religious architecture from the
fifteenth to seventeenth centuries show no significant breach in this regard after the
advent of Ottoman rule.300 There can be sensed no innovations inspired, for example, by
the rationalist formalism of the Italian Renaissance or the nervy movement of the
Baroque, nor is there a great deal of reference to Western-type ornament prior to the
nineteenth century. Where “foreign” forms are introduced – as mostly seen in the forms
of ornament and arches – these are, in fact, usually of Ottoman-Islamic origin: most
typically we see in such churches, usually the catholicons of monasteries, the pointed
Ottoman arch and/or stalactite ornament known as mukarnas.301
The case of Islamic architecture is more interesting. As discussed elsewhere,302 it
is well attested in a multitude of contemporary sources that builders from Dubrovnik
(and perhaps other coastal areas) were employed in many, maybe most, of the largescale
projects in Bosnia in the sixteenth century. Yet, the consistency in the
“metropolitan style” found in the mosques of this period similarly suggests that they had
no part in their design – if we except minor structural and ornamental irregularities, that
is. The Dubrovnikans appear to have worked under an architect dispatched from
Istanbul according to a design similarly drafted in the capital. While it must be due to
300 The developmental possibilities regarding foreign inspiration are
demonstrated by the very Italian façade (masking a very simple two-naved building) of
the church of Monē Arkadiou (late sixteenth century) near Rethymno on Venetian-ruled
Crete. A curious exception of what may be seen as an architectural innovation in the
Ottoman context is the church of the sixteenth-century Taou Pentelis monastery near
Athens; it appears to imitate the hexagonal baldachin support of contemporary mosques
from the late period of Sinan. For a plan and a few observations, see Robert Ousterhout,
“Ethnic identity and cultural appropriation in early Ottoman architecture,” in:
Muqarnas, XII (1995), pp. 48-62, cit. p. 50.
301 See e.g. Andrej Andrejević, “Manastir Moštanica pod Kozarom,” Starinar,
XIII/XIV (1965), pp. 163-175; idem, “Prilog proučavanju islamske uticaja na umetnost
XVI. i XVII. veka kod srba u Sarajevu i Bosni,” in: Prilozi za proučavanje istorije
Sarajeva, I (1963), pp. 51-7; Machiel Kiel, “Armenian and Ottoman influences on a
group of village churches in North-Eastern Macedonia: a contribution to the history of
art of the Armenian diaspora,” in: Revue des études arméniennes, VIII (1971), pp. 267-
82.
302 See e.g. ch. 2.1.2.
101
them, or other provincial agents, that some of the geometric ornament occasionally
looks rather crude (see e.g. ill. 35), more interesting are the cases of some early
mosques the execution and especially the ornament of which differs even from other
monuments in Bosnia. Window forms and ornaments seen at the Nasûh Ağa mosque in
Mostar, for example, have been portrayed as Gothic and Renaissance echoes from
Dalmatia.303 As I shall argue in chapter 4.4, such “foreign features” may not have been
intentional, however. Rather, the lack of models on site for properly metropolitan
designs may have led the Dubrovnikan builders to turn to forms with which they were
well acquainted.
The Herzegovina remains an interesting region after the sixteenth century. It
must have been in the 1720s that a clock-tower was built by Resulbeğ-zâde ‘Osmân
Paşa, the kapudan of the area (and a recent convert from Herceg Novi), or a relative of
his. With its rounded windows and execution it reminds of the campanili of the
Adriatic. (It certainly looked Western, or un-Ottoman, enough for the Turkish
architectural historian Ayverdi to [wrongly] date it to the nineteenth century.304) There
should be little doubt that Dubrovnikan builders proved responsible for this monument,
just as they did for the two mosques built in the revived town of Trebinje in this
period.305
On this occasion it should be noted that in parts of the Western Balkans
looking toward the Adriatic there seems to be have been more generally a certain
tendency toward the semicircular arch, as opposed to the typical Ottoman pointed arch,
long before the semicircular arch became palatable in the architecture of the capital in
the second half of the eighteenth century.306 This is somewhat curious, for (next to the
303 Amir Pašić, Islamic architecture in Bosnia and Hercegovina. Istanbul:
IRCICA, 1994, p. 192f.
304 Ayverdi, Avrupa’da Osmanlı mimârî eserleri, II, p. 469.
305 For these three buildings in Trebinje, see Hivzija Hasandedić, Muslimanska
baština u istočnoj Hercegovini. Sarajevo: El-Kalem, 1990, pp. 232-40. Dubrovnik had,
by then, also seen better days, and the three large churches built in the city republic after
the devastating 1667 earthquake were built according to designs by Italian architects.
See Lazar Trifunović, Kunstdenkmäler in Jugoslawien, I. Munich/Berlin: Deutscher
Kunstverlag, 1981, p. XXXV. What is somewhat striking is that the close contacts with
Ottoman Bosnia, at least in the sixteenth century, seem to have had no repercussions of
the architecture of Dubrovnik at all – especially if one compares this with Venice.
306 The first monumental Ottoman mosque in Istanbul consciously exhibiting the
semicircular arch seems to be the Nûr-u ‘Osmâniye (completed 1745). Porticoes with
rounded arches are seen earlier at the Fethiye mosque of Athens (ca. 1670); the nearby
102
hemispherical dome and the “pencil minaret”) the Ottoman pointed arch was one key
element of the recognizable and exportable Ottoman style. For this and other reasons, it
is doubtful that the aforementioned aberrations must be seen as intentional quotations of
non-Ottoman forms. More probable is that it simply reflected the local conditions in a
region far from the imperial centre and the faculties of the local workforce, some of
which was indeed recruited from without the Ottoman borders.307
2.5.5. Crossing borders within the Orthodox Christian oikoumenē and the question
of the “Baroque”
We have thus far addressed only transfers between the Ottoman Balkan and the
Italian/Italianate sphere, or rather the frontiers to the West and South. In the Northeast,
the artistic exchange with the Balkan interior and the Danubian vassal principalities of
Wallachia and Moldavia seems to have been rather one-way: their princes sponsored art
especially for the monastic clusters in northern Greece and Greek or other artists
coming to work in Wallachia and Romania rather than vice versa. In Pannonia, there
seems to be little of note prior to the fundamental shift of borders around 1700, which
leaves a large number of Orthodox Christians, mostly but not exclusively Slavs, on
either side of the new Ottoman-Habsburg border. Merchant companies knew how to
exploit this situation and a new elite formed and acquired the economic potency
necessary to sponsor art. This in turn produced some traffic of artists across the border,
usually of painters from Albania or Macedonia coming to work north of the Danube and
Sava.308 It is also under Habsburg rule that the Orthodox Christians of Pannonia came
into contact with a European Baroque visual culture, aspects of which they embraced.309
“Tzisdaraki Mosque” from a century later that shows an apparently conscious side-byside
of pointed and semicircular (or very slightly pointed) arches.
307 One might similarly argue that the Ottoman centre did not clearly see
Dubrovnik as “outside” its borders, for it was a tribute-paying vassal.
308 For several examples, see ch. 2.1.2.
309 The standard work is Dejan Medaković, Serbischer Barock. Vienna: Böhlau,
1991; see also more recently Jelena Todorović, An Orthodox festival book in the
Habsburg Empire: Zaharija Orfelin's Festive greeting to Mojsej Putnik (1757).
Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006.
103
Yet, ironically, it was the Macedonian-born painter Hristifor Žefarovič who produced,
in Bođani (near Vukovar) in Habsburg territory, the frescoes that are usually regarded
as the first work of the “Serbian Baroque.” Dating to the same decade as that by
Dionysios of Fourna’s, Žefarovič also wrote an ermēneia in which he already advised
his student readers to “paint after nature” and invited them to acquaint themselves with
various artistic media and techniques (for which he uses German termini technici).
Žefarovič had also read Western treatises on art, albeit in translations into Greek by his
fellow-painter Panagiōtēs Doksaras, who had left his native Peloponnesus to work on
(Venetian-held) Corfu.310 Given Žefarovič’s intellectual and artistic awareness and his
work in various artistic media, it is perhaps not entirely anachronistic to call him a
visual artist rather than a mere iconographer.
The “occidentalizing” efforts of the likes of Žefarovič or Doksaras were by no
means universally welcomed, nor did their own work always reflect their horizons.311
What gradually developed, first only north of the Habsburg-Ottoman border, was
perhaps more an awareness of the possibility to produce or sponsor artworks in different
modes. I have mentioned in chapter 2.1.2 the case of a painter from Voskopojë having
been invited to work in the Buda eparchy in the 1770s, and consequently producing
works in a rather conservative style. This was at the same time as the episcope of Buda,
the Greek-born Dionisije, employed as his “court painter” Mihailo Popović, who been
trained in Vienna and had embraced the “new style,” that is, the Baroque. In the same
region could be seen collaborations like that between a certain Anton Kuhlmeister and
the aforementioned Nikolaos Iōannou Talēdoros, who had been born on Ottoman
Naxos. Around 1800 they joined forces to produce icons and iconostases for churches in
Eger, Miskolc, and Buda.312
Forms associated with the European Baroque do not end with the so-called
Serbian Baroque on Habsburg soil, however. In the Ottoman Balkans between the mideighteenth
century and mid-nineteenth century we come to find what can be identified
as Baroque elements, emptied of the ideological content they had in non-Catholic
310 Bentchev, Technologie, pp. 154-6; on Doksaras, pp. 130-1.
311 Moutafov finds that they themselves “failed to carry out in their own works
the ideas they were popularizing.” See Emmanuel Moutafov, “Post-Byzantine
hermeneiai zographikes,” p. 78.
312 Davidov, “Serbische und griechisch-zinzarische Malerei,” p. 173 (note 1),
177-8, 180; Nagy, “Nikolaos Iōannou Talēdōros.”
104
contexts across in the Danube. We see them in murals of residences, churches, and
mosques alike, but also in woodcarving and even in architectural design – if we choose
to see the undulating forms of eaves and arches as Baroque-induced. But was the
introduction of these elements in various media really part of one trend, as is usually
claimed in the literature on phenomena described as the “Bulgarian” or “Turkish
Baroque”? I should rather like to see the outcome as a synthesis of different forms,
many of which were indeed of European origins, that entered various parts of the
peninsula at different times, and for different reasons. There was, on one hand, the
increasingly close connection with Habsburg centres like Vienna or Buda, which came
to have an impact especially on merchant towns in the southwest Balkans (Voskopojë,
Siatista, or Ampelakia) in the eighteenth century, or Plovdiv and the Central Bulgarian
townships in the nineteenth. At the same time, the development of the wooden
iconostasis into an artwork of its own accord, making it distinguished not only by the
icons it holds but by the skilfulness of its plastic articulation, seems to have been
impacted by developments in Russia and Ukraine, which both underwent a process of
top-down cultural occidentalization in this century. Finally there is an echo in the
provinces of what has been called the “Ottoman Baroque” in Istanbul, which we first
see in the repaintings of mosque interiors. Perhaps it was from that type that this
decorative style spread to residences and churches. Judging from murals repainted in
eighteenth century, after the devastating Habsburg invasion in 1699, both a “classical”
(in the sense of the court/imperial style of the later sixteenth-century) and a “Baroque”
style were options to patrons and artists.313 A similar dualism has been observed in
wood-carving in what is today Bulgaria in the middle decades of the nineteenth century:
a more “oriental” tradition connected with masters from nearby Trjavna rivals a more
“occidental” mode attributed to masters from the Debar area in West Macedonia.314
313 See Snježana Mutapčić, “Pola milenija zidnog slikarstva Sarajeva,” in:
Prilozi historiji Sarajeva: radovi sa znanstvenog simpozija Pola milenija Sarajeva. Ed.
Dževad Juzbašic. Sarajevo: Institut za istoriju, 1997, p. 457-66. For a case study of
various layers in one monument, see Andrej Andrejević, “Arhitektura i zidno slikarstvo
XVI veka sarajevske Careve džamije,” in: Saopštenja, XXVIII (1986), pp. 148-56.
314 Péew, Alte Häuser in Plovdiv, p. 27, 42. See also Margarita Harbova,
“L’espace culture de la ville balkanique entre l’Orient et l’Europe (d’après l’exemple de
la ville de Plovdiv, XVIIIe-XIXe siècles),” in: Etudes Balkaniques, XXVIII/1 (2002),
pp. 128-43, esp. p. 130.
105
2.5.6. The nineteenth century
The autonomous Belgrade paşalık (“Serbia”) after 1830 is an interesting case, for it was
because of the autonomy gained from the Porte that year that there occurred a small
boom in the “restoration” (read: repair and enlargement) of churches and the building of
residences for its new rulers. There also began in this period the parallel phenomenon
of builders coming, as was the tradition, from the South and an influx of engineers and
painters from Habsburg Hungary. These were frequently called “Swabians” even when
their names betrayed a Slavic origin. The church of the Apostles Peter and Paul in
Šabac completed in 1832 (according to an inscription which invokes Mahmûd II,
Nicholas I of Russia, and Knez Miloš), for example, was embellished with oil paintings
by Pavle Simić from the Habsburg Banat.315 When Knez Miloš intended to built for his
wife Ljubica a konak in the “Serbian suburb” (varoş) of Belgrade and was unable to
find a passable carpenter locally, door and window frames were imported from Zemun,
the Austrian town some kilometres up the Danube.316 The new parish church (Saborna
Crkva), also in the said varoş, was built by A. F. Querfeld from Pančevo, another
Austrian town 15km down the Danube.317 Yet, “Swabian engineers” were pricey and
had the reputation of being unnecessarily diligent – or at least Kanitz was so told by the
bishop of Užice, Joanikije, who prided himself for having undertaken the restoration of
the Žiča monastery with “his Vlachs” instead.318 When the task was, in the early 1880s,
to build a mountain road in the same region, it was apparently cheaper to hire Italian
builders from the Trentino to execute the plans drawn up by an engineer with the
315 Kanitz, Serbien, I, p. 351 (“von dem Banater Künstler Simić mit Ölbildern
geschmückt, die, weich und zierlich gemalt, durch elegante, glatte Pinselführung
bestechen, doch des hohen Ernstes und grossen Linienzuges entbehren, welche die
besseren altserbischen Fresken auszeichnen. ”)
316 Ibid., p. 87.
317 See Zoran Manević, “Novija Srpska Arhitektura,” in: Srpska Arhitektura
1900-1970. Ed. Zoran Manević. Belgrade: Muzej Savremene Umetnosti, 1972, pp. 7-
38, cit. pp. 7-8 plus footnotes for other buildings from the 1830s and the involvement of
agents from Zemun and Pančevo.
318 Kanitz, Serbien, II, p. 4 (“Er erzählte, wie er allein mit seinen Cincaren das
nun vollendete Werk ausgeführt, warf einige Seitenhiebe auf die grosse Kosten
verursachende Gründlichkeit “schwäbischer” Ingenieure und forderte mich schliesslich
auf, die wiederhergestellte Kirche in seiner Begleitung zu besichtigen.”)
106
Czech-sounding name Matejka.319 This already marks the integration of Serbia in the
international markets of labour force and ideas.
There are also hints on foreigners working in construction in Bulgaria in the
nineteenth century: a German mason was seen in Plovdiv,320 while the famed Bulgarian
builder Nikola Fičev is said to have begun his career wandering around with Italian
masons – appreciated in the late Ottoman Balkans because they knew how to make
waterproof mortar.321 One wonders if these could have been the same Italian workmen
who came to Bulgaria in the mid-nineteenth century to build, with funds from Vienna,
new churches for the small community of Bulgarian Catholics in four villages near
Svištov. The pompous churches with their belfries vertically projecting from humble
villages, made possible by sultanic decrees owed to Austrian diplomatic influence, soon
attracted the envy of the Orthodox Bulgarians. But the showiness did not last: when
Kanitz saw them in the 1860s or 70s, they were practically ruined. Too much of the
available money, administered by the local (Italian rather than local Catholic) clerics,
who had chosen to bring in Italian builders rather than to use local workforce, had been
channelled into adornment as opposed to structure.322 The opposite had happened in
Negotin, where some time before 1885 a local dülger had promised the townsfolk to
build a water channel from a nearby mountain source. After using up considerable
amounts of money it showed that he did not possess the necessary skills, and thus he
was chased out of town. Instead, a certain engineer Jiraček (a Czech?) was hired. With
clay pipes imported from Germany he fulfilled his promises and the frequency of fever
and tuberculosis in Negotin soon decreased.323
The situation in Bosnia was quite similar. By the 1860s and 1870s we find
names like Eichhorn (of Osijek), Ceciliani, and Dausch in documents relating the
319 Ibid., I, p. 558-9 (“Italiener aus dem Trentino stellten die trefflichen
Stützmauern am Šargan her. Der Strassen-Kurrentmeter kostete nur 12 d.”)
320 Emanuel Turczynski, Die deutsch-griechischen Kulturbeziehungen bis zur
Berufung König Ottos. Munich: Oldenbourg, 1959, p. 25.
321 Todorov, Kolyo Ficheto, p. 7, 40; Bichev, Architecture in Bulgaria, p. 73.
322 Kanitz, Donau-Bulgarien, II, p. 164-7.
323 Idem, Serbien, III, p. 436.
107
construction and adaptation at the Catholic monasteries at Tolisa and Guča Gora.324 In
the mid-1860s a Špiro Marić from the Dalmatian island of Vis worked on Catholic
structures in Fojnica and probably also in Livno.325 But at that time even the local
Ottoman authorities hired Habsburg subjects for its projects: the konak of the Ottoman
governor-general of Bosnia and the military hospital were built in the 1860s by Franjo
Linardić and Franjo Moise from Split.326 In chapter 2.4.4 has already been discussed the
case of a Montenegrin and a “German” painting a room in the konak of the local
Ottoman governor of the border town of Zvornik in the 1840s. This example, with the
artists ending up in prison for suspected Serbian secessionist sympathies, also shows
that working across the border brought with it some dangers, at least in this period and
region.
A rather curious career seems to have been that of the Polish-born construction
engineer Anton Terezínsky: he had entered the service of the Ottoman authorities at
Sarajevo in 1875 as “Hurşîd,” evidently having converted to Islam in the process. Upon
the arrival of Habsburg rule in 1878 he seems to have reconverted to Catholicism and
entered governmental service as the commander of the fire brigade.327 Another
interesting case of a convert from a much earlier period is that of an architect working
for the secessionist ‘Alî Paşa of Iōannina. His story had been recorded by Pouqueville in
the early 1800s, who found that the superintendent of works for the ruler’s new fortress
at Permeti “turned out to be a renegado from Calabria, in the south of Italy. So far did
he carry his civilities,” noted Pouqueville, “that though now a Mahometan he would
present me to his wife, the daughter of a bey or gentleman of the country.”328 For this
individual, the move across the Ionian Sea apparently resulted in upward mobility, as
must have been the case for Anton/Hurşîd.
324 Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 19, 32, 37. Eichhorn was a resident of Osijek, a
Slavonian city located only 80km north of Tolisa, where he worked in 1864-6.
325 Ibid., p. 86.
326 Ibid. p. 79, 99; see also Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 179.
327 Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 136; see also http://www.vatrogascisa.
org.ba/pvb/bhistorijat/terezinski.html.
328 Pouqueville, Travels in Epirus, pp. 56-7.
108
2.5.7. Foreign artists in the Ottoman Balkans: patterns
In sum, it appears to be only after the 1830s that foreigners – especially builders,
masons, and engineers – seem to have worked on a larger scale in the Ottoman Balkans.
Starting from the 1860s, with a peak in and after the 1880s, different patterns emerge:
with the independence of Serbia and Romania and the proto-independence of Bulgaria
gained in 1880, monumental building or planning is taken over by architects and
engineers either from or trained abroad, often in Vienna or Paris.329 In the period before
the 1830s, their agency may not have been significant; the widespread insecurity since
the late eighteenth century may have played a part, making the work in this area not
very attractive. But after the 1820s, with the appearance of “new” tasks in the
construction industry, especially with regards to representative churches and residences,
their presence may have become more widespread. At the same time the frequency of
“archaeological travellers” increased, which was certainly in part a result of improved
communications and security issues; it was also a reflection of an increased openness of
the region to outsiders.
We can discern certain patterns that apply to all of the periods discussed here.
These were: 1) the employment of artists from other Islamic polities, whose skills as
masons, tile-makers, architects, manuscript illuminators, or calligraphers were
appreciated in an early period at which Mamluk and Timurid forms still carried some
prestige; 2) the presence of artists from the West, usually architecturally knowledgeable
individuals from the Italian states, who supplied sophisticated designs for military
architectural projects (probably Pylos and Kilid ül-Bahr, possibly Thessalonikē) in the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; 3) the activities of artists from neighbouring or
relatively nearby non-Ottoman territories, such as Crete or Dalmatia (shared between
Venice and Dubrovnik, eventually becoming Austrian), who provided services
appreciated within the Ottoman realm; 4) the appearance of renegades who continued to
work in the arts in their new home; 5) the proliferation of foreign artists after the 1820s
329 For the Bulgarian case, see Grigor Doytchinov and Christo Gantchev.
Österreichische Architekten in Bulgarien 1878–1918. Vienna: Böhlau, 2001, p. 59
(includes Austrian-trained Bulgarians); for Romania: Carmen Popescu, Le style national
Roumain: construire une nation a travers l’architecture. Rennes: Presses Universitaires
de Rennes, 2004; for Serbia: Manević, Novija srpska arhitektura and Pantelić,
“Nationalism and architecture”; for Greece: Eleni Bastéa, The creation of modern
Athens: planning the myth. Cambridge: University Press, 2000.
109
because they mastered techniques and styles unfamiliar to locals, or possibly also
because they offered some services at lower prices.
2.6. Artists’ career choices and career paths: in search of patterns
2.6.1. From father to son and teacher to student
An answer to the question why individuals in the Ottoman Balkans opted for a
professional career in the arts of building and/or decoration is, predictably, impeded by
the lack of basic biographical data for even most of the best-known artists – or at least
in a quantity and quality that would permit sound conclusions on the basis of
comparison. It is clear, however, that in most professions it was simply customary to
have certain skills handed down from father to son. Rarely is this as clearly illustrated
as in the genealogical tree of one renowned family from West Macedonia: beginning
with a certain Mirča of Tresonče in the late seventeenth century, it shows Andreja
Damjanov, the best-known builder in the western half of the peninsula in the middle
decades of the nineteenth century, as a representing the sixth generation in his family to
pursue a career in building or decoration.330 Damjanov’s counterpart in the eastern half
of the Pensinula, the Drjanovo-born Nikola Fičev, by contrast, was a newcomer in this
regard: it was due to the untimely death of his father that his mother apprenticed him to
itinerant masons, thus laying the foundations for a spectacular career.331
The pattern of the son following the father’s line of work was certainly very
widespread, but it was neither necessarily a rule, nor valid for all the arts. In the field of
calligraphy, for instance, the training in and exercising of this art clearly depended less
on inherited livelihood than on literacy, achieved through medrese-education. The case
of the Hattât Hacı Hasan b. ‘Abdullâh (d. 1769/70), an Egyptian merchant and
calligraphy enthusiast who trained others in this art in Sarajevo (very probably free of
330 Hadžieva Aleksievska and Kasapova, Arhitekt Andreja Damjanov, pp. 9-11.
331 Todorov, Kolyo Ficheto, p. 7. On the way to become his own master, in most
arts the aspiring artist had to go through stages of training, for which usually variants of
the Turkish terms çırak (assistant), kalfa (apprentice), and usta (master) were used in
the Balkan languages. This signalled the understanding of these arts – if commercially
pursued – as relating to the general system of a guild-based local or regional economy,
even if the artists were not necessarily members of guilds, which were an urban
phenomenon.
110
charge),332 also might suggest that the art of calligraphy depended less on a market than
did, for example, construction. No detailed research into calligraphy diplomas, which
are extant in some libraries and archives in the region, has been undertaken yet, but
there has surfaced nothing to suggest that the handing-down of skills from father to son
should have been a pattern of some consequence in the field of calligraphy. Such was
presumably also not generally the case with Orthodox Christian painting, an art for
which training often took place in monasteries, in part because the painters were
frequently religious dignitaries themselves. This was the case, for instance, with
Dionysios of Fourna (d. ca. 1745), whose father had been a bishop. Yet, Dionysios did
not learn the art from his father, who did not paint. In his ermēneia, Dionysios informs
us that it was because he had not managed to find a worthy trainer that he had to learn
the art simply by studying and copying extant masterpieces. Future painters unable to
find good trainers were advised to do the same.333 From the vita of the Sofia-born
painter-saint Pimen Zografski (d. 1610) by his disciple Pamfilije we learn that Pimen
had been taught how to read, write, sing, and paint by his spiritual father Thomas of
Sofia – all at a very young age. His training was interrupted, after six years of
instruction, by Thomas’ death.334
While builders, wood-carvers, and decorative painters were thus likely to have
inherited their livelihoods from their fathers and a greater degree of deliberation may be
noted among Islamic calligraphers and Christian iconographers, whose careers were
more often than not based on training in medreses and monasteries rather than within a
family, the rise to fame of Ottoman (royal) architects seems to have been more
incalculable. Since only partly within the scope of this study,335 I shall not foreground
332 Koller and Ramović. “Die Integration eines ägyptischen Händlers.”
333 Dionysios of Fourna, Painter’s manual, p. 2. In the roughly contemporary
ermēneia by Hristifor Žefarovič is similarly stressed the necessary devotion of an
individual seeking training from a master, here interestingly compared to the situation in
other crafts: “Should anyone go to a shoe-maker with the desire to learn the craft of
shoe-making, no matter how simple that may be, he will hardly be taken as an
apprentice unless he is willing to sacrifice three years as his master’s servant.” (Cited as
translated in Moutafov, “Post-Byzantine hermeneiai zographikes,” p. 71.)
334 Monah Pamfilij, Žitie na Pimen Zografski.
335 No monument (other than the fountains discussed in ch. 1.3.1) in the Balkans
is associated with Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa, but given his position all major projects from
the period must have passed through his office. His term as royal architect coincides
111
this case, but it would be foolish to ignore the information provided about the career of
Sedefkâr Mehmed Ağa, probably a native of Elbasan, in Ca’fer Efendi’s Risâle
completed in 1624. In the part of the text that may identified as the architect’s vita, we
read that its protagonist came to Istanbul as a result of the “blood tax” (devşirme) in his
native Rumelia. Having entered the palace service as a page (‘acemî oğlân) in the
1560s, the boy who was given the name Mehmed worked first as a gardener and guard.
It was for music, however, that he developed a passion. Undecided whether to pursue
this passion professionally, Mehmed consulted a popular Halvetî sheikh. Not without
regret, the young man followed the sheikh’s advice to pursue another career and began
to associate with the mother-of-pearl-workers (sedefkârlar) at the palace, convinced that
the common basis of the arts of music, mother-of-pearl-working, and architecture was a
sound knowledge of geometry. It was also at the palace that he began to study
architecture under the supervision of the chief royal architect Sinân himself. Sinân also
advised Mehmed to send his best works in mother-of-pearl to the sultan as presents; a
good piece of advice, it appears, for Mehmed was soon promoted to a job within the
administration. Eventually he became an inspector of Ottoman fortresses in the Balkans,
his first appointment related to architecture. This would be followed again by
appointments to administrative jobs, in Istanbul as well as the eastern provinces, until in
the late 1590s Mehmed was appointed waterways inspector (su nâzırı) of Istanbul. It
was as a result of the chief royal architect Dalgıç Ahmed Ağa’s being promoted to the
post of beğler-beği at Silistra in 1606 that Mehmed became the empire’s mi‘mâr-başı.
This career trajectory not only shows a considerable degree of incalculability; it also
illustrates the differences in the careers of Ottoman and European architects around
1600.336
with the last wave of monumental construction (including e.g. large mosques built in
Prizren and Razgrad) in the Balkan region.
336 Cafer Efendi, Risâle, pp. 24-41. Artan sees it as a novelty of the post-Sinân
generations that “major figures were now required to prove their mettle in bureaucratic
and military positions, in addition to devoting themselves to the arts of their choice.”
Rather than the deaths of epoch-making artists of the “classical” age, such as Sinân or
Nakkaş ‘Osmân, it was this change that henceforth determined the development of the
arts and the position of the artist. See Tülay Artan, “Arts and architecture,” in: The
Cambridge history of Turkey, III: The later Ottoman Empire, 1603-1839. Ed. Suraiya
Faroqhi. Cambridge: University Press, 2006, pp. 408-80, cit. p. 450.
112
2.6.2. Stockbreeders to artists: topos or pattern?
The remainder of this chapter shall be dedicated to the question of mobility between
two very different professions, stockbreeding and the arts. More concretely, I shall
examine the claim of a progression from shepherding to art-production that is
occasionally hinted at in the literature. The individual whose professional focus may
have shifted from shepherding to itinerant work in building or decoration, possibly as a
gradual change, is predictably invisible in the textual sources of this period. Yet,
although I have not found evidence for such a “conversion” in any single case, there are
reasons not to discard the idea that – in certain circumstances – it may have made much
sense for an individual initially engaged in shepherding to find work in the building
industry, wood-carving and carpentry, or the production of handicrafts.
However, extreme caution is in order considering that the topos of “shepherdturned-
artist” has a certain prehistory in art history, a fact which may have informed
modern accounts of this phenomenon. In their Legend, myth, and magic in the image of
the artist, Kris and Kurz purport the existence of a considerable number of biographies
that tell of how “the master first gave evidence of his gifts by sketching the animals he
herded as a shepherd. Then a connoisseur happened to pass by, recognized the
extraordinary talent in these first artistic endeavors, and watched over the proper
training of this young shepherd, who later emerged as this or that far-famed genius.”337
The best-known example of, and the possible source for, later variations on this cliché is
the vita of Giotto. In Vasari’s version of his life, the painter who is praised for having
“rescued and restored” the art of painting – despite his having been born in 1276 of very
humble background and in an “incompetent age” – was discovered by the Florentine
artist Cimabue by chance. Astonished by drawings on stone by Giotto, who looked after
the sheep of his poor peasant father, Cimabue decided to support the shepherd’s career
as an artist in Florence.338 Recent scholarship has questioned Giotto’s relationship with
Cimabue, for it appears that he entered Giotto’s vita only in the sixteenth century.339 So
337 Kris and Kurz, Legend, myth, and magic, p. 8
338 Giorgio Vasari, Le Vite de' più eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani,
da Cimabue a' tempi nostri. Florence: Lorenzo Torrentino, 1550, p. 139.
339 Hayden B.J. Maginnis, “In search of an artist,” in: Cambridge Companion to
Giotto. Eds. Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona. Cambridge: University Press, 2004, pp.
10-31, esp. 12-3.
113
if Giotto was very probably not discovered by Cimabue while sheepherding, was he
sheepherding at all? Considering Vasari’s portrayal of Giotto’s talents as little short of a
miracle, one must not forget the symbolism of the shepherd in Christian culture – Jesus
Christ’s self-description as “the good shepherd,” the shepherd as a metaphor for god, or
sheep-shepherd/flock-pastor as an analogy in church hierarchy, David as a shepherdturned-
king – as a potential narrative device to account for the “miracle” of Giotto.340
That the topos of the shepherd-turned-artist did in fact have an impact on
modern scholarship in a Southeast European context is perhaps best illustrated by the
coverage of Ivan Meštrović. Hailing from the mountains of Dalmatia, Meštrović came
to enjoy international renown as a Yugoslav sculptor in the early decades of the
twentieth century. The artist himself complained that many of the stories told about him
– many of which referring to Giotto’s promotion from shepherd to artist as a parallel
life-story – were not always entirely accurate. A contemporary biographer sought to
correct these by claiming that Giotto’s story, “the tale of a born artist,” had repeated
itself with Meštrović, but “in a far stronger and more genuine form, under much more
unexpected and much less favourable conditions.”341 According to this biography (or
vita?),342 Meštrović grew up in a poor and patriarchal Dalmatian village community in
the late nineteenth century. While his uncles ploughed the ground, Meštrović’s father
insisted to build houses instead, which had him considered “less useful for the
community.” It was from his father that Meštrović learned to read and write, “or, better
still, to engrave letters in stone.” Then, “wandering over the mountains behind his flock
of sheep or goats,” he began to “cut trees and small trunks into all sorts of shapes.”
After wood he turned to stone, a material “in which the country was rich. It was not
very long before the shelves at home were covered with all kinds of odd carvings, the
work of the little shepherd.”343
340 One might add that Vasari was writing at an age in which the Pastoral was
popularized as a literary genre. Its protagonist was often the shepherd in an idyllic
natural setting, the utopian Arcadia.
341 M. Ćurčin, “The story of an artist,” in: Ivan Meštrović: a monograph.
London: Williams and Norgate, 1919, pp. 15-23, cit. p. 16.
342 For a discussion of these terms and genres, see ch. 4.3.1.
343 Ibid., p. 17. Meštrović was not discovered by a fellow artist but by agents of
national emancipation, who recognized his talent as a resource for their cause. For
Meštrović’s role in Yugoslavism, see Andrew Baruch Wachtel, Making a nation,
breaking a nation: literature and cultural politics in Yugoslavia. Stanford: University
114
While in Meštrović’s biography it is claimed that he had inherited some talent
from his father, who worked as a builder, by choice, able-bodied males from
mountainous areas were usually driven to itinerant work exactly because the local
economic potential of these areas was very limited. In partial contrast to the general
image of mountains as desolate, Braudel emphasized that they are frequently
overpopulated – “or at any rate overpopulated in relation to their resources.” When the
tolerable level of population was surpassed, the “overflow” was sent to the plains.344
Evidently, there were limits to the professional activity as shepherds in certain areas, set
by the availability of grazing grounds. The demographic “overflow” had to resort to
itinerant work (gurbet, pečalba) if it planned not permanently migrate. Those who had
lost their livelihood, their (or somebody else’s) sheep, had to do the same.345
As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, several modern authors have
made a connection between shepherding and wood-carving specifically. Drumev and
Vasiliev claim that it was because of the time available to shepherds while on pasture
that it was especially among this group that wood-carving as an art would develop.
Press, 1998. Meštrović’s biography seems in part to have been dictated to the
biographer, as had been those of Michelangelo and Mi‘mâr Sinân. It is moreover
claimed (see Ćurčin, “The story of an artist,” p. 18) that his calling was revealed to the
sculptor when he began to use his artistic skills to “put life into the legion of national
heroes and characters of whom the little shepherd had so often heard during winter
months from his father and from others, but which had up to then neither shape nor
reality in his mind. His uncle had wandered through Bosnia and Herzegovina, he had
been by sea to Rieka (Fiume) and Trst (Trieste), so he always spoke of something
beyond the mountain tops which were the boundary of their vision at home. And he
spoke of countries where there lived men of the same blood, and the same speech and
the same traditions, who had the same past and a glorious past. He mentioned that there
were churches and monasteries in Serbia and Macedonia as well as in Dalmatia,
monuments of powerful emperors and kings of old, whose names were known to
Meštrović from ballads. He then realised that all that was sung about by his fellowpeasants
was not mere phantasy or something without substance, but that it had existed
in truth, and that his uncle had seen at least its traces. Wandering among the rocks, his
young eyes discovered figures of stone, figures with the gestures of heroes the very
rocks transforming themselves into members and fragments of legendary figures.” The
revelatory nature of this development is underlined with biblical terminology – prodigy,
prophecy, divine, godlike – used throughout the book to describe the man and his work.
344 Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean world in the age
of Philip II. Tr. Siân Reynolds. Ed. Richard Ollard. London: Harper Collins, 1992, p.
19.
345 The connection between loss of flock and gurbet is made in Brunnbauer,
Gebirgsgesellschaften, p. 261.
115
They first produced ornamented objects of everyday use and eventually engaged in the
production of all kinds of ornamented wooden parts of houses or churches. According
to these authors, it was not untypical for a shepherd to become a carpenter or builder as
a result.346 The historian Vucinich, who spent his childhood (in the 1920s?) shepherding
on the pastures east of Foča, similarly remembers that besides caring for livestock, “the
mountaineers spent time carving wood and making wooden spoons and forks, spindles,
distaffs, flutes, bowls, cigarette holders, tobacco boxes, tool handles, boxes, canes,
smoking pipes and other items.” While the more talented would occasionally try
themselves at carving gusle (one-stringed instruments), they more typically “carved the
same kind of articles and in the same style,” year after year.347 Shepherds carving wood
out of boredom were also observed by Weigand in the late nineteenth century. Their
works – he mentions as example a spoon whose handle shows a snake fighting a stork –
could not compete with the carvings in churches, he adds;348 but the very fact that he
makes this connection is interesting.349 Another traveller observed in Thessaly at the
beginning of the nineteenth century that the Muslims of Trikala rented out rooms to
shepherds (“Vlachs”) who came down to the plain with their flock in the harsh winter
346 Drumev and Vasilev, Die Holzschnitzkunst in Bulgarien, pp. 6-7. Kanitz
(Donau-Bulgarien, I, p. 219) too mentions lazing, carving, and music-making as three
seemingly typical pastimes of shepherds.
347 Wayne S. Vucinich, “Transhumance,” in: Yugoslavia and its historians:
understanding the Balkan wars of the 1990s. Eds. Norman M. Naimark and Holly Case.
Stanford: University Press, 2003, pp. 66-90, cit. p. 81-4.
348 Gustav Weigand, Die Aromunen: ethnographisch-philologisch-historische
Untersuchungen über das Volk der sogenannten Makedo-Romanen oder Zinzaren.
Leipzig: Barth, 1894, II, p. 64.
349 One wonders if the increase in elaborately-sculptured animals and human
figures on Orthodox Christian iconostases around 1800, as is perhaps best illustrated by
the works of the western Macedonian carvers of the once-pastoral Mijak “tribe”, may
have been conditioned by their experience in the production of ornamented everyday
objects of wood similar to the one described above. Such objects were certainly in part
produced for use in shepherd households, in part to be sold off to townspeople for
additional income. Exotic animals are also found carved in stone at some of the
churches by the Damjanov workshop, whose family similarly hailed from
Mijačija/Reka. They are foreign to the Byzantine tradition, as are many of the features
of these churches.
116
months and took up employment as artisans or labourers.350 A century later Wace and
Thompson reported that among the Vlach muleteers of northern Pindus it was common
for the young to learn a trade “and often in the summer instead of going about with his
father and the mules will sit at his trade in Samarina, cobbling, tailoring or carpentering
as the case may be.”351 In sum, there is plenty of evidence for people of shepherding
background engaging in handiwork as an alternative to, or in addition to, their
traditional line of work. But did this take place on a scale that it would have to be
considered in an art history of the region?
While this question has to remain unanswered for now, another source provides
information that might help explain why some shepherds may have been drawn toward
the construction industry. Doda’s monograph on his native Reka region (north of Debar
in West Macedonia), completed in Vienna in 1914, portrays a confessionally and
linguistically mixed region whose limited agricultural potential forced large parts of its
population to earn their livelihood through shepherding and gurbet. While Doda does
not mention the Slavophone master builders from villages like Galičnik or Tresonče, for
they were not in the Albanian part of the valley that he described, the shepherding
routine he records included tasks that required some basic “architectural knowledge.”
Arriving at their summer pastures the shepherds began to restore the cabin (Sennhütte)
that had usually been destroyed in the course of winter. They erected a rectangular
windowless building of stone covered with a steep roof of straw. In the interior was
found a fireplace with an appliance for the suspension of kettles, clothes, and carpets; a
small niche in the wall sheltered the coffee service. The description by Doda sounds like
they were using an established set of measurements in this endeavour.352 In any case,
some building work, if of a primitive scope, seems to have been part of the shepherding
profession, at least in some regions. In Herzegovina, if we follow Vucinich, such cabins
350 Leake cited in Richard I. Lawless, “The economy and landscapes of Thessaly
during Ottoman rule,” in: An Historical Geography of the Balkans. Ed. Francis W.
Carter. London: Academic Press, 1977, pp. 501-33, cit. pp. 525-6.
351 A. J. B. Wace and M. S. Thompson, The nomads of the Balkans: an account
of life and customs among the Vlachs of northern Pindus. London: Methuen & Co.,
1914, p. 42.
352 Bajazid Elmaz Doda, Albanisches Bauernleben im oberen Rekatal bei Dibra
(Makedonien). Tr. Franz Baron Nopcsa [1914]. Ed. Robert Elsie. Münster: LIT, 2007,
pp. 69-70.
117
were traditionally built not by the shepherds themselves but by professional workmen
from the Drina valley.353
If we look at “structural” evidence in the sense of dominant professions in
certain micro-regions and change over time, Široka Lăka provides for a very interesting
case. This village in the Bulgarian part of the Rhodopes was once so renowned for its
builders that at some point even surfaced the (unfounded) claim that Mi‘mâr Sinân
hailed from there.354 Yet, it was really only in the late nineteenth century that this
village traditionally living on sheep-farming and shepherding came to be dominated by
itinerant masons. In 1906 they represented 39% of its taxable population.355 There are
some similarities with another locale renowned for its builders working throughout the
region, Galičnik in West Macedonia. This village at 1200m above sea level,
distinguished by an almost of urban-type architecture owing to its renowned local but
far-travelled builders, was very probably too originally a sheep-raising settlement. In
fact, as late as 1912, local shepherds would drive around 60-70,000 sheep from Galičnik
to the plains in the hinterland of the Aegean in Macedonia or Thessaly, and,
furthermore, even in 1922 as many as 90% of its able-bodied males were pečalbari.356 It
is probably no coincidence that in both cases the change of dominant professions was
one from shepherding to gurbet-based building work, or the coexistence of both in areas
with limited agricultural potential.
There is another interesting overlap that seems to strengthen the connection
between shepherding and certain crafts, namely the prominence in both of populations
known as Vlachs – a somewhat ambiguous term used to describe either a Romancespeaking
Balkan population, shepherds, or both.357 Malcolm noted in surprise that
353 Vucinich, “Transhumance,” pp. 81-2.
354 See Hartmuth, “De/constructing a ‘legacy in stone’,” p. 704.
355 Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften, p. 262.
356 Palairet, “Migrant workers,” p. 44.
357 According to one widespread theory (see e.g. Braudel, Mediterranean, p. 9),
the Balkans’ Vlachs are the descendents of Latinized populations pushed toward the
mountains during the Slavic invasions, whereafter agriculture was left to the Slavs and
Greeks in the plains. After shepherding and itinerant work in the arts, the third
profession traditionally associated with Vlachs was (international) trade, especially in
the eighteenth century and with Austria. All three professions, it should be stressed,
necessitate a considerable degree of mobility.
118
among the Albanians of Prizren the terms “Vlach” and “Gog” (stone-mason) were used
interchangeably, finding that the craft of stone-masonry was one “rather unlikely skill
developed by Vlachs in this region,” given their pastoral-“nomadic” traditions.358 But if
we look at the areas of Vlach settlement in the Macedonian-Epirote border region, from
which so many of the travelling builders hailed, it appears very plausible that they were
pushed into the building industry exactly because this region’s economic resources were
limited. Despite their partially mobile lifestyle, they developed skills in accordance with
their experience as well as the market for such services. It may also not be entirely
coincidental that, at least in the Rhodopes, gurbetçi assistants and apprentices were
traditionally hired on the same days as shepherds: St George’s day (April 23, OS) and
St Demetrius’ (October 26, OS).359 This may strengthen the argument for a traditional
overlap between these two lines of work.
In concluding, it remains difficult to track single cases of a shepherd taking to
the arts, but, as we have seen, there were many factors involved that may have made
such career path less anomalous than it sounds. The limited mountain economy
periodically drove those who found no employment in shepherding into gurbet, very
often as builders, carpenters, or wood-carvers. This may have had to do with the fact
that at least some shepherding mountain populations were already acquainted with basic
“architectural” skills due to the nature of their work, for their mobility necessitated the
construction of temporary habitation on pastures. Moreover, significant amounts of time
available to them while their sheep were grazing apparently helped develop their skills
as carvers of ornamented objects made of wood, which was a resource easily available
to them. Presumably, some shepherds were more talented in this art than others, making
it easier for them – and perhaps even more lucrative – to find employment as gurbetçis.
By the nineteenth century this meant that mountain settlements like Galičnik or Široka
Lăka, which were initially dominated by the shepherding profession, could sustain a
tradition of excellence in the crafts of building and decoration that made their itinerant
workpeople known beyond their immediate surroundings.360 Certainly, there was no
358 Noel Malcolm, Kosovo: a short history. London: Macmillan, 1998, pp. 203-
4. “Nomadism” is a misleading term here and must be replaced by transhumant.
359 Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften, p. 259.
360 The remarkable sophistication of wood-carving work done by masters from
West Macedonia, as well as their background in stockbreeding, was in fact
acknowledged by by R. F. Hoddinott in an article (“The tradition of wood carving in
Macedonia”) in The Burlington Magazine (XCVI/618 [1954], pp. 278-83), in which he
119
advantage to be gained for masons or carvers to reside in remote mountain locales.
Instead, their residence there must have been conditioned by the fact that a part of their
families were still engaged in professions depending on the economy of these areas,
most notably shepherding.
2.7. Conclusion
This chapter has discussed a number of very different aspects of one phenomenon that
may be best defined as the framework for the activity of artists in the Ottoman Balkans.
I have begun by pointing to a number of factors that might be defined in broad terms as
geographical, emphasizing the interplay between mobile and static factors as well as the
considerable distances regularly traversed by many artists. I have also tried to show that
there is a relation between the physical and the artistic geography of the region. At the
same time, it must be stressed that the importance of a given place as a site of artistic
production, display, and consumption did not necessarily depend on the convenience of
its location in terms of easy access. Decisive was rather its integration into dynamic
networks of exchange of goods, services, and ideas. The mobility customary in most
artistic professions helped bridge the rugged terrain. It also made possible the rapid
dissemination of novel forms over a wide region in the course of a very short time. As it
was customary in many fields to gain experience in the capital, which remained an
attractive destination for the provincial workforce, it was also the Ottoman metropolis
that was often the source of trends. Work done in the provinces, it should be stressed,
was not necessarily provincial, however. More than in architecture, this was visible in
decorative and religious painting, but also in wood-carving, which is practiced almost
wrote that: “The leading wood carvers, in fact, were a pastoral tribe, the Mijaks, who
had their centre at Galičnik near Debar, close to the present Albanian border ...
Wherever it is, the unvarying characteristics of Mijak craftsmanship are a free and
naturalistic form, exuberant vitality and originality and complete freedom from Oriental
stylization and monotony.” The “use of high relief with free portrayal of the human
form and scenes from the Bible and Church history” were, according to Hoddinott, the
result of “a new and liberating development” that had spread from some Athonite
monasteries through Macedonia at the end of the eighteenth century. This author
thought that “the principal foreign influence appears to have been the once rejected
Baroque, filtering across the mountains from the Adriatic coast.” On the connections
between Mijaci and Vlachs, see Asterios Koukodis, Studies on the Vlachs.
Thessalonikē: Zētros, 2003, pp. 433-6.
120
like a fine art. Regarding architecture, where the gap between these local works and the
works of the capital is more considerable, there is a major change between the sixteenth
and the nineteenth centuries, relating to a number of shifts: the most remarkable projects
are not anymore undertaken by architects producing designs for the provinces but by
local, itinerant builders and carpenters. Next to a change in prominent architectural
types, resulting from larger-scale changes in Ottoman society, a major factor in the
genesis of the (vivid) artistic “scene” in the nineteenth century seems to have been the
overpopulation of highlands that led to seasonal work migration. The reasons for the
proliferation of itinerant over urban builders remain unclear. Perhaps it was their
preparedness for mobility that not only greatly helped them stay informed of trends,
thus possibly increasing the demand for their services, but also enabled to better
responded to the market in an increasingly decentralized region and time.
Chapter 2.2 has sought to tackle the question of the place we are to give to
people engaged in artistic production in Ottoman provincial society. Here a rather
important conclusion drawn was that no easy generalization is possible. If status is to be
measured over relative prosperity, then we must acknowledge that there were great
divergences not only between the various arts but even among artists engaged in the
same lines of work. We must moreover add the factors of place and time, and the
impact of how much people in a certain place were ready to pay for certain services at a
certain time. There are also differences that concern the education of people engaged in
various arts, which certainly contributed to their perceived status, as did the perceived
cultural importance of their work. Here, calligraphers and Christian iconographers are a
case apart from builders, carpenters, and decorative painters. The latter must be
assumed to have been generally illiterate at least until the later nineteenth century. The
distinction between master builder and architect, stressed in one seminal essay, seems to
not have been greatly relevant for our problematic, for no “architects” in the proper
sense were present in the provinces – an important matter the discussion of which I shall
resume in chapter 4.2. Interesting are also the observations by two Western travellers
discussed, irrespective of their representativeness or accuracy: one implied that artists
and craftsmen were more respected in Ottoman society than in the West, the other that
some of them mastered tasks for which in the West a formal institutional training was
necessary. This, in turn, would have qualified them for a higher social status in the
West. Finally, I have also hinted at the likelihood that there may have been an increase
in the status of artists in various lines of work in the late Ottoman period. The reason for
121
this may have been an increased demand for outstanding work among a growing
entrepreneurial class.
Artists’ own ambitions regarding the recognition of their work and status could
be expressed in inscriptions and, far more rarely, in self-portraits. Both provide us with
important hints as to these individuals’ self-understanding and identities. In chapter
2.3.2 I have suggested that, at least in certain situations, regional or professional
identifications appear to have been more important to contemporaries than “ethnic”
ones, certainly before the nineteenth century. Even the religious divide was, with
exceptions, usually easily bridged when it came to matters of business. Given that many
artists’ livelihood depended on the absence of barriers in a vast space between the
Danube, the Adriatic, the Aegean, and the Black Sea that had become their traditional
workplace, I suggest that artists were not likely to have been participants in nationalistsecessionist
movements, although this is occasionally stated in the literature. While
there are a few interesting cases (discussed in chapter 2.3.2) of artists engaging in what
may be liberally defined as political-cultural activism I maintain that, on the whole,
these were exceptional, isolated, and thus very possibly not representative. This,
however, changes nothing about the fact that they did exist.
Artists who were foreign subjects, discussed in chapter 2.5, seem not to have
worked on a large scale in the Balkans before the nineteenth century. Records of
relatively frequent border-crossings on all frontiers – from Crete to Macedonia, from
Macedonia to Hungary, and from the Peloponnesus to Corfu, Venice, and back – seem
to suggest that, at least the before the nineteenth century, political borders did not
constitute serious barriers for artistic exchange. If, as addressed in the following
chapter, the Ottoman Balkans did not partake in European “movements” like the
Renaissance or the Enlightenment and adopt their respective visual modules, and also
their participation in the “Baroque” remains a debated issue, then this was more likely
due to local sensibilities (see esp. chapters 3.1 and 3.2) than to larger schemes, that is, to
a cultural policy deliberated at the Ottoman centre.
122
CHAPTER 3
ARTIST, PATRON, AND AUDIENCE: CHOICE, COMMUNICATION, AND FUNCTION
3.1. Social and cultural limitations to art as the producer’s expression
3.1.1. The social regulation of form: degrees of visibility as a design factor
This chapter discusses the limitations and restrictions constituted by imperial or social
codes and regulations to the free circulation and expression of artistic ideas. In the main,
such were concerned with works of architecture – visible markers of presences – and
not interiors. Not liable to interventions from the outside, sophisticated decorative
programs found in interiors often stood in stark contrast to unassuming exteriors. While
it is customary to treat under “regulated architecture” that by the empire’s non-Muslim
subjects, with architectural “decline” often employed to demonstrate the inferior
position of non-Muslim subjects, we shall here also discuss buildings for use by
Muslims, who also were not free to engage in constructions according to their fancy.361
Recent scholarship has stressed the intimate connection between the form(s) of
buildings and the social status of their patrons. Certain elements, such as large domes,
multiple minarets, or lead-covered roofs, were reserved for specific classes of patrons.
Monuments could thus be read as expressive of a certain status or an ambition.362 The
“hanging” wooden dome on the interior of the mosque of Handân Ağa (1617/8) at
Prusac, for example, concealed by the roof of the exterior of this massive structure,
shows us that domes were apparently found desirable even by patrons not expected to
build domes. This may have been the case with this provincial ağa, inferior in rank to
the paşas and beğs who sponsored most domed mosques in Bosnia. It may have been
understood as a compromise between ambition and feasibility for Handân Ağa to
361 The necessity of permissions is emphasized by Kiel, Art and society, p. 191.
362 See Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, ch. 3
123
employ skilled carpenters to fabricate a faux dome that was invisible from the outside
but recognizable from the interior.
Even more curious in this respect is the so-called Alaca Câmi‘ in Tetovo in NWMacedonia
(ills 24-5): both the exterior and the interior of this building, which in its
present form dates to 1833/4, are lavishly painted. Money was not an issue for the local
strongman who had it rebuilt and decorated, but instead of a lead-covered dome we
again only see a wooden dome concealed under a roof. The patron actually was a paşa,
at least in title, but may he have thought that a “real” dome would have only drawn
unnecessary attention from the capital, from where he was already being watched?363 Be
that as it may, we must note that there are cases of patrons who evidently had the funds
but who chose not to include in their buildings features like domes that were
traditionally seen as markers of authority. The aforementioned paşa’s contemporary and
counterpart in northeastern Bosnia, kapudan Hüseyin of Gradačac, evidently had fewer
problems with this issue: his mosque with remarkable carved sufaces, foreign to the
Ottoman tradition, featured a dome and a tall minaret, as did its sixteenth-century
models.364
Better known is the dictate according to which newly constructed churches were
not allowed to have visible domes (see ill. 26 and 27).365 Practice shows that it really
only applied in urban environments, where indeed no domed buildings appeared until
the mid-nineteenth century when restrictions were lifted. It did not necessarily apply in
monastic establishments, where we see many Ottoman-period churches with domes.
Very probably this had to do with degrees of visibility: the religious hierarchy at work
in the Ottoman Empire was translated into townscapes. Belfries (where they existed)
were not to be higher than minarets and domes were largely the reserve of Muslims.
These precepts also extended to the aural domain of public space: the ezzân was not to
363 The most detailed study of this remarkable building is Mehmet İbrahimgil,
“Kalkandelen (Tetovo) Alaca-Paşa Camii,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, XXVI (1997), pp. 249-
66. The milieu of the paşas of Skopje and Tetovo in the 1830s is best documented in A.
Grisebach, Reise durch Rumelien und nach Brussa im Jahre 1839. Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1841, ch. 17&18.
364 For this mosque, see Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, II, pp. 173-6.
365 For the legal aspects of this restriction, see Gradeva, Rumeli under the
Ottomans, ch. 11.
124
be disturbed, or challenged, by the ringing of bells.366 Again, these “rules” did not apply
in some monasteries and in the vassal states, whose status of belonging to the dârü’lİslâm
was ambiguous. What mattered was not fact but visibility.
The possibilities of artists to use their work as a means of self-expression were
thus not only curtailed by the agenda and finances of the patron but also by a set of
sometimes unwritten rules. As a means of regulation, systems of permission-granting
and design-production were centralized: both the construction of Friday mosques and
the rebuilding of churches required permissions from Istanbul. The Muslim community
of a given place would sometimes very actively follow interventions to Christian
buildings for fear that the law (and their community’s prominence) might be violated
through the enlargement of buildings. When at Kreševo in 1767 the “schismatic”
Herzegovinian builders conspired with the friars to do just that, as discussed in chapter
2.4.2, they had to be sure that at that moment nobody was watching.
3.1.2. Design before design: conventions and structures
Histories of art that attribute the product of artistic processes to the agency of
individuals acting autonomously in their planning and design often downplay the
continuities of forms and concepts that have informed these processes.367 These we may
refer to as artistic structures or simply as conventions: a (significant) part of the
366 An Italo-Greek traveller of the seventeenth century (Leone Allacci [Leo
Allatios], The newer temples of the Greeks. Tr. Anthony Cutler. Philadelphia:
Pennsylvania State University Press, 1969, pp. 5-6) recorded that bells had been used in
the Middle Ages, but after the Ottoman conquest “the use of bells in the cities in which
they lived was interrupted. The Turks feared that the sound might strike fear into
wandering souls and destroy the peace which they enjoy … The priests, therefore, use a
wooden instrument to summon the Greeks to church … Bells of brass or copper are
very rare in Greece unless the town in which the Christians live is far removed from
traffic with the Turks. But there are many very old bells on Mount Athos and timepieces
which, without help, tell the hours by the noise they produce.”
367 In George Kubler’s critique (The Shape of time: remarks on the history of
things. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1965, pp. vii-viii, 5-6), the dominant
definition of art as symbolic language neglects the recognition of art as a system of
formal relations. Visual images from the past are present, and interfere, in almost all art;
even the non-figural art form of architecture is guided by the ways of admired buildings
of the past. Biological metaphors commonly employed to describe artistic periods –
birth, flowering, death – are only waystations downplaying the continuous nature of
artistic traditions.
125
outcome is determined even before planning and production. This chapter deals with
those aspects of buildings and artworks that were unlikely to be bones of contention in
the communication between artists and patrons over the physical outcome of their
collaboration, as to them they were a matter of course. Save for iconographers’
manuals, we have no contemporary sources specifying these “unwritten directives”; the
best evidence is the material one.
A fairly obvious case is that of Orthodox Christian painting in the Ottoman
Balkans, which adhered to the so-called post-iconoclastic system. Established in the
ninth century in the wake of the iconoclast controversy, it responded to the perceived
misuse of saintly representations for purposes of magic by codification. In contrast to
the post-medieval tradition of representation in the West, which championed naturalist
realism, the Orthodox convention was a different sort of realism: for these saintly
representations to be “accurate” and “authentic,” they had to follow their prototypes as
closely as possible. Their functionality depended on the faithfulness of the copy and the
recognizability of the represented. Not illusion but definition was the goal of the
iconographer. Marks of distinction include strongly accentuated facial features, the
colour of hair, or dress.368 Moreover, certain spaces in churches were reserved for
certain programs.369 Of course, painting between the tenth and the nineteenth century
did not remain unchanged, but the basic precepts of this art, their iconographical
framework, did.370
The physical framework too did not change much after the ninth and tenth
century, for the cross-in-square plan had proven the ideal shell for the iconographical
program to be given adequate consideration. Nevertheless, the architecture would
always be adapted to the occasion and specific program to be considered.371 And even
368 Military saints, for instance, may be identified by their being shown in
armour and with shaven faces. Women would most often have their hair concealed, and
would be portrayed while still at young age. Round faces, on the other hand, do not
necessarily make reference to such features as a major sign of recognition but,
considered the most beautiful face form, may have also contributed to the
communication of a certain persona as beautiful. Monks or bishops might be
represented in a less “corporal” way than, say, military saints.
369 These are discussed in Kiel, Art and society, ch. VIII.B2.
370 For an extensive survey of the problematic, see Henry Maguire, The icons of
their bodies: saints and their images in Byzantium. Princeton: University Press, 1996.
371 See e.g. Ousterhout (Master builders, esp. ch. 1), who insists on the
“responsive” character of this architecture.
126
though limitations of sorts sometimes allowed for no more than a moderate singlenaved
structure, the cross-in-square plan’s popularity throughout the Ottoman period
seems to suggest that it remained the superlative.
The problem this poses for art history is perhaps best illustrated by the
catholicon of the monastery outside the village of Kučevište near Skopje, built at an
unknown date on a cross-in-square plan with a regular dome. Its remarkable frescoes
are dated by inscriptions to 1591, 1630/1372, and 1701; but this, of course, does not tell
us whether the building as such is Ottoman, and thus an interesting case of relatively
monumental architecture for the period, or pre-Ottoman, in which case it would not
surprise. The masony too could be from the fourteenth or the sixteenth centuries. A hint
for the possibility of its dating to the sixteenth century indeed is the fact that during the
Ottoman centuries it stood on land taxed not by the state but by a vakf.373 Practice seems
to suggest that the restrictions on new churches did not always apply in such
territories.374
Clearer is the case of the catholicon of Novo Hopovo in the Fruška Gora (near
Novi Sad). An inscription reveals its construction to have been completed in 1576 with
funds by the merchants Lacko and Marko Jovšić from Ráckeve (near Budapest). One of
the most monumental post-Byzantine monuments, this church combines the cross-insquare
plan with a tri-conch (ill. 29), thus following a model popular in Moravian
Serbia in the fourteenth century that is thought to have been inspired by Athonite
models. The same plan is seen at the rebuilt catholicon of the Bačkovo monastery near
Plovdiv (rebuilt 1604; painted ca. 1643), which was similarly sponsored by merchants.
Donor portraits of Kyr Geōrgios and his son Kōnstantinos, of Istanbul, in the narthex
show them in in “oriental” garb.375 The monumentality of Novo Hopovo and Bačkovo,
which share, in addition to the “Athonite” plan, the representation of a series of ancient
372 It was then that the narthex was rebuilt and repainted, including images of
ancient philosophers.
373 Kučevište belonged to the vakf of the illustrious fifteenth-century marcher
lord ‘İsâ Beğ. The vakfîye has been published by Elezović, Gliša. “Turski Spomenici u
Skoplju [I]”, in: Glasnik skopskog naučnog društva, I (1926), pp. 135-76, cit. 45-101.
374 In the large village of Arbanasi (near Veliko Tărnovo), which belonged to the
vakf of the famed Rüstem Paşa, were built in Ottoman times no less than five new
churches and two monasteries. See Kiel, Art and society, pp. 111-7.
375 Basic information about both churches is found in Kiel, Art and society, p.
139-142, pp. 196-7, p. 329.
127
philosophers in their narthexes, is indeed exceptional for the Ottoman centuries. What
they demonstrate, however, is that some models remained relatively unaffected by time
and events.
The case with Ottoman-Islamic architecture was not that different, although here
the “ideal” prototype was established only in the fifteenth century. At the end of that
century, the large single-domed mosque with a three or five-bayed portico and a single
slender minaret was becoming a type replicated frequently in the southern half of the
region. In the middle decades of the following century it would conquer the northern
half, with the preserved examples in Bosnia-Herzegovina being almost exact copies of
each other (ill. 18).
While the single-domed mosques are certainly the most monumental Muslim
buildings following the abandonment of the “Great Mosque” at the end of the fifteenth
century,376 the vast majority of mosques and oratories were roofed and much more
primitive. The single-domed mosque was a type whose construction was largely
restricted to a certain class of patrons, the military-administrative elite (askerî). The vast
majority of such buildings date from the sixteenth century, but examples from all
periods until the demise of the empire show the continued attraction of the type, for
instance as a marker of success and prestige.377 Late Ottoman provincial strongmen
would rediscover these forms when they chose to engage in architectural patronage.378
At the Azîziye in Brezovo Polje on the Habsburg-Ottoman Sava border, built in the
1860s for refugees from Serbia, we see that the type seems to have proven resistant
enough even to assimilate elements derived from Western European forms (ill. 34).379
Decoration, certainly compared to the Christian Orthodox case, was far less an
issue in Ottoman-Islamic architecture, for there it did not have to respond to liturgical
requirements. The fact that so few mosque interiors from the fifteenth and sixteenth
376 Representative examples of such “cathedral mosques” are preserved in Sofia,
Skopje, Plovdiv, and Didymoteichon.
377 I discuss these shifts in my article “The history of centre-periphery relations
as a history of style in Ottoman provincial architecture,” in: Centres and peripheries in
Ottoman architecture, pp. 18-29.
378 For examples, see ch. 3.4.
379 This very interesting building, destroyed in the recent war, has so far escaped
the attention of architectural historians. For the basic data and some discussion, see
Fehim Hadžimuhamedović, “Turski neoklasicizam Azizije džamije u Brezovom Polju,”
in: Baština/Heritage, V (2009), pp. 249-316.
128
century have survived in the Balkans makes their discussion tentative;380 it seems safe
to say, however, that the murals are and were purely decorative, not didactic. Even
when landscapes became a popular subject of murals in the second half of the
eighteenth century, providing an alternative to decorative programs traditionally
dominated by geometric and vegetal forms, it was clear for patrons and painters alike
that there would be no human figures in Muslim buildings. It is in the same century that
there appeared forms clearly derived from the European Baroque. If we can take the
decorative program of the Alaca Câmi‘ at Foča (ill. 20) as an example for how
sixteenth-century buildings were originally embellished, one might say that landscape
murals of the eighteenth and nineteenth century certainly display a greater degree of
individualism. Due to later restorations it is hard to say anything about the decoration of
Ottoman mosques before the sixteenth century. Large-scale calligraphy broadcast in a
quasi-semiotic way, apparently typically set against a white background, can still be
seen at fifteenth-century buildings in Edirne and Didymoteichon and may have been the
rule at that time. Change over time can only be well tracked regarding the content of
inscriptions, which gets gradually more detailed and less formulaic.381
Before turning to a discussion of the role of the patron in the work of the artist, it
should be stressed that there were aspects of a building’s, object’s, or image’s design
that were socially and culturally determined before they could become a subject of
discussion in the design process. This is most evident in the case of Orthodox Christian
painting, where to be a successful painter meant more being an attentive observer than
being inventive. In fact, too much innovation may have meant that the art had lost its
purpose, its ritual and didactic function. The desires of patrons were, on the other hand,
not only limited by the skills of the artists they employed but also by codes of decorum,
as is most evident in the case of architecture, one of whose functions was to reflect
social hierarchies.
380 With residential architecture the problem of a lack of examples from before
the nineteenth century is even greater, making the enterprise of tracking conventions
and structures unfeasible.
381 Klaus Kreiser, “Über einige Eigenschaften osmanischer Inschriften,” in:
Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, XXX (1980) pp. 279-87.
129
3.2. The artist as accomplice and service provider
3.2.1. Functions of the image and image-makers
This chapter discusses the services rendered by artists to patrons and the implications of
this collaboration for the topic of this study. While the communication between these
two parties pertaining to matters of style and execution will be discussed in chapter 3.3,
I shall here approach the problem from the viewpoint of the “ideological” functions of
the product commissioned from the artist. In recognizing that the product that we
consider Art was not produced, as Belting distinguishes, in an “era of art” but an “era of
the image,”382 the question of whether to consider the producer as an executor or an
accomplice, or both, seems relevant enough. For most of the art that is the subject of
this study is not an art that was produced for a market, for a buyer purchasing a readymade
product, but one that was planned in concert with a patron.
The notion of the artist’s co-responsibility for the form and content of the
product paid for by a patron is, in fact, present already in the foundational discourses of
Byzantine iconography. At the iconoclastic Synod of Hiereia, held in Constantinople in
754 was cursed “the painter, who from sinful love of gain depicts that which should not
be depicted.” Finally, the synod resolved that churches should do away with “every
likeness which is made out of any material and colour whatever by the evil art of
painters.”383 As is well known, the iconophiles proved victorious in the end; the
382 Belting (Likeness and presence, p. 9) claims that the “era of the image” is
difficult to be imagined by us, who are so deeply influenced by the “era of art.”
Effacing a crucial difference, art history, he argues, declared everything to be art “in
order to bring everything within its domain.”
383 Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, XIV. Eds. Philip Schaff and Henry Wace.
Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1955, pp 543-45 (italics are mine). With “his polluted hands,”
thus the accusation, he tries to fashion “that which should only be believed in the heart
and confessed with the mouth.” Making an image and calling it Christ, he is “guilty of a
double blasphemy – the one in making an image of the Godhead, and the other by
mingling the Godhead and manhood.”While much of iconoclastic rhetoric revolved
around the question of the representation of the divine, theologians also took office in
the function to which saintly portraits had been put, namely as signs working against
evil powers. The support of the Byzantine emperor Leo III (r. 717-41) for the iconoclast
cause, however, can also be seen as grounded in non-theological considerations. The
power of monasteries had increased in Leo’s age due to their increasing union with the
commoners, which was seen as a threat to metropolitan authority by the emperor.
Monasteries had become popular places of pilgrimage; people arrived there with
questions, worries, requests, and gifts. Celebrated miracle-working icons earned
monasteries not only fame and influence but also income, adding to the revenue from
130
outcome was a rigidly codified iconography of saintly representations. Churches
became the shells for extensive iconographic programs that illustrated Christian
tradition. Yet, also this art was not merely an expression of devotion to the faith; it was
also useful.
The continuing “use value” of this art in the Ottoman Balkan context is perhaps
best illustrated by the record of an encounter in 1659 of the Ottoman traveller Evliyâ
Çelebi and an Orthodox priest at the monastery church of the Three Hierarchs at Iaşi,
which was then fairly recently built, with geometric ornament decorating its exterior, by
the Moldavian vassal prince (voyvoda) Vasile Lupu (referred to by Evliyâ as “Lipul
Beğ”). Asked by the traveller for the reason why such “likenesses” (named here tasvîr
and sûret) needed to be produced by and for use by Christians, the priest is reported to
have replied:
Truth be told, my lord, our infidel lot [kefere tâ‘ifesi] is stupid. When we deliver
sermons and counsels on our pulpits they don’t understand our words; for, like
your şeyhs, we speak in an eloquent tongue [talâkat-ı lisân]. Therefore, these
images were made for us to show to our Christians during the sermon and
explain what heaven and hell are like, what is the Last Judgment [etc.]384
3.2.2. Representation and upward social mobility
Patrons often used art as an instrument to communicate their claim for status through
the appropriation of certain forms for their purposes; they could be advised in this
venture by the artist or he could merely execute the project according to the patron’s
own specifications. While the sultanic mosques of Istanbul rather blatantly did this on a
larger scale by appropriating the forms of the Hagia Sophia that signified the legitimacy
of the Ottomans as the holders of authority over a Balkan-Anatolian empire while
discontinuing the original function of Hagia Sophia as a church, there are numerous
their often extensive, tax-exempt land holdings. By forbidding the worship of images,
concludes Hauser (Social history of art, I, pp. 126-7), who focuses on the realpolitical
aspects of the iconoclast controversy, the emperor deprived the monasteries of their
most effective means of propaganda.
384 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, V, p. 183 [transl. MH].
131
examples for such processes on a provincial level as well. The increased upward social
mobility of non-Muslim individuals in a late-Ottoman context, for instance, appears to
have been communicated by their partaking in a trans-confessional visual culture:
mansions of the wealthy in locales like Plovdiv were built and lavishly painted in a style
that evidently took Istanbul as reference (see e.g. ill. 41). The “Baroque” elements in
this style were not so much an expression of their owners’ and painters’ acquaintance
with the visual culture of the West than with that of the Ottoman capital, which
remained the principal reference among these elites. The surviving examples show that
the painters must have been very well aware of the trends in the capital.385 Very
probably this was because of occasional working sojourns there, possibly as assistants
of masters based in the capital. Could such experience, and the resulting privileged
acquaintance with metropolitan trends, have increased the market value of certain
artists?
An early, ambiguous, but highly interesting possible case of a rising group of
patrons appropriating meaningful forms for their purposes is that of the funerary
monuments of Bosnia-Herzegovina and adjacent areas known as stećci (“standers”).
Traditionally seen as a legacy of a medieval Bosnian heresy and its adherents, many
stećci were adorned with pictorial representations of, among other things, hunting and
festival scenes. Yet, pointing to the fact that the earliest datable funerary block with
figural representations dates only to 1477, Wenzel argued for the figural as opposed to
the non-figural blocks, all commonly referred to as stećci, to be acknowledged as an
Ottoman-period phenomenon. According to this author’s interpretation, they were the
product of a newly prominent group’s appropriating the funerary art of fourteenthcentury
Herzegovinian noble families for their purposes. This group was that of the
“Vlasi,” whose background was in stockbreeding, and who had settled in the karst
regions of Herzegovina. In the early Ottoman period in Bosnia and Herzegovina, that is,
in the second half of the fifteenth century, they rose to prominence as armed and
mounted guards accompanying the caravans between the new and rich metal mines of
East Bosnia and Dubrovnik. This may also explain the iconography of, for example,
opposing horsemen found on some funerary blocks, in addition to the appropriation of
385 Examples from the capital as well as the Balkans and elsewhere are compared
and discussed in Günsel Renda, Batılılaşma döneminde Türk resim sanatı, 1700-1850.
Ankara: Hacettepe Üniversitesi Yayınları, 1977.
132
an iconography local to the Herzegovina region to which they had resettled.386 If this
interpretation is correct, the figural stećci were the product of a new elite that had
become wealthy providing security services for the lucrative mine economy’s trade.
Without an art of their own, their new home’s monumental (funerary) heritage was
reinterpreted in a way that must have made sense both to the locals (continuity of forms
associated with distinction) and the ex-stockbreeders (iconography of battle scenes and
animals).
A less ambiguous example of art expressing eminence is that of donor portraits.
When in the pre-Ottoman period the patronage of Orthodox Christian art and
architecture was in the main undertaken by sovereigns, the nobility, and high-ranking
clergy, these foundation acts were usually recorded in inscriptions and often illustrated
through donor portraits in the narthexes of churches, which often served funerary
functions. The loss of these comfortably wealthy groups of patrons limited the
potentials of Christian art under Ottoman rule, possibly even more so than the Ottoman-
Islamic restrictions. While patronage and art continued after the Ottoman conquest, they
did so under different premises. The traditional groups of patrons were replaced by a
new class of non-Muslim office-holders in the Ottoman military/administrative system,
where they held titles such as sipâhî, knez, or voyvoda, as well as by traders and
craftsmen from very varied backgrounds.387 The donor portraits they occasionally left
behind are not schematic and occasionally betray something of the personalities of the
patrons. The sipâhî Vojin, for instance, had himself portrayed at Pljevlja (100km SE of
Sarajevo) in 1592 in a manner reminiscent of a monk. At Morača (near Podgorica), the
“veliki knez” Vukić Vučetić, by contrast, chose to be depicted in 1574 as a man with
short hair, moustache, and fine garb next to the Archangel Michael.388 Of great interest
386 Marian Wenzel, “Bosnian and Herzegovinian tombstones: who made them
and why,” in: Südostforschungen, XXI (1962), pp. 102-43. There are indeed
inscriptions that can be interpreted as “dualist” in the sense of the mentioned sect, but
this appears to simply mean that the style of tombstones was no exclusive to one faith.
The extant examples, discussed in Wenzel, record both Catholic and Orthodox
“owners.”
387 Next to merchants of all kinds of goods or goldsmiths can also be
encountered in donor inscriptions goat hair weavers (mutâfçı) and even bakers (simitçi).
For these examples, cf. Kiel, Art and society, p. 136-7, 307, 331-2 and Sreten Petković,
“Art and patronage in Serbia during the early period of Ottoman rule (1450–1600),” in:
Byzantinische Forschungen, XVI (1991), pp. 401-14.
388 Petković, “Art and patronage,” pp. 405-6, and plates I and II.
133
is also the portrait of an unnamed donor and his wife in the simple single-naved church
at Divlje near Skopje, dated 1604/5: the portrait shows a relatively young, stylishly
dressed couple, both sporting earrings. Lazaliska believes them to be “plemenski
knezovi”389 (clan leaders), but this is both vague and probably incorrect. Their garment,
youth, and idleness may rather suggest that this man was a prosperous merchant of
Skopje, keen to exhibit his wealth.
While in early modern Europe painted stand-alone portraits of living persons
were already widely-used for purposes of image-making, they remained an exception in
the Balkans until the nineteenth century. Some of the traditional reservations against
this format were recorded by the Irish traveller Dodwell at the beginning of the
nineteenth century: after he had his Italian painter draw a portrait of a “female black
slave” at Corinth, who was “so astonished, and even frightened at the resemblance
[between herself and the portrait], that she cried bitterly, and begged us to take back our
money, and undraw her,” he generalized that “most scrupulous and unenlightened
Mohamedans have a kind of horror of their likeness being put upon paper” due to
possibly harmful repercussions in the afterlife. Yet, Dodwell not only also knew of “a
Greek painter [at Constantinople], whose business it is to take likenesses of the imperial
family,” but had made the acquaintance of “several Turks, and even Blacks, who have
had no scruples on the subject.”390 The attitude toward representational art, it is implied,
thus depended on class.
Half a century later the situation was already very different, as a snapshot of
Bosnia in the 1860s would suggest. There is evidence for the painting of portraits not
only within the Catholic community,391 for which one might argue that the connections
with their coreligionists abroad had them embrace certain forms foreign to the Balkans
more willingly and rapidly,392 but also in Orthodox and even Muslim circles. Zafir
(a.k.a Stanislav) Dospevski from Samokov, for example, is on record for having painted
389 Sneška Lazaliska, Hristijanskite spomenici na kulturata vo Skopje i Skopsko.
Skopje: Muzej na Grad Skopje, 2000, p. 92.
390 Edward Dodwell, A classical and topographical tour through Greece during
the years 1801, 1805, and 1806. London: Rodwell and Martin, 1819, I, pp. 123-4.
391 Cf. Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 80, 120.
392 See the remarks on Stjepan Dragojlović in ch. 2.2.6 and 2.5.4.
134
a portrait of a member of the Jeftanović family of Sarajevo in this decade.393 One should
not dismiss the possibility that this artist, who was the son of the famous Samokov
painter and pioneer of portraiture Zahari Zograf,394 may already have travelled
throughout the region on the lookout for commissions.395 A more institutionalized
position was held by a certain Mustafâ, known only to have been born somewhere in
Anatolia; he had come to Sarajevo in or around 1860 as a yüzbaşı, teaching drawing at
the local military school. Trained in Paris, he painted the portraits of several prominent
Ottomans in Sarajevo at that time, such as Topal ‘Osmân Pasha or Çerkez ‘Alî Paşa.396
3.2.3. Didactics, image-making, and social commentary
While scholarship on Orthodox Christian church painting has traditionally been more
concerned with a mapping of theological content of the often extensive iconographical
ensembles, these works occasionally also contain profane messages and aspects and
references not to the biblical age but that of patrons, artists, and the users of these
spaces. Murals with “secular” content are typically found in the narthex of an Orthodox
church, a space with a less rigorously codified program. Left of the entrance is usually
found a representation of Heaven, to the right is Hell. In depicting the latter, artists and
their patrons had a relatively free hand in choosing which kinds of wrongdoers would
be left to be punished. Among which could count falsifiers of weights and measures,
thieves of cattle, inn-keepers who diluted wine with water, peasants seeking to
appropriate their neighbour’s land, sorceresses, those guilty of adultery or bestiality,
etc.397 No doubt that these were echoes less of the wrongs seen by Christ but of the
communities that inhabited the areas. Given the didactic function of Last Judgment
393 Mazalić, Leksikon, p. 40.
394 For this connection, see Vasiliev, Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori, p. 394.
395 Dospevski also painted a self-portrait (cf. Vasiliev, Bălgarski văzroždenski
majstori, p. 400), which shows him as a maybe forty-year old gentlemen, and may thus
be dated to the 1860s.
396 Mazalić, Leksikon, pp. 100-1.
397 For these examples, see Kiel, Art and society, p. 275; Petković, “Art and
patronage,” p. 412.
135
representations, one might even suggest that some of these sins were not generic but
may have been commissioned specifically as a response to local problems. Such
representations would make clear to potentially viewing sinners (or those
communicating with them) that punishment would await them not only in this world.
Yet, if we take the example of the Samokov painter Zahari Zograf’s representation of
the non-Muslim çorbacıs of Plovdiv and adulteresses dressed in the fashion of the day
in the context of the fresco depicting the Last Judgment in the catholicon of Bačkovo
monastery (near Plovdiv),398 it is not entirely clear whether the inclusion of this feature
was due to the artist’s initiative or desired by the patron(s).
Chapman has given artists more credit as “social commentators” in the case of a
theme found in a number of eighteenth-century churches in the Mani peninsula of the
Peloponnesus. In a relatively compact area could be identified fifteen examples of the
Ainoi (Lauds) in which, in reference to a phrase from Psalm 148:11 (“Kings of the
earth, and all people; princes, and all judges of the earth”), as judges (krites) are
depicted a Venetian and an Ottoman, yielding authority over a celebrating crowd often
dressed in local costumes and playing instruments specific to the area (see ills. 32-3). In
a region traditionally priding itself on its independence, even under Venetian and
Ottoman rule, this is certainly peculiar. Chapman suggests that the area’s inhabitants
may have regretted “the disappearance of a (relatively) neutral legal structure that
brought some sort of impartiality to the inter-village and inter-family feuding which
appear to have been endemic to the area.” The tyranny of local oligarchs (known in the
Mani as kapetanoi) was consistently remarked upon by Western commentators.
Chapman thus suggests that the painters were giving voice to this discontent. “Stern
moralists,” the artists of the so-called School of Koutifari, named after a Mani village
that supplied the peninsula with painters in this period, usually also included a depiction
of a priest in contemporary dress being swallowed by a beast. This happened, as an
accompanying inscription explains, because he was a “foolish and heretical Arius.”
Since these paintings were located in the sanctuary, reserved for priests, it is obvious
that the (painters’) message was intended for them.399
398 Cf. Macdermott, A History of Bulgaria, pp. 305-6.
399 John Chapman, “The strange case of the Turkish and Venetian judges in
eighteenth-century Mani wall paintings,” in: Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies,
XXX/2 (2006), pp. 151–66, esp. pp. 165-6.
136
Images like the aforementioned would have been unthinkable in a mosque, of
course, but that does not mean that in Islamic contexts – in the broadest sense – the
utility of images publicly displayed for didactic purposes was not recognized. A curious
and certainly exceptional example of such display could once be found on the palaces of
‘Alî Paşa and his sons at Iōannina, which was seen and described by Pouqueville in
1798. Reporting its buildings to be “constructed in the general mode of Turkey,” the
Frenchman stressed the peculiarity of their adornment “with paintings in fresco,
executed by Armenians.”400 Their content, he ridiculed, echoed the absurd taste of their
patrons. Scenes painted in an undisclosed location in the palace of ‘Alî Paşa’s son Velî
Paşa, for example, showed “camps, piles of human heads, colours, sieges in which the
bombs are larger than the houses.” More interesting yet is the record of a mural over the
entrance to the palace of ‘Alî Paşa’s other son, Muhtâr, which represented him
“surrounded by his guards, assisting at the execution of a man suspended on a
gibbet.”401 Location and subject here strongly suggest that this painting was intended to
instruct.
Interesting examples of image-use were also reported from the autonomous
paşalık of Belgrade, i.e. the Principality of Serbia. In Šabac, a town around 60km west
of Belgrade, the British traveller Paton was in the 1840s led into “a house which
contained portraits of Kara Georg, Milosh, Michael, Alexander, and other personages
who have figured in Servian history.” Most curious he found an oil-painted portrait of
Miloš Obrenović which, although lacking the realism expected of European painting at
the time – Paton judged that it was “altogether without chiaro scuro” – was
exceptionally detailed what regards Miloš’s “decorations, button holes, and even a large
mole on his cheek.” More than a mere portrait inspired by egotism, this portrait was
evidently sent to the western Serbian town to broadcast the former prince’s claim for
legitimacy, however. According to Paton, the painting showed Miloš pointing with one
hand toward “a scroll, on which was inscribed Ustav, or Constitution,”402 the forefinger
of the hand being adorned with a noticeably large diamond ring. Apparently, Miloš not
400 For these Armenian painters, see also ch. 2.4.4.
401 Pouqueville, Travels in Epirus, p. 70.
402 This must have either been the draft of 1835 (called “Sretenjski ustav”) or the
constitution of 1838, which was recognized by the sultan (and hence known as “Turski
ustav”).
137
only sought to visualize his role as a liberator and law-giver but also as a conspicuous
consumer, as expected of a man of authority.403
To some extent, also the Ottoman architect could be discussed in his role as an
image-maker. The product of his work was a certain architectural stereotype of the
Ottoman city, perceptible in both Western and Ottoman sources of already the sixteenth
century.404 This stereotype was manifest less in individual buildings, which rarely
featured in such descriptions, but in silhouettes. These were dominated by the lofty
Ottoman minarets, which announced Ottoman sovereignty already from afar. Minarets
were among the first structures to be built upon Ottoman conquest and, unsurprisingly,
the first structures to be toppled upon its overthrow. Taller than the existing bell-towers
of churches, where not demolished or turned into minarets, also here a “hierarchy of the
cityscape” was observed in terms of the height of minarets (vis-à-vis bell-towers) as
reflecting the dominance of one group over another. Similarly important were the,
usually hemispherical, domes covered with lead.405 In urban panoramas, they identified
the locations of institutions serving the public: mosques, bathhouses, commercial and
educational structures. The quantity of domes, often reproduced generically irrespective
of structural necessity, signified the prosperity of towns through their association with
403 Paton, Servia, pp. 114-5. This traveller also visited the residence of knez
Aleksandar Karađorđević outside Belgrade’s “Istanbul-gate,” where Paton (p. 289) saw
a room “where the portrait of his father [i.e. Aleksandar’s father Karađorđe], the
duplicate of one painted for the emperor Alexander [presumably: of Russia], hung from
the wall. He was represented in the Turkish dress, and wore his pistols in his girdle; the
countenance expressed not only intelligence but a certain refinement, which one would
scarcely expect in a warrior peasant.” It is interesting that Aleksandar kept a duplicate
of the portrait sent to the Tsar; perhaps in order to show it to visitors?
404 Cf. Heghnar Zeitlian Watenpaugh, The image of an Ottoman city: imperial
architecture and urban experience in Aleppo in the 16th and 17th centuries. Leiden:
Brill, 2004, ch. 6; Ludá Klusákova, “Between reality and stereotype: town views of the
Balkans,” in: Urban History, XXVIII/3 (2001), pp. 358-77.
405 Denny (“Provincial Ottoman architecture and the metropolitan style,” pp.
243-4) defines the Ottoman “imperial style” as set of distinguishing characteristics that
includes: 1) an “aesthetic muscularity of structure and an acute sense of site and
silhouette”; 2) the dome as a structural centerpiece and “repetitive modular unit that
gives a building scale,” thus being both a motif and a signifier of scale and meaning as
well as a structural component; 3) an “enormous clarity of interior space”; 5) most
characteristically, the cylindrical minaret, the primary signifier of the Ottoman style in
far-flung provinces, even if the rest of building is “un-Ottoman.”
138
an Islamic, social, and commercial infrastructure.406 With regards to these two elements,
so strongly coded, patrons and their builders had little room for variation, despite the
availability of related forms in both Western and Islamic architectures that could have
served as models for distinction.407 What mattered was the clarity and recognizability of
these forms by friend and foe alike. Established signifiers of prosperity and authority,
they were even used in the period ca. 1750-1850 by provincial strongmen antagonistic
to Istanbul. By that time they had, apparently, become independent of their previous
role as markers of a self-imposed allegiance to Istanbul.408 Now they were appropriated
as mere expressions of their patrons’ power. Their architects were no longer members
of the Corps of Royal Architects in the capital, dispatched to the provinces where
necessary, but, presumably, local builders commissioned by local strongmen to copy
forms associated with authority as closely as possible.
In sum, we can assert that the artist – whether a painter, carver, or architect – did
not merely produce art but products that served certain functions benefiting those who
paid for them. While the artists cannot really be held accountable for the use to which
their products were put, they were certainly aware of the fact that their clients’ aim was
often not merely the adornment of a structure or object as such but to underline the
patrons’ prominence or promote their agendas in other ways. To guarantee the utility or
efficacy of the output, patrons may have intervened during production. In many cases
the product was certainly that of a thorough process of deliberation, in which the artist’s
role was that of a medium for the (visual) communication of the intentions of others, not
of what Hauser would call a “free intellectual worker.” 409 Rather than an exception, as
it would be now in most cases, this aspect was simply part of these pre-modern artists’
trade.
406 On the hierarchy of Ottoman cities according to institutions found in them,
see Watenpaugh, Image of an Ottoman city, ch. 6.
407 In the Arab provinces, Mamluk forms (including types of plans and minarets)
continued throughout the Ottoman period, coexisting with Istanbulite types. The latter
were usually sponsored by agents close to the central administration in the Ottoman
capital. There existed no such dualism in the Balkans.
408 For the question of models, see ch. 3.4.
409 Hauser, Social history of art, II, p. 46.
139
3.3. Reconstructing communication between artist and patron
3.3.1. Likeness and choice: evidence for notions of regional, personal, and period
styles
This chapter is concerned with the question of the existence of such thing as an
awareness of style and styles in the Ottoman Balkans. More specifically, it is interested
in the extent to which notions of style may have informed the communication between
patrons and artists about the envisioned product. There is, needless to say, a gap
between the names of styles as used by art historians and ways of describing the same
modes by contemporaries, with some examples from our geography to be discussed
below. Regarding the definition of style as a concept, there is certainly less of a gap in
perception. Whichever term is employed, style is commonly explained with reference to
likeness.410 In descriptions of art, then, the concept of style is used to characterize
relationships among works of art made at the same time, in the same place, or by the
same person or groups.411 Gombrich diverges from the more formalist definitions of
style by Ackerman and Focillon in his emphasis on a linkage between style and choice,
and thus the act of giving an expressive character to distinction.412 Ultimately,
410 Ackerman thus defines as style a distinguishable ensemble of “certain
characteristics which are more or less stable, in the sense that they appear in other
products of the same artist(s), era or locale, and flexible, in the sense that they change
according to a definable pattern.” Cf. James S. Ackerman, “A theory of style,” in:
Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, XX/3 (1962), pp. 227-37, cit. p. 227.
411 Ibid. This process may be inverted “to allow hypotheses that works of the
same style are from the same time, place, or person(s),” whereby style is not only an
“indispensable historical tool” but also the most comprehensive of all structures for the
history of art, “since it is the only one that can be built with minimal external
documentation on the evidence of works of art alone.” Focillon similarly sees a style
constituted by the “index value” of formal elements, “which make up its repertory, its
vocabulary and, occasionally, the very instrument with which it wields its power.” Cf.
Henri Focillon, The life of forms in art. Tr. Charles B. Hogan and George Kubler. New
York: Zone books, [1934] 1989, p. 46.
412 Ernst Gombrich, “Style” [1968], repr. in The art of art history: a critical
anthology. Ed. Donald Preziosi. Oxford: University Press, 1988, pp. 150-63, cit. pp.
150-1. He provides the following example: “The girl who chooses a certain style of
dress will in this very act express her intention of appearing in a certain character or
social role at a given occasion. The board of directors that chooses a contemporary style
for a new office building may equally be concerned with the firm’s image. The laborer
who puts on his overalls or the builder who erects a bicycle shed is not aware of any act
of choice, and although the outside observer may realize that there are alternative forms
140
Gombrich holds that there can be no question of style “unless the speaker or writer has
the possibility of choosing between alternative forms of expression.” Significantly, he
moreover points to the doctrine of decorum, that is, the appropriateness of style to the
occasion.413
In the discussion of the visual arts, the word “style” came into usage only fairly
late. A history of (western) art constituted itself as a sequence of period styles, with
names for styles denoting either the dependence on or the derivation from a classical
norm.414 This process has worked in similar terms in the discussion of the artistic
traditions relevant to the Balkans, as can be seen in qualifiers like “Byzantine,” “post-
Byzantine,” or “early,” “classical,” and “post-classical” or even “Baroque” Ottoman
architecture. Here, the locus of what is normative in the artistic heritage of Balkan-
Orthodox Christianity is the pre-Ottoman period; the continuation of the tradition in the
Ottoman period becomes “post” in reference to its succeeding the (normative) medieval
period. Similarly, the “classical” in the Ottoman case refers to the period between the
late fifteenth and the early seventeenth centuries; it is from there that an “early” and a
“post-classical” period are constructed. All these, to be sure, are modern categories. But
as some stylistic signifiers were used in the communication between artist and patron in
the West,415 it is certainly justified to ask if such too was the practice in the Ottoman
Balkans.
of working outfits or sheds, their characterization as ‘styles’ may invite psychological
interpretations that can lead him astray.”
413 Ibid. Style is defined by Gombrich as “any distinctive, and therefore
recognizable, way in which an act is performed or an artifact made or ought to be
performed and made.” The term functions to describe and classify “the various ways of
doing or making, according to the groups or countries or periods where these were or
are habitual.” It may also take its name from a particular person or institutions with “a
distinctive way of procedure or production.”
414 Gombrich, “Style,” p. 152. Despite a number of instances from the late
sixteenth century and thereafter, “style” became established as a term of art history in
the eighteenth century, largely through Winckelmann, whose treatment of “the Greek
style” as an expression of the Greek way of life paved the way for others doing the same
for the medieval Gothic.
415 While the Romanesque or the Rococo began their careers as art-historical
categories only around 1800, there is evidence for that also in earlier times stylistic
signifiers were used in the description of art. The Gothic was known as the “French
style” (opus francigenium), and one might assume that when elements of it entered pre-
Renaissance Italy, these were identified as “French.” In Vasari (Le Vite de’ più
eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani, p. 139), a distinction is made between
141
The very existence of such thing as “art criticism” pertaining to style is most
easily found in the case of calligraphy. In Mehmed Ağa’s Risâle, for instance, is found a
section in which his biographer Ca’fer Efendi remembers details of a meeting between
the Albanian-born chief royal architect (then the waterworks inspector of Istanbul) and
a second-hand book dealer. Interestingly, he is said to have carried a book “with
calligraphy in the style of Yâkût [Yâkût hattı], paper from Daulatabad [in India], verses
in the borders throughout in the Ottoman manner [resm-i ‘osmânî], some letters
resembling the monumental cursive [celî] of the şeyh [Hamdullâh] and some tending
toward Ibn Mukla’s.”416 Evliyâ Çelebi used similar labels to describe the art he
encounter during his travels in the Ottoman Balkans. In Babadag, for instance, he saw
“a thin lining [hatt-ı reyhânî] in the style of the [seventeenth-century] calligrapher
Demircikulı, similar to the style of Yâkût-ı Musta’sımî.”417 In the Red Mosque of
Esztergom (a converted cathedral) and the inscription on the Ergene bridge at
Svilengrad he saw “Karahisârî tarzı celî”418 and “Karahisârî Hasan Çelebi hattı”419
respectively, that is, calligraphy in the distinctive style of the sixteenth-century
calligrapher Ahmed Karahisârî (or his manumitted slave, adopted child, and fellow
calligrapher Hasan b. ‘Abdullâh, similarly known as Karahisârî). The Karahisârî style
he also recognized at mid-sixteenth-century mosques at Čajniče and Foča (ill. 19),
southeast of Sarajevo.420 Though more rarely so, Evliya did not only use stylistic
signifiers to describe calligraphy. At Esztergom, for instance, he reported to have seen a
painted cupboard cover that looked like it had been done by the sixteenth-century court
designers Şâhkulı and Ağa Rıza.
“the great art of painting as we know it today,” that is, “drawing accurately from life,”
and the “crude Greek style” (greca goffa maniera). At the same time in the North came
into fashion the stile all’Italiana, stile all’antica or alla Romana (cf. examples of use in
DaCosta Kaufmann, Toward a geography of art, p. 207f.) These were not analytical
categories but references to certain formal characteristics, equipped with a label
understood by contemporaries.
416 Slightly adapted from Cafer Efendi, Risale (tr. Crane), p. 36 and 21v of
facsimile..
417 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, III, p. 206.
418 Ibid., VI, p. 166.
419 Ibid., III, p. 236.
420 Ibid., VI, p. 166 and p. 253.
142
Iconographers’ manuals of the same period discuss styles in a not dissimilar
way, usually in relation to famous individual artists, such as Theophanēs Strelitzas (a. k.
a. o Krēs, “the Cretan”) or the enigmatic Manouēl Panselēnos.421 The fact of the
contemporaneity of different modes in the same regions also suggests that interested
patrons could choose from alternative options. In Dionysios’ ermēneia is moreover
found the recognition of two styles distinct from his own (conservative) tradition, which
he defines according to groups of painters from a certain region: the Russians
(“Muscovites”) and the Cretans.422 By implication, Dionysios appears to have seen
himself as working in the stylistic tradition of Panselēnos. In his vita is moreover found
what appears to be a dispute concerning his style: the monk Hristoforos denounced him
for the alleged unseemliness of the icons he painted for the Athonite Karakalou
monastery. Eventually, a higher-ranking monk, Pafnoutios, came to the painter’s
defence and accused Hristoforos of complete ignorance with regards to this art.
Dionysios, he claims, painted as he ought to. In other words, what Pafnoutios had
criticized was Dionysios’s style.423
In Evliyâ’s ten-volume Seyahâtnâme are moreover found some phrases used in
the classification of architectural monuments, which correspond to what we call style. A
basic distinction was made between the style of the “core territories” of the Ottoman
state in the Balkans and Anatolia (Rûm) and that specific to the Arab provinces. The
latter differed in plan, the execution of walls, and the forms and importance given to
features such as domes or minarets. Although this difference is implied – there is
mention of a tarz-ı Rûm indeed, but not of something like an “Arab style” – Ottoman
commentators also applied this label to the monuments built under Ottoman rule but not
in the style of Istanbul or Rûm.424 In the Balkans, all monuments were in the “rûmî”
style anyway, so that this needed no stressing.425 Evliyâ sometimes (and sometimes
421 Cf. Bentchev, Technologie, p. 67.
422 The ‘painter’s manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna (tr. Hetherington), pp. 11-2.
423 Dēmaras, “Vios Dionysiou tou ek Fourna,” p. 249.
424 Çiğdem Kafesçioğlu, “‘In the image of Rūm’: Ottoman architectural
patronage in sixteenth-century Aleppo and Damascus,” in: Muqarnas, XVI (1999), pp.
70-96.
425 Typically, rûmî (“Balkan-Anatolian”) was contrasted with acem (i.e.
Persian[ate]) and arab. See Cemal Kafadar, “A Rome of one’s own: reflections of
143
erroneously) attributes buildings to Sinân, but this seems to be more an index of
perceived quality than a reference to a personal style. As one stylistic qualifier for a
particularly stately mosque in the provinces he occasionally refers to monuments with
something to the effect of their appearing “almost like a sultanic mosque” (gûyâ bir
câmi‘i selâtîndir).426 Why he chooses to highlight some and not other mosques like this
remains unclear. A phrase to this effect is used, for instance, in the case of the latesixteenth-
century “Zincirli mosque” at Serres, which with its octagonal baldachin dome
support and lateral galleries indeed features a sophisticated, unusually Istanbulite plan.
Evliyâ also uses this phrase in the case of early-seventeenth-century mosque of Koskı
Mehmed Paşa, however, which is a completely generic building.427 Both buildings once
had a number of dependencies (such as, notably, medreses) around them. It may be the
case that an “almost sultanic mosque” for Evliyâ was one which was even statelier due
to its position in a complex or cluster of buildings. Few of such “külliyes” are preserved
in their entirety today; at Serres, for instance, the medrese disappeared but the mosque
remains. This makes it hard to arrive at a definite conclusion as to the import of Evliyâ’s
usage of this phrase. “Style,” in this case, may have simply referred to scope.
There is another phrase frequently used by Evliyâ which appears to most closely
approach our modern definition of a stylistic signifier: tarz-ı kadîm, or the “old style.”428
cultural geography and identity in the lands of Rum,” in: Muqarnas, XIV (2007), pp. 7-
25.
426 Thus, or similar, he refers to the Kara Ahmed Ağa mosque at Florina (gûyâ
câmi‘-i selâtîndir; cf. Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, V, p. 310), the mosques of
Bulehnikli Hasan Paşa at Pljevlja (gûyâ bir câmi‘-i selâtîndir; VI, p. 251), the Ferhâdiye
at Banja Luka (câmi’i selâtîn gibi; V, p. 267), the mosque of Sokolluzâde Kurd Beğ at
Havsa (gûyâ câmi‘-i selâtîndir; III, p. 270), that of Koskı Mehmed Paşa at Mostar (gûyâ
bir ma’bedgâh-ı selâtîndir; VI, p. 288), or the Selçuk Hâtun mosque in Serrres (bu dahi
hakkâ ki câmi‘-i selâtîndir; VIII, p. 58). Of the Sokollu Mehmed Paşa mosque at
Istanbul-Azabkapı he writes: “He [the patron] was from among the viziers of the
sovereign, but it resembles a brilliant mosque built by sultans.” (Hân vüzerâlarındır,
ammâ Selâtin câmi’i misâl bir câmi‘-i rûşendir; I, p. 183.) Similarly he judges the
mosque of Kara Ahmed Paşa in Istanbul-Fatih as follows: selâtin câmi‘i misâl bir
câmi’dir (I, p. 127).
427 For references to Serres and Mostar, see the previous footnote.
428 Of the mosque at Küçük Üsküb near Vize (Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, p.
70) he writes that it was in the kâr-ı kadîm, which may or may not refer to the same
features.
144
What exactly this refers to is similarly somewhat unclear.429 There still appears to be a
certain consistency in his use of the term. In the four Seyahâtnâme volumes I have
perused he never uses this phrase in the context of a building later than the period of
sultan Bâyezîd II (r. 1481-1512). By implication, the/a “new style” (hence tarz-ı cedîd?)
began with Selîm or Süleymân in the sixteenth century. More probably, Evliyâ more
specifically refers to the “classical” style of the Süleymân/Sinân overlap, which
emerged by 1550. This style he evidently saw as extending into his own age, for, unlike
with the tarz-ı kadîm, he did not find it worth mention. His constant highlighting of
Sinân’s buildings, even when they actually weren’t his, similarly points to Evliyâ’s
probable identification of Sinân as the father of what he appears to have understood as
the “contemporary style.” Concerning the question of use of stylistic labels in the
communication between patrons and architects, it appears rather unlikely that a
monument in the tarz-ı kadîm would have beem desired, especially given the renown of
Sinân.430
There are other instances of stylistic labels applied to forms by Ottoman authors.
As early as the Fâtih period, this ruler’s chronicler Tursun Beğ showed an awareness of
the rûmî-hatayî types of decorative patterns, apparently as opposed to others. The same
writer described towers in the Topkapı palace as in the “Frankish” (frengî) and a
429 Lowry (Shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, pp. 18-9) has recently suggested
that it may refer to mosques the domes of which were covered with shingle as opposed
to lead. This theory seems to be disproved by the case of the Hacı Kâsım mosque of
Ohrid: Evliyâ (VIII, p. 328) described it as being in the tarz-ı kadîm but also reports a
led-covered dome. Also of the Fâtih mosque at Smederevo (V, p. 317) he writes: “It is
in the old style, but whether it[s dome] is leaden is not clear” (tarz-ı kadîmdir, ammâ
kursumlu mıdır, ma’lûmum değildir). This seems to suggest at least that Evliyâ thought
it not to be an antagonism to have a mosque “in the old style” that was covered with
lead. Unfortunately, both these buildings, as well as most other buildings whose style
was qualified by Evliyâ as “old,” did not survive. As a result, any conclusion as to what
exactly meant by this term is tentative. A suggestion can be voiced, however, based on
the three surviving exceptions: the so-called Hüdâvendigâr Mosque of Kjustendil, the
Bâyezîd mosque of Drama (now a church), and the well-preserved zâviye-turnedmosque
of Gâzî Mihal in Edirne – the latter again a mosque whose three domes are
covered with lead rather than shingles. With the Edirne building T-shaped and of ashlar,
and the one at Kjustendil a single-domed mosque in the cloisonné technique of
construction, Evliyâ apparently referred to neither construction technique nor plan type.
430 It is still interesting that in the Ottoman case there appears to have existed the
understanding that an earlier style not only existed, but also that it had been overcome.
At exactly the same time, Renaissance authors like Vasari expressed relief that the
Gothic and Byzantine styles current in pre-Quattrocento Italy had been overcome.
145
“Turkish” (türkî) manners.431 That “Frankish” was indeed a stylistic option for Ottoman
patrons and architects is further suggested by official documentation relating to the
construction fortress of Pylos on the Peloponnesus: as discussed before, that structure’s
Italianate plan was referred as in the “firenk üslûbı.”432 By contrast, it is highly unlikely
that “old style” or perhaps even “new style” were used as explanatory terms in the
communication between patron and architect. A patron may have desired his building to
“appear like a sultan’s mosque,” but what exactly that could have translated into is
unclear.
We may conclude that there is ample proof for the existence of stylistic labels in
an Ottoman Balkan context. By implication, notions of form as carried by these must or
may have been used in the communication between patron and artist, even where, as in
the vast majority of cases, this exchange has not been preserved in writing. The use of
stylistic labels is most evident when it comes to painting and calligraphy.
Representatives of an Ottoman-Muslim learned elite, and certainly those whose careers
evolved around the capital in the fifteenth-seventeenth centuries, would have been
aware of, and be able to identify, the styles of renowned calligraphers such as Yâkût-ı
Musta’sımî, Şeyh Hamdullâh, or Ahmed Karahisârî. As the excerpts from Evliyâ show,
there was also awareness of distinctive decorative styles, like that of the sixteenthcentury
painter Şâhkulı. While we now refer to the style popularized by him as “Saz
style,”433 contemporaries seemed to prefer to identify it with an artist.
The situation is quite similar when it comes to icon-painting: famous
predecessors, such as Theophanēs or Panselēnos, were known to later painters, their (or
431 Halil İnalcık, “Mutual political and cultural influences between Europe and
the Ottomans,” in: Ottoman Civilization. Eds. Halil İnalcık and Günsel Renda. Istanbul:
Ministry of Culture, 2003, II, pp. 1090-121, cit. p. 1055; Necipoğlu, Topkapı palace, p.
14; Tursun Bey, Fatih'in tarihi = Tarih-i Ebul Feth. Tr. Ahmet Tezbaşar. Istanbul:
Kervan Kitapçılık, 1973, p. 62.
432 Cf. transcription of doc. in Kiel, “Construction of the Ottoman castle of
Anavarin,” p. 276.
433 See Walter B. Denny, “Dating Ottoman Turkish works in the Saz style,” in:
Muqarnas, I (1983), pp. 103-21; Banu Mahir, “Saray nakkaşhanesinin ünlü ressamı Şah
Kulu ve eserleri,” in: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Yıllık, I (1986), pp. 113-130; eadem,
“Osmanlı sanatında saz üslubundan anlaşılan,” in: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Yıllık, II
(1987), pp. 123-140.
146
their pupils’) styles serving as models.434 At the same time, there was an awareness of
stylistic difference regarding different regions within this, Christian or Islamic,
tradition. Dionysios acknowledges that Crete and Muscovy had traditions different from
his own, and so did Evliyâ when he wrote of the architecture outside Rûm proper. The
very fact that Dionysios includes explanations of “how to paint like” the Cretans and the
Muscovites, may suggest that he, as other painters of the time, were expected to adapt to
certain stylistic prerequisites, even when they had their preferred “personal” style (as
did Dionysios). Finally, there is ex silentio evidence in the visible coexistence of
different styles at the same time, such as in the example of different styles of woodcarving
used in the embellishment of late Ottoman residences in Plovdiv. By
consequence, patrons had the choice of various styles, but we do not know in all cases
how they would have described them to others. We can suggest that place-names – such
as “Debar,” “Athōs,” or “Samokov” – were often used in lieu of (non-geographical)
stylistic terms to describe certain artists’ output.
3.3.2. Instruments of communication between artist and patron: plans, threedimensional
models, contracts, or the lack thereof
Masons in medieval Anatolia and the Balkans did probably not use architectural
drawings, as would the Roman and early Christian architects, who had still been trained
in the classical tradition. It may have been the standard that, when on site, the plan was
marked with stones and then laid out with a rope.435 There is little reason to assume that
such practices changed from Byzantine to Ottoman rule, at least for most projects. A
master had to interpret his patron’s wishes into brick, stone, or wood. Plans or designs
might still change after construction had begun.
While no plans relating to Balkan buildings from before the nineteenth century
survive, we know that they were used at least in those cases where the Corps of Royal
Architects in Istanbul undertook the design and/or supervised the construction of
434 For the art-historical construct, largely corresponding to this division, into a
“Macedonian” and a “Cretan” school of Byzantine art, see Anthony Bryer, “The rise
and fall of the Macedonian school of Byzantine art (1910-1962),” in: Ourselves and
others: the development of a Greek Macedonian cultural identity since 1912. Eds. Peter
Mackridge and Eleni Yannakakis. Oxford: Berg, pp. 79-87.
435 Ousterhout, Master builders, pp. 58-62.
147
projects in the Balkans. These were usually projects connected to the sultan or his
administrators, not those of locals. Ground plans, referred to in contemporary
documents as resm, have survived in very few numbers, probably as a result of a fire
that destroyed the archives of the Corps at Istanbul-Vefa. One resm is mentioned as
being dispatched from Istanbul to Pylos in 1573 when a new fortress was to be built
there. In the same year a resm for interventions at Buda was sent to Istanbul for
approval and also a resm for a barbican to be built in Thessalonikē is documented.
There existed, alternatively, working drawings, referred to in sources as karnâmes. One
such was sent from Istanbul to Svilengrad in 1559, where the mosque of Hürrem Sultân
was to be built.436 There are preserved a relatively large number of drawings from the
middle and later nineteenth century – usually infrastructural projects by the state, or
church constructions – but even these are surprisingly primitive (ill. 38).437
There is also quite some evidence that three-dimensional models made of wood,
wax, or other material were occasionally used in the conveyance of ideas between
artists and patrons. As neither royal Ottoman architects nor their provincial counterparts
were trained in perspectival drawing,438 such models were possibly the only means to
436 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 167-75, 270, 430. In this document the plan is
alternatively referred to as resm as well, leading to some confusion over the exclusivity
of these terms.
437 Seven such plans are published in Osmanlı arşiv belgelerinde Kosova vilayeti
= Vilajeti i Kosovës në dukumentet arkivore Osmane. Ed. H. Yıldırım Ağanoğlu.
Istanbul: T.C. Başbakanlık Devlet Arşivleri Genel Müdürlüğü, 2007, docs. 62, 65, 67,
76, 78, 90, and 93.
438 This was, according to Gülru Necipoğlu (The Topkapı scroll: geometry and
ornament in Islamic architecture. Santa Monica: Getty Center for the History of Art and
the Humanities, 1995, p. 161), because unlike their Renaissance European counterparts,
who were abandoning geometry in favour of “based on numerical proportions,
architects in the early modern Islamic world remained loyal to Pappus of Alexandria’s
definition of architecture as a branch of practical mechanics. Even though the
importance of geometry prevailed in Europe, Renaissance theorists increasingly
divorced architecture from its earlier subordination to mechanics in an attempt to assert
its independence and higher status as a liberal art. By contrast architects in the Islamic
world continued to uphold the ideal image of the well-rounded mechanicus (muhandis)
whose mental universe was colored by practical geometry, with its still-prestigious
connection to the liberal art of mathematics.” For the logical relation of component
parts according to geometry in Ottoman and Gothic architectural practice, see Gülru
Necipoğlu-Kafadar, “Plans and models in 15th- and 16th-century Ottoman architectural
practice,” in: Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, XL/3 (1986), pp. 224-
43, cit. p. 242-3.
148
visualize three-dimensional designs.439 In the 1760s, for instance, a wooden (scale)
model was produced by the royal architect Kōnstantinos and sent from Istanbul to be
executed by another builder at the Xēropotamou monastery on Mount Athōs.440 For his
contribution to the fortifications of Thessalonikē in the late 1530s, a tower, Mi‘mâr
Kosta produced a model from cardboard and glue, the costs for the materials of which
were recorded in accounts.441 A wooden model was used in 1740 in order to convey the
significance of Belgrade’s (Habsburg-built) Vauban-type fortifications to the sultan.442
But three-dimensional models were also used for provincial projects that were
conceived independently of the planning institutions of the capital. Nikola Fičev is said
to have presented the Tuna vilâyet’s governor Midhad Paşa with a wax model of the
bridge he was to build over the Jantra River near Ruse, that province’s capital, in the
mid-1860s.443 One of Fičev’s assistants during that project was Genčo Kănev, who is
known not to have continued this way of presentation. Later crossing the Danube to
work in Romania, Kănev learned there from foreigners how to produce blueprints for
buildings. He applied these new skills when he returned to Bulgaria.444
There have been preserved drawings of buildings such as of the so-called New
Orthodox Church at Sarajevo by Andreja Damjanov (ill. 36), but rather than as
blueprints these must be understood as instruments of conveying images, probably to
patrons and not for the aid of the artists. Concerning the same architect a story was
related that, when negotiating with the priests of Sarajevo about the design for the
church he was to build, and apparently confronted with the desire for some kind of
visualization of what to expect, he advised them to go see his work in Niš or
439 Neciopoğlu-Kafadar, “Plans and models,” p. 236.
440 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 175. In the same decade was used a wooden
model in the construction of the Fâtih complex. A century earlier was seen by a traveller
a wooden model of the mosque by Ahmed I. Around the same time an ivory model of
the Yeni Vâlide mosque was spotted in that very monument. For the dissemination of
wooden models of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem as part of a tourism
industry, see Faroqhi, Artists of Empire, p. 181.
441 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 167.
442 Necipoğlu-Kafadar, “Plans and models,” p. 239.
443 Cerasi, “Late-Ottoman architects,” p. 94.
444 Bichev, Architecture in Bulgaria, p. 78. On Kănev see also Margarita I.
Koeva and Nikolaj L. Tuleškov, Părvomajstor Genčo Kănev. Sofia: Dărž. izd.
“Tehnika,” 1987.
149
Smederevo. Commissioned to build a church in Mostar years thereafter (destroyed in
1993), he advised the patrons to go see his work in Sarajevo. For the barracks he was
commissioned to build in Sarajevo, however, he had to produce a wooden model to be
sent to Istanbul for approval.445 In sum, it appears that what kind of image was made
available to patrons – a sketch, an architectural drawing, a three-dimensional model of
wood or wax, or none at all – depended on the occasion and the demands of the patron.
Sometimes also words were enough to describe the required forms, irrespective
of the level of the undertaking. In a letter from the chief architect’s office to the
governor of the Morea of 1576, for instance, we read instructions such as: “At every
400 cubits of the total length of 1,200 cubits, according to my order, you should erect a
tower.” A year later both would agree that within the walls of Pylos there could be built
700 houses on plots of 12x16 cubits.446 When the church of the Kreševo monastery was
to be rebuilt in 1767, the local Muslims similarly recorded the maximum dimensions the
new building was allowed to have as follows: “length of the wall of the church’s porch
[as seen] from Kreševo [?] - 31 arš[in], 5 g[reh]; // height of the wall near the door - 3
arš[in], 6 č[erek]; [etc].”447 Two contracts made between patrons and builders in
Northwest Greece in the 1840s and published by Moutsopoulos similarly make no
reference to style or form; instead, they record the numbers of storeys, doors, and
windows.448 When the clients had specific forms in mind, they may have more likely
articulated them with reference to existing buildings. In a contract dated 1741 between
the monks of Kovilj (near Novi Sad) and the builders Teodor Kosta and Nikola Krapič
from “Lange” (Lagkadas?) near Thessalonikē, the latter agreed to build a church based
on the model of the catholicon of Manasija (early fifteenth century).449 Joan Paškula
445 Milenko Filipović, “Andrija Damjanović iz Velesa, zograf i neimar (oko
1813-1878),” in: Muzeji, II (1949), pp. 33-40.
446 Kiel, “Construction of the Ottoman castle of Anavarin,” pp. 272-3.
447 Bogdanović, Ljetopis kreševskog samostana, p. 70. Since this part of the
chronicle was not composed in Latin but in Slavonic in the Cyrillic script, we may
presume that this was indeed the transcript of an official document between the friars
and the local Muslim authorities.
448 Three such contracts are reproduced in Moutsopoulos, “Oi prodromoi tōn
prōtōn ellēnon tehnikön epostēmonōn,” pp. 366-8.
449 See Medaković, “Die griechisch-serbischen Verbindungen,” p. 189. One
wonders whether the two simply made the travel to Manasija, around 170km SE of
Kovilj.
150
(Yiannis Paskoulēs) from Metsovo contracted in 1836 to produce an iconostasis for the
church of Constantine and Helen in Plovdiv “in the Viennese manner,” whatever that
meant.450 But such instances, and more generally preserved contracts or visualizations
from before the nineteenth century, are rare.
For the decorative painting found in late Ottoman interiors of mosques,
churches, and residences alike, one wonders if there was really much pondering about
the quantities and forms of cartouches and garlands between patron and artist. Clearly,
there was a larger degree of communication when it came to specific objects (such as
ships) or cities to be depicted. Renda has suggested that the great similarity between
panoramas of Istanbul (the most widespread motif) painted in elite residences between
Macedonia and Syria in the nineteenth century probably means that the painters had at
their disposal photographs and/or postcards.451 Similarly, illustrated bibles from
Western Europe appear to have been used by Orthodox Christian painters in the
Balkans,452 thus contributing to the dissemination of certain forms beyond their
“natural” environment. An entire “archive” of drawings, engravings, and prints – both
from Catholic and Orthodox backgrounds – has been found in Samokov, where they
served the local painters as models.453 There are also occasionally preserved the
blueprints for portable icons and frescoes. This is the case, for instance, with some
drawings made by Damjan Jankulov Renzov (ill. 37), the father of Andreja
450 Vasiliev, Majstori, pp. 271-2.
451 Günsel Renda, “Westernisms in Ottoman art: wall paintings in 19th century
houses,” in: The Ottoman House. Proceedings of the Amasya Conference, 24-27
September 1996. Eds. Stanley Ireland and William Bechhoefer. London: British
Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, 1998, pp. 103-9 (plus plates), cit. p. 106.
452 See e.g. Medaković, “Die griechisch-serbischen Verbindungen,” pp. 189-90
for the example of Jovan Četirević Grabovan. Born in present-day Albania, he came to
work in Slavonia in the late eighteenth century, apparently using the illustrated bible of
1695 by Christoph Weigel. For the example of Žefarovič using illustrated bibles as aids
at Bođani in 1737, see ibid., p. 187.
453 See Claire Brisby, “The Samokov archive: nineteenth-century icon-painters’
practice and the perception of Western art,” in: Proceedings of the 21st International
Congress of Byzantine Studies, III. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006, pp. 272-3 and
forthcoming dissertation by the same author.
151
Damjanov.454 Whether these works were used as studies by the artist or (also) as means
of conveying ideas to patrons is not clear in this case.
For the examples of more “formal” decoration of Islamic interiors we know that
blueprints existed for use by the painters. Drawn on paper, outlines were perforated with
pinholes; these stencils with outlined motifs were then transferred to the wall, for
example by rubbing coal dust through the perforations.455 This is very probably what
happened at the extensive decorative program of the Alaca Câmi‘ of Foča, which prior
to its destruction in 1993 was one of the few well-preserved sixteenth-century mosque
interiors (ills. 18-20). In some cases it has been attempted to retrace the geometric
origins of certain motifs found in Balkan mosques; a successful example by Začinović,
working in the Ferhâd Beğ mosque of Sarajevo, is shown in ill. 21.456 Rather than a
reflection of the patrons’ or artists’ fancy, perhaps the lack of blueprints for how to
produce sophisticated geometric ornament after the sixteenth or seventeenth century led
to a new tradition in decorative painting that was, on the whole, more intuitive and
depended more on the painter than before. Sixteenth-century spectactors may have
marvelled at the intricacy of geometric ornament, appreciating the cerebral pursuit
behind their design (and not necessarily the skills of the painter whose task it was to
transfer them from paper to wall and colour them), while eighteenth-century interiors
often merely feature accentuations of architectural elements like windows or doors. On
the other hand, the landscapes and monuments we see in murals of nineteenth-century
mosques and residences are likely to constitute very personal choices by the patrons.
This is very clear when, as at Plovdiv or Kastoria, we find in merchants’ houses
panoramas of faraway cities in Germany or Sweden, with which they had dealings.
Evidently, they supplied the artists they hired with drawings or prints depicting what
they were expected to produce.
454 For a drawing outlining the design of an icon depicting St George by the
Sarajevo painter Tudor Vuković-Desisalić (see ch. 2.1.2), see Mazalić, Slikarstvo, p. 21.
455 Serpil Bağcı, “Painted decoration in Ottoman architecture,” in: Ottoman
civilization, II, pp. 737-59, cit. p. 737.
456 For the use of blueprints and aids in geometric ornamentation in the Ottoman
and broader Islamic context, see Necipoğlu, Topkapı Scroll.
152
3.3.3. The question of models as reference in the communication between patron
and artist
Having thus established that plans and drawings were used on certain occasions, and
that there also existed terms (associated with certain persons, periods, or places) that
may have been used to describe forms,we must finally consider that in the field of
architecture reference to existing buildings may have been most common. This is
suggested not only by examples mentioned above – the monks at Kovilj contracting the
builders to erect a church on the model of Manasije or Andrej Damjanov using his own
works as indicators for his style and capability – but also by the material evidence: in
places such as Prizren, Sarajevo, or Mostar we see monuments of very similar
appearances, although at times there are decades or even centuries between their
construction dates. It may have happened for practical purposes that existing buildings
were taken as models, for the building and its construction could be studied by builders
on the spot. This was certainly helpful in locales which had not seen monumental
construction for a longer period of time, whereby local builders may not have been
exposed to certain architectural-structural challenges (such as the inclusion of a dome),
and certain skills and techniques had not been transferred from one generation to the
next. Existing buildings had already proven “successful,” both in structural as well as
often in aesthetic terms, at least for the inhabitants of a given locale who were used to
their sight. Alternatively, reference to older buildings could “mean,” in the sense of this
reference being deliberate rather than practical.
A number of important questions can be raised looking at the case of three
almost identical mosques that were built in Sarajevo in the years around 1560.457 Did
their patrons not want to endow their buildings with an individual character? The
identity between the three mosques may well be conditioned by practical concerns: a
model, perhaps even a plan or a royal architect, for an appropriate mosque was available
on site, and so were perhaps even the (now employment-seeking) builders, who could
be commissioned to build something very similar to that which they had just finished
(perhaps even without the supervision of a royal architect). Alternatively, the “copying”
of an existing model on site may have followed the patron’s conviction that this “model
457 For these buildings, see also Hartmuth, “The history of centre-periphery
relations as a history of style,” pp. 24-5. I date the mosque of Hoca Durak, at least in its
present form, to ca. 1560 rather than to the 1520s.
153
building” was appropriate in terms of its representative value and ambition. Overall, the
material suggests that for most patrons it was more important to sponsor a building the
forms of which were meaningful to those who would see and use it than to make a
statement through deviation. Individualism, it follows, was seldom reflected in the
architecture of the mosques.
Rather, one may suspect the patron’s “personal choice” to have been reflected
more in the specifications of his endowment, possibly the site, but most notably the
content of (sometimes personalized) inscriptions and decoration of the interior. For the
architecture of mosques and other monumental structures, at least in most cases, what
patrons commissioned from architects and builders was not an innovative design but a
type. In the case of the three almost identical mosques at Sarajevo, perhaps the fact that
two of them appear to have been built posthumously, whereby the project would have
been engineered by the mütevellî of the patron’s vakf rather than the patron, may have
been a vital factor.458 It does not entirely explain these buildings’ identity, however,
which is perhaps better explained in terms of practical concerns, such as a team of
builders just having completed a monument that looked “as it should.”
More distant, but more prestigious, models seem to have been decisive in the
case of the so-called Kurşumlu Câmi‘ at Shkodër (ill. 22), built in 1773/4 by Buşatlı
Mehmed Paşa, a provincial strongman with high ambitions.459 The layout of a domed
mosque fronted by an arcaded courtyard must have stemmed from the patron’s wish to
emulate, at least in a provincial variant in line with the patron’s finances, a sultanic
mosque in Istanbul. The arcaded courtyard is already very unusual for a provincial
mosque; even in the capital this feature is largely limited to mosques patronized by
sultans. The prayer hall of the Kurşumlu Câmi‘ features a projecting mihrâb niche that
reminds of the mosque of Dâvûd Paşa (1485/6) at Istanbul.460 Overall, all formal
solutions seen at the Shkodër mosque have precedents. It is their combination, not the
elements as such, that is the “creative” element – in the sense that it produced a plan
458 This argument is only valid if we accept the dating of all mosques to ca.
1560. See previous foonote.
459 For this building, see Machiel Kiel, Ottoman architecture in Albania.
Istanbul: IRCICA, 1990, pp. 231-3.
460 The projecting mihrâb niche is by no means exceptional in the eighteenth
century. The semi-open domed side-rooms of the Kurşumlu, again reminding of the
Dâvûd Paşa mosque, may suggest, however, that this older building inspired them.
154
otherwise not found in Ottoman architecture, doubtless due to the patron’s fancy. While
this combination of forms, especially of a domed space and arcaded courtyard, is
relatively easy to decipher for modern historians, this cannot have been the case for the
locals. The vast majority of the building’s intended “users” had obviously never seen a
sultanic mosque in Istanbul – and in 1773/4 also not even representations of such on
postcards or engravings. This is why the information that the building was indeed
modelled on a sultanic mosque seems to have been transmitted orally, possibly
deliberately since the time of the monument’s foundation.461 Differently stated, forms
were given meaning through discourse.
A related, though very different, case is found at Prizren, where in 1831/2 the
local strongman Mehmed Emîn Paşa built a mosque. Doing so, he apparently chose to
deliberately emulate the plan with the abnormally protruding mihrâb niche of Prizren’s
principal monument: the Sinân Paşa mosque, which had dominated the townscape since
the early seventeenth-century. The idea of an intentional reference is strengthened by
the fact that this ruler had both mosques redecorated in the same style and (evidently)
the same artists at presumably the same time. The idea of a deliberate “localism” is
further strengthened by the self-reference of the patron in his mosque’s inscription as
“from Prizren” (Perzerînî), this being something far more typical in locales where the
patron was not a local.462 In sum, Mehmed Emîn Paşa appears have told builders to
construct him a mosque in the mode of the town’s most important monument (which
they could study on site), requested from the poet composing/designing the inscription
to stress that he was indeed a local, and finally hired decorative painters to embellish
both these buildings at the same time in the same style, thus possibly trying to visualize
a connection between his and the older building.
While the latter appears to have been a project geared toward a local audience,
after the mid-nineteenth century to build “in the style of the old monuments” became a
particular concern. Now it was not practicality or localism that induced patrons to desire
a visible reference to old, and in the case of church architecture usually pre-Ottoman,
buildings; it was part of a project of “revival,”463 which must be treated separately from
461 Cf. Theodor A. Ippen, Skutari und die nordalbanische Küstenebene.
Sarajevo: Kajon, 1907, p. 35, who appears to refer to a local tradition.
462 M. Kemal Özergin, and Hasan Kaleşi and İsmail Eren, “Prizren kitabeleri,”
in: Vakıflar Dergisi, VII (1968), pp. 75-96, cit. p. 87.
463 Bratislav Pantelić, “Nationalism and architecture,” p. 20f.
155
those cases where reference to older buildings was made because their forms were still
meaningful for the communities seeing and using them.
3.3.4. Intermediaries
Another group of individuals that had a part in these processes, usually neglected, were
those people I shall refer to collectively as “intermediaries.” Their role was that of
middling communication between the interests of the patron and the artists. In building
work in the Byzantine Middle Ages such persons were known as ergolaboi. The
responsibilities of an ergolabos were the receipt and distribution of payments and the
provision of building materials.464 In larger-scale Ottoman building projects between the
sixteenth and eighteenth century we find a binâ emîni (superintendent of building
works) serving the same purpose.465 While most of the available documentation is from
the capital, there are also some cases from the provinces. As binâ emîni in the project
for the Old Bridge at Mostar, for example, was installed the large-scale fief-holder
(zâ‘im) Karagöz Mehmed Beğ, the brother of a grand vizier.466 In northern Bosnia in the
1770s and 1810s are documented three cases of frontier commanders (kapudans) being
appointed as binâ emînis.467 In Gradiška, similarly on the frontier with Habsburg
464 Ousterhout, Master builders, p. 46.
465 To what extent this reflects general practice and is thus of relevance to our
discussion is not clear, but at the Nûr-u ‘Osmâniye site the practice was as follows (see
also ch. 1.3.2): the sultan appointed a binâ nâzırı (Derviş Mustafâ Efendi), who in turn
appointed a binâ emini (‘Alî Ağa), whose responsibility included the appointment of a
binâ kalfası. The latter apparently was expected to be well-versed in scientific matters
(fenn san‘atında), and is in this case believed to be responsible for the ultimate stylistic
identity of the building. If this was indeed the case, the binâ emini’s role must not be
understressed. The binâ nazıri, on the other hand, was appointed as the sultan’s
advocate on site, constantly informing him (and, presumably, communicating the
sultan’s wishes), while the binâ emini must have taken on more practical matters
eventually. Cf. Hochhut, Die Moschee Nûruosmâniye, p. 14-21.
466 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 440.
467 In 1776 Ahmed Beğ, the kapudan of Tuzla was put in charge of the works at
the important (and nearby) fortress of Zvornik; a year later Mehmed, the kapudan of
Gradačac was appointed binâ emini in the repair of the fortresses of Sokol and
Srebrenik. When in 1817-9 a fortress was built in Gradačac, the local kapudan, Murâd,
was appointed binâ emini. These cases are documented in Hamdija Kreševljaković,
156
Croatia, a Hasan Ağa was installed in or around 1767 to oversee the construction of a
new fortress. Through the vizier, contacting the kadı of Mostar, he organized for 100
bricklayers to come to Gradiška.468 Then in 1717 when Niš became for a while a border
fortress between the Ottoman and Habsburg domains none other than Köprülü-zâde
‘Abdullâh Paşa was appointed as binâ emîni for this important project.469 What these
examples illustrate is that these binâ eminis were not necessarily – and possibly never –
artistically or technically trained,470 or involved in the formal aspects of the work. Their
task was important, however, in the sense that their responsibility was the completion of
projects without major setbacks, especially in terms of the provision of funds and
materials.
For the late period there is much mention of individuals perhaps best described
as “team managers.” Referred to by contemporaries as dragoman, neimar (which, of
course, is a corruption of mi‘mâr), or more generally as usta-başı, baš-majstor, or
protomastoras – terms apparently used in reference to guild organization, despite the
fact that the itinerant teams seemed to not have belonged to guilds – their task was to
solicit building work for their teams before the start of the season.471 Sometimes these
“team leaders” were artists themselves; in other cases they were not. The usta-başı Petre
Filipovič “Garkata” (from Gari in the Debar area, but relocated toward Kruševo in
1770), for instance, signed himself on an iconostasis in Skopje (1824) as the “pervi
majstor” (first master), and it is well-known that he himself excelled in the art of
“Prilozi povijesti bosanskih gradova pod turskom upravom,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu
filologiju, II (1951), pp. 115-45, cit. p. 120.
468 Ibid.
469 Cf. Göyünç, “Procurement of labour,” p. 331.
470 Mazalić (Leksikon, p. 17), for instance, was sure that ‘Abdi, the binâ emîni of
a bridge renovation project in 1793, was a builder by profession, not just anyone.
471 Like in the guilds (cf. Kreševjlaković, “Esnafi,” p. 46), the usta-başıs of
tayfas would be elected. Thus was the case with Nikola Fičev, for instance, whose
career peak began when at the construction site of the St Nikola church in Tărnovo he
replaced the sick master that headed his tayfa after being elected into this office by his
co-workers. This also resulted in his promotion to usta. See Todorov, Kolyo Ficheto, p.
10. The same happened in the case of Andreja Damjanov, whose father Damjan died
while working (with his son) in Skopje in 1835. Andreja was then appointed the head of
the team. See Hadžieva and Kasapova, Arhitekt Andreja Damjanov, p. 12.
157
woodcarving.472 In the Kreševo chronicle, by contrast, Fra Bogdanović recorded that
when in 1767 the builders arrived from Herzegovina it was somewhat surprising that
Mihajlo Bovanić from Mostar was considered the leader, while the “real master” was
Panto from Stolac.473 In both cases, these tayfas were corporations. Jireček likened them
to the artels of Russia, for in both cases revenues were divided among its members, by
the team-leader, at the end of the season.474 While this organization seems to have been
replaced eventually by wage labour, the members of such corporations, writes Palairet
“lived, worked, slept, and ate communally, their maintenance being treated as an
overhead charge against gross receipts.”475
Whether or not they took part in the work themselves, these team leaders’ role in
negotiating with customers and their authority over the finances certainly put them in a
privileged position. Brunnbauer thinks that they eventually came to constitute a
relatively wealthy class of their own. Not only did they probably usually receive a larger
share of the dividend; in the late period they even began to rent flats in towns their
tayfas regularly worked in. Eventually they stopped eating communally with the rest of
the team. Here Brunnbauer sees the shift from a patriarchal to a capitalist organization
form.476 The switch from payment through dividend to wage labour must have been part
of this change too.
472 His tayfa included, inter alia, Petre’s brother Marko and a Dimitar Stanišev
from Kruševo, whose family originally hailed from Tresonče (near Debar) and who
became the usta-başı’s later brother-in-law. In addition to that, forces were occasionally
joined with Simon Makevski from Trebište (near Debar), Makarije Frčkovski from
Galičnik (near Debar), or Avram Dičov from Osoj (near Debar), who eventually went
on to form his own tayfa. See Ќornakov, Petre Garkata, pp. 15-6, 51, 54; Vasiliev,
Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori, p. 190.
473 Bogdanović, Ljetopis kreševskog samostana, p. 71.
474 Jireček, Fürstemtum, pp. 212-4
475 Palairet, “Migrant workers,” p. 26.
476 Brunnbauer, Gebirgsgesellschaften, pp. 258-60. This author’s remarks are not
about builders-decorators specifically but itinerant corporations in general.
158
3.4. Conclusion
This chapter has sought to hypothetically reconstruct an important aspect of artists’
work in the Ottoman Balkans toward which only in isolated cases hints have been
preserved: the communication between patron and artist about the service the latter was
to render to the former. This communication was facilitated through the use of various
media. Existing works certainly served as an important point of reference in the
communication between both parties, whether or not they were also identified with a
stylistic term or iconic individual artist and his followers or school. Drawings or threedimensional
models, made of wax, cardboard, or wood, could also be used to visually
communicate to the patron the artist’s intentions. Conversely, patrons might show to
artists prints, postcards, photographs, or other portable media carrying images to
illustrate their wishes. Moreover, blueprints for complicated geometric ornament may
have been used as an aid by painters, who were not necessarily their designers. Could
the patrons have acquired such blueprints to be used by painters not necessarily versed
in things mathematical? Fundamental issues, such as measurements, were occasionally
recorded in contracts. These are, however, records of responsibilities agreed upon by
both parties, not records of what may have been a detailed negotiation about the
iconography of a work, secular or ecclesiastical. Finally, in some projects there were
intermediaries who smoothed the interaction between artists and patrons and moreover
coordinated access to funds and materials. Their impact on the outcome eludes us, but
we cannot ignore the likelihood of their having played an important part for those
involved in the funding, conception, or production of monuments, objects, or images.
As I have tried to emphasize in chapter 3.1, many if not most aspects of a
building’s or object’s design were probably never talked about, for they were culturally
or socially regulated. Radical changes to established Christian iconographic programs
were out of the question, as were products that were not in accordance with the patron’s
finances or the artists’ capabilities. Since art, especially architecture, was used by
individuals to reinforce their status in a certain community or to express their ambitions
to adjust it, perceived appropriateness too was a vital factor. Most important, however,
was the adherence to established traditions, a conservatism that did not only affect
religious painting. In architecture, no radically new models emerged between the late
fifteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As discussed in the case of the catholicon of the
Kučevište monastery, this formal conservatism sometimes make it hard to determine
159
whether a building dates from around 1300 or from around 1600 – a problem not shared
by researchers of architecture in, say, Italy. On the other hand, we can be sure that
patrons and builder did not have disputes about whether or not a church or mosque was
to be built on a cross-in-square or centralized single-domed plan, an ideal that remains
basically unchallenged in the region’s Muslim architecture until today. In most cases,
however, limited finances and/or ambitions brought about much simpler solutions.
Another question raised was that to what extent the product may be seen as
representative of the artist’s rather than the patron’s input – a question impossible to
answer conclusively, for these negotiations were not recorded. We must presume that
the artist rarely did something he knew the patron would disapprove of, for that may
have meant that he might not get paid. We cannot exclude the possibility, however, that
certain artists were in fact appreciated for their creativity, and thus not only for the
quality of their work along established lines. Discussed has been the case of church
narthexes, in which painters had the chance to express themselves more than in other
spaces. (Some scholars, as mentioned, go as far as to speak of “social commentary.”)
Architecture is perhaps at its most “creative” in a period between the mid-eighteenth
century and the mid-nineteenth century in which new groups of patrons rose to the fore.
The lift of the ban of architecturally ambitious non-Muslim architecture in 1856 resulted
in two decades of untamed experimentation by very talented builders such as Fičev and
Damjanov, who seemed less interested in the pre-Ottoman architectural heritage of
Balkan Christianity than modern authors would have liked. It is very probably in the
course of their extensive travels throughout the region as well as through portable
images (prints, photographs) that they could develop a hybrid vocabulary of forms from
which they chose liberally. Probably they did so after consultation with the patrons, who
were now often industrious guildsmen rather than religious or administrative
functionaries.477
The examples of the Kurşumlu Câmi‘ at Shkodër, ‘Alî Paşa’s sons’ palaces at
Iōannina, or Knez Miloš’s didactic imagery seem to represent instances in which
patrons and artists together found “creative” solutions to very specific challenges. The
Kurşumlu Câmi‘ borrowed forms from existing works of architecture, without inventing
something new, but it reassembled them in a unique way. The story that it was built on
477 This “last Balkan style” before the age of conscious revivals dies with the
institutionalization of architectural education and the import of western models after
1875.
160
the model of a sultanic mosque in Istanbul – something only evident in the colonnaded
(frontal) courtyard, which is otherwise not found in the Balkans – was probably
circulated from around the time of its construction. Story and forms together visualized
its patron’s challenging of sultanic authority in his home region. Similarly, apparently
with the help of Armenian painters from Istanbul, at ‘Alî Paşa’s palace at Iōannina was
appropriated a teleological public imagery that was absolutely foreign to Islam’s
aniconic tradition. Alî Paşa was certainly aware of that, but practical concerns were
evidently more important to him. Knez Miloš, finally, similarly used a didactic imagery
that was foreign to his own visual tradition. In cooperation with painters, who may have
come from the nearby Habsburg territories across the Sava and Danube, he developed
images that were thought appropriate for the audience to whom the message was to be
communicated (of Miloš’s being the legitimate hegemon).
If we also consider the rise in artist signatures and the appearance of artist
portraits in the same period between the mid-eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries,
which saw the decay of the old system and the rise of rural violence, a proto-bourgeois
class, and systems of rule decentralized to the extent that historians have had problems
to reconstruct power structures in various locales, then one might go as far as to suggest
that it was in works from this period that it is easier to see the artist in the product than
it was before. The case of the three mosques at Sarajevo from around 1560 seems to
exemplify a setting in which not individualism but solutions in line with certain
expectations and local possibilities were decisive. Just as historians of Ottoman
architecture have tended to prefer the confidently monumental but comparably
predictable monuments of the sixteenth century, so have historians of Byzantine and
post-Byzantine painting interpreted the change between the fourteenth through sixteenth
century and the century after the mid-eighteenth as a descent into “folk art.” If art
historians can thus be said to have preferred the study of periods in which the individual
was less visible, we should not be surprised that the artist has thus far not played a
major role in the historiography of this heritage.
161
CHAPTER 4
ARTIST AND PRODUCT: CASE STUDIES IN AGENCY
In chapters 2 and 3 I have largely sought to arrive at conclusions based on
generalizations from evidence preserved for a variety of documented cases. The present
chapter will be different in the sense that it consists of the more detailed analysis of four
cases studies. The goal is not to track patterns but to ask questions that elude ready
answers in light of the nature of the source material. Most importantly, these case
studies will inquire into the extent of the credit we are to give to the various individuals
involved in the design and construction processes of buildings and their ornamentation.
I am specifically interested in the question of to what degree they could influence
practices that were, as discussed especially in chapter 3.1, already determined to a very
large extent by limitations and customs.
Chapter 4.1 seeks to hypothetically reconstruct the design processes, and the
various levels and agents involved, that led to the coming-into-being of three important
buildings. These monuments are chosen not because the documentation of their
construction is more instructive in this regard, but because each building features
components that make them extraordinary. In a system in which form, rank, and place
were intimately connected, I consider this to be meaningful enough for a tentative
reconstruction of these processes. Due to the fact that, in all three cases, I disagree with
the date or function assigned to these buildings in the available literature, a large part of
this sub-chapter will be dedicated to the clarification, to the extent possible, of this data.
This will facilitate a reassessment of the significance of certain forms and features in the
given temporal/spatial context. This “new” data, in turn, will help us to propose
hypothetical reconstructions of work processes.
Chapter 4.2 inquires about the contribution of the so-called provincial architects
or town architects to the design and construction of monuments in the provinces. I hope
to be able to conclusively put forward my conviction that holders of this position have
been given too much credit in this respect in the available literature. Their job profile
162
and backgrounds, I maintain, will have to be reassessed. Exploring a source that has
been neglected in this regard, I also inquire in this context how far the habitual
translation into English of the term mi‘mâr in this context may wrongly resound with
certain skills, backgrounds, and duties.
Chapter 4.3 does what this study has otherwise avoided: it tries to reconstruct the
works of one individual artist and their meaning within his oeuvre in general. This
exercise is made attractive by the fact that the source on which it is based – Mi‘mâr
Sinân’s lists of buildings appended to various versions of his vita – is the only one of its
kind and contains an unusually straightforward claim for authorship. Given that many
important Balkan monuments are found on various versions of this list, an excursus into
the work of a Royal Architect seems justified. I will also discuss his criteria of selection
and the implication for the study of this heritage, especially in relation to the architect’s
contribution. Lastly, I point to the potential significance of at least three buildings not
found on this list that may be attributed with a considerable degree of confidence to this
architect.
Chapter 4.4, finally, looks at two cases of divergence from metropolitan models
in Herzegovina, a region on the Venetian-Ottoman frontier. Should these divergences be
seen as regional styles, premeditated aberrations, or even as simply due to the agency of
the artists involved? Given not only the relative obscurity of these cases but also the
possibility of at least hypothetically reconstructing the causes for these aberrations (and
the contribution and intentions of the individuals involved), these little-known examples
of mosques from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which display forms and
elements generally associated with the Catholic architecture of the coast, certainly
provide for an interesting test case.
4. 1. Planning and design: three hypothetical reconstructions of work processes
While, as discussed in previous chapters, occasionally there are preserved the names of
individuals involved in the design, construction, or decoration of architectural
monuments, their exact role in the work process is usually far from clear. This, of
course, owes much to the fact that the work process as such remains little explored, for
only parts of it were recorded, leaving considerable gaps. This chapter seeks to
hypothetically reconstruct such processes and the roles of various individuals in it for
the cases of three outstanding monuments in northern Greece. The very fact that all
163
three differ in certain regards from mainstream production makes feasible such
hypotheses. Except for their location in an area between the Ottoman metropolises of
Thessalonikē and Edirne, and the fact that all three were by and large introduced to an
international academic audience in a pioneering study of 1971 by Kiel,478 the three
buildings have little in common. Unfortunately, none of them features an original and
legible inscription informing us about their date and patron, thus a considerable part of
this chapter must be dedicated to the clarification of such basic data. This is obligatory
given that, as has been argued in chapter 3.1, the identity of the patron, especially his
rank, was a vital factor in the planning and design of monuments, especially in the
sixteenth century. Monuments were a chance for patrons to express their
accomplishments or ambition; but their design was also regulated by codes of decorum.
Thus, the presence of certain features may tell us more about a patron’s access to certain
resources than about his personal fancy. Next to the patron, the identification of a
monument’s construction date, even if approximate, is crucial in determining what
certain features could have meant in a given temporal and spatial context. As a last step,
hypothetical reconstructions of the processes that led to these monuments’ becoming
will be suggested. It will become clear why this is not possible without a detailed
investigation of a building’s construction history. Needless to say, in none of the cases
studied here has there been preserved the name or any association with an architect,
builder, or workshop. This lack of historical evidence forces us to look closer at the
material one.
As discussed in previous chapters, many if not most of the architectural designs
for monuments erected in the Ottoman Balkans follow certain conventions according to
building types and functions which change remarkably little between the fifteenth and
the mid-nineteenth century. Even more, most mosques built after ca. 1490 reproduce a
single “standard” or “generic” plan for a monumental provincial mosque: the domed
cube with portico and tall minaret (see e.g. ill. 18). Before that, the most common types
of monumental structures, next to hâns, hammâms, and bridges, were the T-shaped
zâviyes/‘imârets (usually described as “dervish lodges” and/or “public kitchens” in the
literature) and the “Great Mosques” for the communal prayer of large congregations,
478 Machiel Kiel, “Observations on the history of Northern Greece during the
Turkish rule historical and architectural description of the Turkish monuments of
Komotini and Serres, their place in the development of Ottoman architecture, and their
present condition,” in: Balkan Studies, XII/2 (1971), pp. 415-62, reprinted in Studies on
the Ottoman architecture of the Balkans. Aldershot: Variorum, 1990, art. III.
164
patronized by sultans and built on a rectangular plan surmounted by more than one
dome. While there is practically no monumental Catholic or Jewish architecture to
speak of before the mid-nineteenth century, Orthodox churches continue pre-Ottoman
patterns. The fact that, theoretically, no new churches were to be built and new
constructions on sites of pre-existing but ruined or decrepit buildings were to be rebuilt
within the dimensions of the predating the Ottoman conquest may not have invited
major innovations. Churches which appear to be entirely new are typically very
inconspicuous, often single-naved and domeless. For this reason, this chapter is focused
on three Islamic monuments, each of which being extraordinary in some respect. Given
the typecasting addressed above, it will treat this difference as a potentially meaningful
fact.
The first sub-chapter will deal with the case of the Zincirli Câmi‘ at Serres in
Greek Macedonia. This mosque is distinguished from the standard provincial
architecture of its period by the use of a structural solution typically found only in
Istanbul. This helps us to assign a date to the thus far insecurely dated building. In total,
enough circumstantial evidence seems to be available for us to endeavour to tentatively
reconstruct the work processes that led to its materialization, including the role of the
architect (who in this case may be identified with some certainty even in the absence of
pertinent documentation). The second sub-chapter will discuss the so-called ‘imâret in
Komotinē in Thrace, which is perhaps the oldest Ottoman building in Europe. After
proposing that this specific building is likely to have served an original function
different from that of the contemporary T-shaped zâviyes/‘imârets in Anatolia with
which it is usually compared, I shall also offer a suggestion as to the work processes and
actors involved in this project. The third case, finally, will deal not with architecture but
with the decoration of a mosque from the late sixteenth or early seventeenth century, the
Yeni Câmi‘ at Komotinē. It is distinguished by the high quality of the tiles in its
interior, which set it apart from all other mosques in the region.
165
4.1.1. The Zincirli Câmi‘ at Serres: provincial anomaly or Istanbul transplanted?
The structure in question is a monumental single-domed mosque with a five-bayed
portico. The domed prayer hall with a projecting mihrâb niche is made rectangular by
two lateral galleries (ill. 23). The first learned opinion of the dating of the building was
voiced by Anhegger, who provided a hasty survey of the town’s Ottoman monuments
following a visit in 1955. While not being able to see the interior, he suggested that the
portico, built of ashlar, may date to after the mid-sixteenth century while the ritual
space, enclosed by walls built in the cloisonné technique, may date from before that.
Given the provincial location, he also found it possible that both parts date from the
same period and reflect archaisms.479
The standard account of Serres’ Ottoman monuments was published in 1971 by
Kiel, who added to the existing knowledge a tentative dating to “between 1577 and
1585,” based on comparison with similar mosque plans in the capital.480 In a 1990
postscript to a reprint to that article he added an attribution: based on a list of Serres’
mosques in Evliyâ Çelebi’s Seyahâtnâme, in which a mosque built by a certain Zeynî
Kadı is listed right after the important Eski Câmi‘ of 1383, Kiel, confident that Evliyâ
listed mosques in order of their importance, proposed that this kadı’s mosque must be
identified with the Zincirli Câmi‘. As its patron he identified “the scholar, Kadi and
poet, Kâtibzâde Zeyn ül-Abidin,” who was the son of a secretary of two famed grand
viziers of the later sixteenth century (Sokollu Mehmed Paşa and Lâlâ Mustafâ Paşa).481
The dating was revised slightly upward, with Kiel now suggesting the building to have
been constructed in the 1580s and 1590s. This Kiel also thought to fit with the mosque’s
“hexagonal” (octagonal!) dome-support, which he accurately associated with the “late-
479 Robert Anhegger, “Beiträge zur osmanischen Baugeschichte III: Moscheen in
Saloniki und Serre; zur Frage der Planmoscheen,” in: Istanbuler Mitteilungen, XXVII
(1967), pp. 312-30, p. 319.
480 Kiel, Studies, art. III, pp. 442-4
481 This man, purported to have died in Istanbul in 1603, was indeed a good
candidate for patronage, as prior to a prestigious position as kadı in Mecca he had also
worked in Serres. This attribution is indebted to Joseph Freiherr von Hammer-Purgstall
(Geschichte der osmanischen Dichtkunst. Pesth: [s.n.] 1837, III, p. 313) who writes of a
poet named Zeynî Çelebi (“Seini-Tschelebi”), a.k.a Kâtib-zâde Zeyn ül-‘Abidîn, and
who is identified as the son of the secretary (hence “Kâtib-zâde”) of Sokollu Mehmed
Pasha.
166
Sinan school.”482 In a 2002 article Kiel revised both attribution and dating in line with
new information available to him, now suggesting the young poet and kadı Zeynî, a
Serres-born student of the better-known kazasker of Anatolia, Muallim-zâde. From the
available biographical data, Kiel calculates a birth date in the first half of the 1540s and
assumes that he made his endowment no earlier than in his late 50s, hence suggesting a
construction date at the beginning of the seventeenth century.483 Irrespective of the
exact date, Kiel has since the 1970s advocated that the Zincirli Câmi‘ was built by a
kadı at some point in the later sixteenth or early seventeenth century.
A different date and patron have been recently suggested by Lowry, who puts
forward his conviction that the structure was built in the 1490s by Selçuk Sultân, a
daughter of Bâyezîd II. She resided in Serres during the tenure as the district’s sancakbeği
of her husband Mehmed Beğ, the son of the famous Gedik Ahmed Paşa, and is
known to have founded there a mescid and medrese, as evidenced by a vakfiye notarized
in the early sixteenth century. Lowry presents a series of arguments for his alternative
dating and attribution, the most important for our discussion being: 1) the fact that
Evliyâ Çelebi writes of a mosque of “Selçuk Hâtûn” as being “more in the mode of a
sultanic mosque” (bu dahi hakkâ ki câmi‘i selâtîndir), a statement that may well
describe the stately monument in question; 2) the existence of archival documents
(mentioned in a study by Uluçay) that record not only a medrese and a mescid
associated with Selçuk Sultân in Serres but also a mosque; and 3) the dating of
dendrochronological samples taken from that mosque to 1492 by international
experts.484
482 Kiel, Studies, art. III, p. 444a.
483 Machiel Kiel, “Die Rolle des Kadis und der Ulema als Förderer der Baukunst
in den Provinzzentren des Osmanischen Reiches,” in: Frauen, Bilder und Gelehrte:
Studien zu Gesellschaft und Künsten im Osmanischen Reich. Eds. Sabine Prätor and
Christoph K. Neumann. Istanbul: Simurg, 2002, pp. 569-601, cit. pp. 590-4. In this
recent article, Kiel based his attribution on data providen in the biographical dictionary
of poets by ‘Âşık Çelebi completed in 1568/9.
484 Lowry, Shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, ch. 4. In a 2007 article, the first
specifically themed on the Zincirli Mosque (though concerned more with aspects of
restoration), Eleni Gavra (“The Zincirli mosque in Serres,” in: The Ottoman Empire, the
Balkans, the Greek lands: toward a social and economic history: studies in honor of
John C. Alexander. Eds. Elias Kolovos et al. Istanbul: ISIS, 2007, pp. 135-55, cf. p.
140f.) accepted Kiel’s dating of the monument to the “last quarter of the sixteenth
century.” An ambitious (but ultimately disappointing) “inventory” of Ottoman
monuments in Greece published by the Hellenic Ministry of Culture published in the
following year already put forward a dating to the end of the fifteenth or the second half
167
Despite this evidence, and for reasons to be explained below, I shall posit a date
of around 1590, hence closer to the earlier date(s) suggested by Kiel. That author’s most
recent suggestion of the early seventeenth-century seems late for the mosque in question
and is conditioned by a hypothetical attribution to a patron. I have found that Evliyâ
does not necessarily list a given locale’s mosques according to their architectural
significance; rather, he more typically lists monuments hierarchically according to the
rank of their patrons: sultanic mosques come first, followed by mosques of other
dignitaries.485 Yet, Lowry’s strongest piece of evidence for his attribution to Selçuk
Sultân is exactly Evliyâ’s short-spoken comment that it resembles a sultanic mosque,
for we know of “only” three remarkable mosques to have existed in Serres (which is
already quite a large number for any provincial locale): the Eski Câmi‘ (not extant), the
Zincirli Câmi‘, and the Mehmed Beğ mosque. All but the Zincirli are separately treated
and unambiguously identified by Evliyâ.486 For this reason, the Zincirli Câmi‘ is very
probably rightly identified with the building Evliyâ referred to as the “Selçuk Hâtûn
Câmi‘i.” At the same time, a dating to the late fifteenth century, and thus to Selçuk
Sultân’s lifetime, is little short of impossible considering the architectural features of the
mosque: square, hexagonal, and octagonal baldachin dome supports, facilitating lateral
galleries, are a distinct feature of Ottoman architecture in the second half of the
sixteenth century and the early seventeenth century.487 They are intimately connected
with architectural innovations in the late work of Sinân, continued for a while by his
students. Even more, their structural solution was seen as a “trademark of prestige
of the sixteenth century (Ersi Brouskari [ed.], Ottoman architecture in Greece. Athens:
Hellenic Ministry of Culture, 2008, p. 284), already knowing of the study by Lowry
published only a few months earlier. The inventory entry adds to the building’s history
the discovery of remains of mural which they date to the “Tulip Period,” that is “the
first half of the eighteenth century,” which they moreover suppose to have been
produced in tandem with a major repair to the dome.
485 In many cases he also seems to not list monuments in any systematic way.
486 There is, of course, the possibility that Serres had another outstanding
monument at the time of Evliyâ’s visit that has not survived into the twentieth century,
but I find this rather unlikely.
487 For a survey, see Selçuk Batur, “Osmanlı camilerinde sekizgen ayak
sisteminin gelişimi üzerine,” in: Anadolu sanatı araştırmaları, I (1968), pp. 139-66;
Doğan Kuban, “Les mosquées à coupoles a base hexagonale,” in: Beiträge zur
Kunstgeschichte Asiens: in Memoriam Ernst Diez. Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi
Edebiyat Fakültesi Sanat Tarihi Enstitüsü, 1963, pp. 35-47.
168
mosques in the capital.”488 The first example of a mosque in which the baldachin is
completely unsupported by the side walls but by piers (which likewise support the
lateral galleries) is the Rüstem Paşa mosque in Istanbul, completed in the early 1560s.
The combination of a domed baldachin, lateral galleries, and a projecting mihrâb niche
(supporting the baldachin on two points), as we see it at Serres, becomes popular only
with the Selîmiye (completed 1574) at Edirne, however. Lowry correctly notes that
projecting mihrâb niches are a widespread feature in late fifteenth century mosques; but
in this combination they are specific to post-Selîmiye projects, ending with the mosque
of Nişâncı Mehmed Paşa in 1588/9. It is only in the eighteenth century that octagonal
and hexagonal supports saw a revival.489
We may move further toward a tentatively definitive dating, and possibly even
an attribution to an architect, if we consider that no mosque in Serres is mentioned in
any of Sinân’s lists of buildings.490 These sources in fact suggest that Sinân was quite
proud of the innovations introduced by him (among which, notably, was the baldachin
dome support), and would claim a mosque featuring such a feature as his whenever he
could, even if his “authorship” (see chapter 2.2.6) was ambiguous. This seems to be
evidenced by the case of the Mehmed Ağa mosque in Istanbul-Çarşamba: it is
mentioned in one of Sinân’s lists, but its inscription names his student and assistant
Dâvûd Ağa as its “perfect architect” (mi‘mâr-ı kâmili). Dâvûd probably designed or
planned the structure while working under Sinân, hence providing an excuse for the
latter to claim it on occasion. The absence of the Serres mosque in Sinân’s vitae thus
very probably means that it dates from after Sinân’s death in 1588. Dâvûd Ağa, Sinân’s
successor as chief royal architect between 1588 and 1598 (?), is a good candidate as the
Serres mosque’s architect/planner for reasons beyond his mere appointment to this
office: to him are generally attributed also two 1580s mosques in Istanbul – both
featuring octagonal baldachin supports. These are, like the aforementioned mosque of
Mehmed Ağa, only mentioned in one version of Sinân’s lists of buildings, the Tuhfetü’lmi‘
mârîn. Dâvûd Ağa eventually proved his mastery of baldachin support systems on a
larger scale in the Cerrâh Paşa mosque (inaugurated 1594) – the last such complex in
488 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 13, 119
489 See Batur, “Sekizgen ayak sisteminin gelişimi,” pp. 151-3. For the Nişâncı’s
mosque, see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 409f.
490 Cf. Sinan’s autobiographies, passim.
169
Istanbul for more than a century – which featured a hexagonal baldachin dome
support.491 As the structural sophistication of the Zincirli indeed makes indispensable
the involvement of the Corps of Royal Architects in its realization, which may also be
evident in the relative structural clarity of the mosque’s interior as opposed to the
somewhat simple exterior, it seems to be safe to assume that Dâvûd Ağa, an architect
well-versed in the design of octagonal and hexagonal baldachin supports, must be
credited with the mosque. It certainly seems unlikely, given this evidence, that it was
not built in the 1580s or 90s and, given the formal trends of this period a date of ca.
1590 sounds highly reasonable.
Without the documentation of building work at Serres at our disposal, we may
take the 1570s construction accounts of the Semiz ‘Alî Paşa mosque in Babaeski as an
indicator, for it is the only example outside Istanbul of a Friday mosque with a
(hexagonal) baldachin dome support, a significantly protruding mihrâb niche, a fivebayed
portico, and (though narrow) lateral galleries. This building is claimed by Sinân
in all versions of his vita, and there is no reason to assume that it is not principally owed
to his agency. In the mentioned administrative documents are found the names of
Hüseyin and Mustafâ as having built the mosque portal, a certain Süleymân as having
carved the inscription, the ustas Hızır and Hüsâ (who appear to have played a leading
role as master masons), and the painters ‘Osmân and Mahmûd, who were brought from
Edirne (perhaps “borrowed” from the construction site of the Selîmiye).492 Despite the
availability of detailed documentation, recording various names and even professions,
the insight offered into work and design processes is very limited. Were these
individuals chosen because of their style, their sophistication, or perhaps simply their
availability? Did they execute designs prepared by others or did they contribute to the
building and its decoration according to their own taste and experience?
The extant documentation allows no such conclusions for the case of the Zincirli
Câmi‘, but the processes that led to its materialization can be relatively well
reconstructed, if hypothetically, on the basis of formal analysis, contextualization and
an investigation of building chronology. As argued above, a date around 1590 appears
491 For Dâvûd Ağa and his work, see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 500, 507f. In
the case of Mehmed Ağa’s mosque, where Dâvûd is mentioned as architect on the
inscription, Necipoğlu proposes that this was in acknowledgment of that architect’s
authorship.
492 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, pp. 386-9, p. 546 (note 64).
170
most likely given the octagonal baldachin dome support and the fact that it was not
claimed by Sinân, hence probably dating to after his death in 1588. In any case it must
have happened after 1568/9, when the last preserved cadastral survey of Serres was
undertaken and no mosque called Zincirli or Selçuk Hâtûn was recorded.493 Though the
patronage by a kadı, as suggested by Kiel, is not unlikely if we consider other examples
of large mosques patronized by members of this profession in the second half of the
sixteenth century (such as at nearby Bitola and Sofia, but also two examples in
Istanbul),494 that by a princess appears more likely. A date of construction in the 1490s,
thus in Selçuk Sultân’s time, must be entirely ruled out for the reasons outlined above.
However, there are reasons for not excluding from the discussion the idea of an
association with this patron. According to her vakfîye of 1508, the year of her death,495
she built in Serres a medrese with twelve rooms and a zâviye with (or and) a mescid
with two tabhâne rooms attached to it. 496 Lowry fails to note that the documentation
cited by him (as published by Uluçay) mentions not that a mosque was built around
1500, but that at some point after 1584 a mosque and a ribât (here: a caravansary?) in
Serres are recorded as being supported by endowed properties.497 Tax and population
registers from the period of Süleymân similarly mention merely a medrese, but no
mosque.498 We must conclude that the mosque associated with Selçuk Sultân was built
only posthumously with means provided by her vakf. This does not seem impossible
considering also the fact that in 1530 two of her children, Neslişâh Sultân and Gâzî
493 Cf. Evangelia Balta, Les vakıfs de Serrès et de sa région (XVe et XVIe s.): un
premier inventaire. Athens: Centre de Recherches Néo-Helléniques, 1995, passim.
494 For Istanbul, see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, pp. 479-82; for the provinces, see
Kiel, “Die Rolle des Kadı.”
495 For her biography, see Mustafa Çağatay Uluçay, “Bayazid II. in âilesi [sic],”
in: Tarih Dergisi, X/14 (1959), pp. 105-24, cit. pp. 123-4.
496 The vakfîye has been published by M. Tayyib Gökbilgin in his XV-XVI.
asırlarda Edirne ve Paşa Livası: vakıflar-mülkler-mukataalar (Istanbul: İstanbul
Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Yayınları, 1952) app. pp. 185-93. There is also no hatîb
mentioned, again confirming that a Friday mosque was not part of this vakf.
497 See Uluçay, “Bayazid II. in âilesi,” p. 123, note 151. Lowry appears to have
misread the information provided on this page as referring to the period around 1500.
498 Cf. Balta, Les vakıfs de Serrès, p. 26, 29, 55-6, 133 on the functioning of
Selçuk Hâtûn’s vakf.
171
Hüsrev Beğ, the latter exceedingly wealthy,499 chose to donate additional funds to their
mother’s vakf. 500 This might suggest that the means she bequeathed prior to her death
for the upkeep of her institution in Serres had proven insufficient. The 1530 additions
by her children may have been sufficient not only to ensure the survival of her vakf but
even to generate surpluses, thus making possible the construction of a Friday mosque
next to her medrese.501 The design, the vakf’s manager (mütevellî) may have made sure,
would be commensurate with the deceased patron’s social rank as a princess. Her
membership in the royal family certainly allowed her to benefit from the services of the
Corps of Royal Architects. The result was a fashionable design with an octagonal
baldachin dome support, probably even from the desk of the chief royal architect Dâvûd
Ağa himself.
There remains the question of why this monumental mosque lost its association
with Selçuk Sultân at the expense of the non-specific or even generic name of Zincirli
Câmi‘. As Evliyâ mentions no mosque by that name in 1668, only a mosque by Selçuk
Sultân, the name must date from after that. A literal translation of Zincirli Câmi‘ as
“chained mosque” or “mosque with chain” (or, as Lowry writes, “fettered mosque”),
makes little sense, as there is no sign for a chain or chain-like element that could have
resulted in such an association. There is, however, one oral tradition according to which
the mosque acquired its name after an eighteenth-century restoration that was paid for
with gold coins of the type known as zincirli.502 Replacing the older sultânî, this was a
coin introduced at some point between 1697 and 1707. Still being exchanged in 1731, it
was not in circulation anymore by mid-century.503 This fits well with the suggestion by
Greek restorers that a major repair took place in the first half of the eighteenth
499 He also built a medrese (extant) in Selçuk’s name in Sarajevo; this institution
was supported by his own vakf, however.
500 Gökbilgin, Edirne ve Paşa Livâsı, app. p. 186.
501 Lowry (Shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, p. 163) reports foundations of a
structure excavated next to the mosque, which may be that of a medrese. This may
indeed suggest that the mosque was part of a cluster of buildings the first of which had
been the medrese she had built around 1500. I must note that I did not detect the
remains of any other buildings on site during my visit in March 2011.
502 Brouskari (ed.), Ottoman architecture in Greece, p. 286.
503 Şevket Pamuk, A monetary history of the Ottoman Empire. Cambridge:
University Press, 2000, p. 164, 167-8, 174.
172
century.504 This intervention to the dome and the upper parts of the walls may be
suggested to have been caused by some sort of incident. Given the textile-based
economy of Serres, this is quite likely to have been a fire. From a (non-extant)
inscription on the Eski Câmi‘ at Serres we know that the building saw major repairs in
1719 following a large-scale conflagration.505 This must have been the fire of 1714,
mentioned in a document in the archives of Prodromos monastery near Serres.506 There
is some reason to assume that the intervention to the Zincirli Câmi‘ similarly took place
in 1719: Serres’ Eski Câmi‘ was in the majority financed through the vakf of Murâd I,507
and one may assume that its 1719 restoration was paid for by funds allocated by this
vakf administered from Istanbul. Given the royal connection of Selçuk Sultân – repair
records of 1859 prove that even then the mosque was administered by the vakf of this
patron,508 despite its new name – it is perhaps not all too unlikely to assume that when
an estimate was made for the costs for the repairs to the Eski Câmi‘ by an agent
commissioned by the administration, the “other” royal mosque in town was surveyed as
well. The zincirli coin was still used in 1719, and so the aforementioned oral tradition
may relate an actual event.509
504 Brouskari (ed.), Ottoman architecture in Greece, p. 285-6. According to the
restorers, the intervention in the eighteenth century also resulted in a new painted
decoration in the style typical for that period. I was not able to see this mosque’s interior
during my visit to Serres in the March of 2011. Despite a long completed restoration
project, the building has not been opened to the public, nor has it been given a new
purpose.
505 Petros N. Papageorgiou, “Ai Serrai kai ta proasteia, ta peri tas Serras kai ē
monē Iōannou tou Prodromou,” in: Byzantinische Zeitschrift, III (1894), pp. 225-329,
cit. p. 292
506 Cf. Conseils et mémoires de Synadinos, prêtre de Serrès en Macédoine
(XVIIe siècle). Ed. and tr. Paolo Odorico. Paris: Editions de l’Association “Pierre
Belon,” 1996, p. 340.
507 Balta, Les vakıfs de Serrès, pp. 91-4.
508 Neval Konuk, Yunanistan’da Osmanlı mimarisi. Ankara: SAM, 2010, p. 318.
509 Another possibility for the name “Zincirli”, so far overlooked, is a possible
association with the branch of the Kadirî dervish order known as the Zincirli (a.k.a.
Zincirî). Perhaps not incidentally, it enjoyed its greatest popularity in Macedonia and
Kosovo. Headquartered in Baghdad, a city (re-)conquered by the Ottomans in 1639, the
Kadirî spread in the Balkans in the seventeenth and especially in the eighteenth century.
The Zincirli branch appears to have been introduced by a dervish from Crete, Mehmed
Rafi Giridî Zincirî, among whose three pupils listed in a silsile are found a baba and a
şeyh from Macedonia (Giannitsa and Skopje, respectively). There are known to have
173
The hypothetical chronology that thus emerges is as follows: Around 1500
Selçuk Sultân built a medrese and other buildings in Serres and set up a vakf for their
support. The means she endowed for which were insufficient, however, whereby in
1530 two of her children increased their mother’s vakf’s assets. This possibly resulted
not only in an adequate support structure for the endowed institutions but also generated
a surplus. By the late sixteenth century this was enough for the mütevellî of the vakf to
contemplate the construction of a new building, a mosque – or perhaps the conversion
of the foundation’s mescid into a Friday mosque. This might explain the presence of
building material from the early 1490s, as demonstrated by way of dendrochronology.
The mütevellî of the vakf would have corresponded with Mi‘mâr Dâvûd Ağa about the
project, who would send from Istanbul to Serres an assistant to inspect the site and
estimate the costs for a monument according to a plan that was in keeping with the
princess’s eminence. The plan with the fashionable octagonal baldachin dome support
may have been a deliberate choice, just as it may have been conditioned by the existing
buildings, which were to be converted rather than torn down. The vakfiye describes
what may well have been a T-shaped zâviye with a mescid and two tabhânes. Did the
baldachin dome support, which supports the dome relatively independently from the
carrying walls, thus allowing for additional spaces such as lateral galleries, prove to be
the best solution for a building that was large enough but rectangular and previously
divided into smaller spaces serving different functions?
Further observations as to possible considerations and decisions in the design
process can be voiced on the basis of the examination of the materials, the construction
and the use of comparison. The five-bayed porch, for instance, is relatively grand for a
existed two Kadirî tekyes in Serres, but their association with that particular branch is
not known. Could the mosque and possibly the medrese have been entrusted to the
Zincirli order and thence have acquired its name? That “orthodox” Sunni institutions
like a Friday mosque and an adjacent medrese were certainly not uncommon among the
Kadirî is proven by the example of the Veli Paşa complex (ca. 1650) in Rethymno on
Crete, which had been entrusted to this order by its founder (who may have taken a
liking to this order while serving in Baghdad). The fact that the Zincirli evolved from a
Kadirî dervish from Crete winning followers in the Balkans may in fact further
strengthen the connection between those two remarkable mosques. For the Kadirî in the
Balkans, see Alexandre Popovic, “La Qâdiriyya/Kadiriyye dans les Balkans: une vue
d'ensemble,” in: Journal of the History of Sufism, I/II (2000), pp. 167-211, esp. pp. 170-
3. This author (p. 174) was not aware of a document from the court registers of
Rethymnon that proves that the complex belonged to the Kadirî from its very inception.
Cf. Mustafa Oğuz, “Girit (Resmo) şeriyye sicil defterleri (1061 - 1067),” dissertation
(Marmara University, Istanbul), 2002, docs. no. 540 (1656?), 943 (1652), 952 (1651).
174
provincial mosque. It is built of ashlar rather than in alternating brick and stone, as are
the rest of the building’s exterior walls. This was very probably in order to embellish
the frontal aspect of the monument, incorrectly suggesting to spectators that the entire
building may have been built of this costlier material. The structural support of the
dome in the interior and the connected lateral galleries display a clarity and
sophistication that must lead one to suggest that this building stage was not only left to
be undertaken by a highly skilled group of masons but also that they were closely
supervised by an architect dispatched from Istanbul. Intricate ornament of stone or
marble is largely lacking; this might in fact be seen as in keeping with its late-sixteenth
century date. Instead, some painted (?) red and white geometric decoration is found in
the lunettes. The relative colourfulness achieved by the alternation of grey and red
elements in fact reminds of the roughly contemporary Kazasker ‘İvâz Efendi mosque in
Istanbul-Eğrikapı (1586), which is also not claimed by Sinân (though built during his
lifetime) and thus possibly similarly attributable to Dâvûd Ağa.510 Both mosques also
share an extensive covering with lead and a polygonal baldachin dome support (which
is far less adventurous at Eğrikapı than it is at Serres). This latter feature distinguishes
the Zincirli from all other “classical period” mosques outside Istanbul; and the fact that
it was not repeated in any of the (admittedly, increasingly rare) examples of domed
provincial mosques from after the late sixteenth century almost certainly means that the
involvement of agents from Istanbul, very probably Mi‘mâr Dâvûd Ağa himself, was
much greater in this mosque than in other cases. There should be little doubt that this is
a reflection of the original patron’s status and possibly the liquidity of her vakf. Both
factors facilitated the project patron’s (the mütevellî’s?) access to privileged instruments
of planning and execution, as reflected in the anomaly of some of the Zincirli’s features
in a provincial setting around 1590.
4.1.2. The Evrenos ‘imâret at Komotinē: replication or modification of a type?
The Komotinē building known as “the ‘imâret” (ills. 42-3) belongs to the better-known
Ottoman monuments in the Balkans. This is largely due to its early date: commonly
believed to have been built in the 1370s, that is, after the Ottoman conquest of Edirne
510 For this mosque, see Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, pp. 480-1; Godfrey Goodwin,
A history of Ottoman architecture. London: Thames & Hudson, 1971, p. 259, 261.
175
and Thrace and before the establishment of the raider-lord Gâzî Evrenos at Serres (and
eventually Giannitsa) after having had his “headquarters” at Komotinē, the ‘imâret is
perhaps the oldest Ottoman-built structure in all of Europe.511 Long connected to
Evrenos by tradition and textual sources, the building’s only surviving inscription (in
the tympanum of the entrance to one of the lateral rooms) has been made illegible in the
course of the building’s conversion into the “Church of Emperor Saint Boris” during the
Bulgarian occupation in the 1910s. The building’s somewhat hybrid appearance may
have led the occupiers to believe that, as they claimed, it had been converted from a
church.
The Komotinē ‘imâret has long been connected to a group of T-shaped buildings
exclusive to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, due to its plan and many features of
its formal arrangement. The fact that many of them were converted into mosques in the
decades around 1500, when it was feared that they might harbour heterodox elements
sympathetic to the Safavid enemy to the East, led generations of researchers to believe
that there existed a building type of a T-shaped early Ottoman mosque. Since the 1960s
it has been common to link this form to the function of zâviyes, that is, institutions
providing lodging and boarding to dervishes and other visitors. These institutions, it is
claimed, had played a major role in the colonization of the Balkan-Anatolian region
with Islam. Often they provided the nucleus for a new settlement as a basic
infrastructure of communication and ritual.512 This appears to have been the case with
Komotinē, where Evrenos’ ‘imâret presumably was the nucleus for the Muslim extramural
settlement.
At Komotinē we see a T-shaped building that consists of a domed central space
open on one side and is extended by a small projection beyond the other rooms’ walls
on the other side. It is flanked by smaller domed spaces entered through lateral doors in
the central space and probably once used for the lodging of guests or staff. The
ornamentation that has survived is minimal; the building’s aspect is vivified by the use
of various building materials (exposed on the exterior, apparently originally plastered in
511 The basic study is Kiel, “Observations on the history of Northern Greece.”
512 Ömer Lütfi Barkan, “Osmanlı İmparatorluğunda bir iskân ve kolonizasyon
metodu olarak vakıflar ve temlikler,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, II (1942), pp. 279-386;
Semavi Eyice, “İlk Osmanlı devrinin dini-içtimai bir müessesesi: zaviyeler ve zaviyeli
camiler,” in: İ.Ü. İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası, XXIII/1-2 (1963), pp. 3-80; Sedat Emir,
Erken Osmanlı mimarlığında çok-işlevli yapılar: kentsel kolonizasyon yapıları olarak
zâviyeler, 2 vols. Izmir: Akademi Kitabevi, 1994.
176
the interior), such as brick, stone, and a yellowish stone local to Thrace. In terms of its
construction, the ‘imâret shows continuity with pre-Ottoman traditions, as is visible
here perhaps more than in the cases of many other early Ottoman buildings in Asia
Minor. The fact that the three arms of the T culminate in small triangularly arched
protrusions – a feature with no apparent structural purpose – seems to suggest, on one
hand, that this was to be more than a merely utilitarian structure in an unstable and
possibly partially devastated frontier region, but also that the builders were given some
freedom in embellishing the structure beyond Anatolian prototypes on the other.
Noteworthy plastic ornament is only found around the entrance to the lateral room to
the East; the same kind of ornamentation may have once decorated the opposite door
but has not survived. Curious are scratches in the plastered walls of the central as well
as lateral spaces which depict motifs such as ships, axes, and castles. It has been
suggested that they might date to the building’s early period, and that they may have
been produced by dervishes lodged here.513 While not impossible, the link between
early Ottoman dervishes or frontier raiders and ships certainly seems feeble. Another
curious feature is a Roman spolium, a female head of gypsum, which has been placed in
the tympanum of the rear projection on the southern side of the building. It is unknown
whether this was an original feature of the building, whereby it must be treated as
potentially not an integral part of its iconography. In any case, its inclusion is likely to
have been “iconographical” only in the apotropaic sense.
Lastly, some unusual features of the construction are of interest as well. The
walls are cloisonné, but the stones framed by thin bricks are not ashlars but boulders;
the areas left empty by their uneven not-rectangular shape were filled up with mortar.
Interesting is similarly the use of a local yellowish stone that appears to have been
easily carved.514 As it dominates some parts but not others, where it is apparently used
without structural purpose, some thought must have gone into its utilization: either its
colourfulness was appreciated, or its use was made opportune by the fact that the
construction was to proceed quickly. Perhaps it was for the same reason that boulders
with mortar around them replaced ashlars to be framed by bricks, for their cutting for
this purpose would certainly have taken more time and presumably more funds.
513 Lowry, Shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, pp. 86-90.
514 This may be the same kind of yellowish stone from which dwellings were
carved out in the rock below the fortress of nearby Didymoteichon.
177
As was mentioned before, in terms of plan and function, the Komotinē ‘imâret is
usually discussed as part of the phenomenon of the early Ottoman T-shaped
zâviyes/‘imârets, which are believed to have functioned as dervish lodges, guesthouses,
and poorhouses. While the non-domed annex space is far less pronounced at Komotinē
that in other examples of T-shaped structures (where it is occasionally enlarged to a
domed space), the layout with the lateral guestrooms is indeed very similar to the
typical examples of this type. On the other hand, there are certain features that set it
apart from other early Ottoman T-shaped structures, most of which appear to have been
converted into Friday mosques in the sixteenth century. These conversions were
facilitated by these buildings’ habitual orientation toward the Southeast, which was
obviously due to the fact that one of the spaces served ritual purposes, as a mescid. The
conversions necessitated major interventions: minarets, porches, mihrâbs, and minbers
were added, and separating walls were torn down to create a large space for
congregational prayer.
This was not what happened at Komotinē: the walls between the central space
and the lateral guestrooms are preserved, and there are no signs of mihrâbs, in any of
the rooms. It is clear that this building never served as a mosque; it may have been
spared conversion at the time when this was the general trend exactly because it was not
oriented toward the Southeast, hence impeding such a conversion. While this is the first
major divergence from the group of early T-shaped buildings, the other is the fact that
the entrance to the central space is articulated as an eyvân, that is, a room open to one
side, and not as a wall with an opening for a door. This makes the Komotinē building
unique in the context of early Ottoman T-shaped structures. Even more, this solution
seems to be contrary to these buildings’ principal purpose of providing shelter.
Thermodynamically, architecture including one half-open room seems imprudent. There
is also no indication of there ever having been a large door or a hearth in the central
space. We must conclude that the building was indeed planned as an eyvân with two
lateral guestrooms. The location of their doors at the very margin of the room seems to
suggest that, though again unwise in thermodynamic terms, they were to function
independently of the eyvân. These doors’ location faciliated the three spaces in question
to function relatively independently, with their “users” disturbing each other as little as
possible. While, in sum, the Komotinē ‘imâret may be regarded as an example of the Tshaped
group in terms of form and partly also in terms of function, its anomalies,
178
especially the eyvân and the lack of south-eastern orientation, must make us reconsider
its original function, as shall be my attempt hereafter.
Both the dome and the eyvân are not only widely used forms in medieval Islamic
architecture but also common signs of authority. The best-known fourteenth-century
building where they were used in such combination was the (not extant) Īwān al-Nāsiri
of Mamluk Cairo, dating to the early decades of that century. Institutionally, it formed
part of a tradition of dūr al-‘adl (“houses of justice”), which functioned as sites where
sultans dispensed justice in a semi-public manner – hence the eyvân-solution (at least
also at the Īwān al-Nāsiri, though it may have been more widespread) – to bolster
respect in them as decision-makers even where other forms of arbitration were available
for subjects.515 The potent but loyal Gâzî Evrenos did certainly not intend to imitate the
Mamluk sultan, but he may have chosen an architectural type that was more widespread
in his day than the scant surviving remains of palatial and administrative architecture in
Anatolia and the Middle East might suggest. In newly-conquered Thrace around 1375,
there should be no doubt that he, the principal conqueror and first man after the
Ottoman dynast, was considered the foremost authority among his raiding forces as well
as the subdued non-Muslim populations alike. Such a position very probably
necessitated the frequent holding of audiences. It is likely that the ‘imâret was
conceived as the site for his dispensation of justice in a place which was his and his
troops’ first headquarters in Europe. The ‘imâret also functioned as a guesthouse for
distinguished visitors and as the core of an institutional structure (later turned into a
vakf) that provided the nucleus of Muslim life in Komotinē. The fact that it was built
outside the city walls rather than in a dominant location in the centre of the city, which
was spared destruction, may reflect the rather conciliatory attitude that also had an echo
in the demonstratively public nature of justice dispensed at the raider lord’s audiences in
the eyvân of the ‘imâret.
This proposed function, along with an analysis of the forms, makes possible a
hypothetical reconstruction of the planning process. After the conquest of the area
following repeated raids in the third quarter of the fourteenth century, Evrenos decided
to make Komotinē his headquarters for raids into Macedonia and other territories. This
presence he sought to underline with the development of a basic infrastructure, of which
515 For this institution, see Nasser O. Rabbat, “The ideological significance of
the Dār al-Adl in the medieval Islamic Orient,” in: International Journal of Middle East
Studies, XXVII/1 (1995), pp. 3-28.
179
the ‘imâret is the most visible legacy.516 Its co-function as an audience hall explains the
considerable amount of “design” that went into its making; this makes it compare
favourably with most (usually much simpler) zâviyes in Asia Minor, from whose plan it
was certainly derived.517 The elaboration of walls, and possibly the location, may
suggest that an itinerant workshop of (almost certainly non-Muslim) builders from
Thrace or Macedonia was employed. They embellished with details a form determined
in rough terms by someone close to Evrenos, who was maybe no “architect” but
certainly sufficiently cognisant of the forms, functions, and measurements of buildings
of Islamic Anatolia (and possibly beyond). It was in concert with this man that Evrenos
planned the structure according to its intended functions; the premeditated layout of the
rooms was then communicated to the builders.
The monument was certainly intended to be a representative structure; its domes
and conspicuous polychromy certainly stuck out in the plain before the walled town of
Komotinē. At the same time, it responded to a need of arbitration that had become
urgent or that was already taking place in an inappropriate setting. Rather than
producing rectangular cut stones, patron and builders agreed on using unshaped
boulders and mortar to make them fill the rectangular spaces to be framed in the
cloisonné technique. In this way, less brick was used (as opposed to a banded opus
mixtum), as may have been found desirable, and no time was lost cutting stone. At the
same time, features like the gable-like top sections of the non-functional protrusions
attached to the lateral rooms seem to suggest that, despite the haste, a certain
representativeness was expected. The forms the ‘imâret shares with fourteenth-century
Balkan church architecture are, again, less the outcome of iconographic considerations
than conditioned by the likely employment of builders previously having worked in the
construction of Christian ecclesiastical architecture. At Komotinē we see their
techniques applied to a plan that was not only foreign in source but also ingeniously
modified by the patron and his advisor(s) to correspond to the specific challenges on
site.
516 While no vakfîye has been discovered, the record of the ‘imâret’s vakf in the
1568/9 tax register reveals a staff of 39 individuals connected to it! Cf. Turski
dokumenti za istorijata na Makedonija XI/1: opširen popisen defter za vakafite vo Paša
sandžakot od 1568/69 godina. Tr. Aleksandar Stojanovski. Skopje: Arhiv na
Makedonija, 2007, p. 485.
517 For these, see Emir, Erken Osmanlı mimarlığında çok-işlevli yapılar.
180
4.1.3. The Yeni Câmi‘ at Komotinē and its tiles: provincial sophistication or
opportunistic spoliation?
While it is comparatively straightforward to discuss architecture, since what has
survived has largely remained in a way that enables us to visualize the character of a
building at the time it was built, the situation is very different when it comes to the
original embellishment of surfaces and details. While ornament carved from stone or
marble has generally survived, the processes that led to its production are far from
sufficiently understood. Concerning the intricate ornamentation of many fifteenth and
sixteenth century buildings, most prominently mosques and hammâms, it is certainly
interesting to ask at which point in the planning process were its details discussed – or
was ornamentation added only as an afterthought. Were certain parts of buildings
carrying ornament “outsourced” to specialists not working on site? Would, for instance,
an intricately carved mihrâb of marble be ordered from Istanbul or other urban centres
rather than produced on the spot, for it must have cost more to have a carver work
abroad and to send a slate of marble that has not been worked? Or were parts of
buildings, such as capitals, perhaps prefabricated or reused and have thus entered the
orbit of the building only by chance or necessity?
Harder even is such discussion when not pertaining to decorative elements made
from stone or wood, for such are not only relatively resistant to change over time but,
especially in the case of stone, usually also contemporary to the building. This
facilitates precise dating and, by extension, makes possible a formal comparison of
architectural monuments in a vast region over a long period of time, based on
chronology. Painted decoration, on the other hand, is especially elusive: it is easily
destroyed (usually by fire) and, as far as can be suggested from surviving examples,
more prone to a renewal in line with the style of the period. The walls of the Şerîf Halîl
Paşa mosque in Šumen, for instance, were painted no less than three times in the
century after its completion in 1744/5!518 In other cases the oldest layer was repeatedly
repainted on the basis of the existing decoration and was thus preserved. This appears to
have been the case with the well-known Alaca Câmi‘ of Foča (1550/1), which must
have been embellished with murals at some point in the second half of the sixteenth
518 The restoring agency has informed me of three layers of murals. The first
must date from the mid-eighteenth century; another looks from about a century after
that.
181
century. This was possibly done by painters sent to the area for that purpose from
Istanbul or Edirne, or by more local painters who worked according to designs
dispatched from Istanbul.519
Building upon this problematic, this chapter seeks to reconstruct the processes
that led to the conception of the decoration of the so-called Yeni Câmi‘ of Komotinē
(ills. 44-6). As with the Alaca Câmi‘ of Foča, its decorative program sets it apart from
the mainstream. It is also the only Ottoman building west of Edirne to have preserved
interior decorative elements that include Iznik tiles and lacquer painting on wood.520
These features were already praised by Evliyâ Çelebi in 1668,521 whose testimony is
important because it proves that these elements, which on the basis of stylistic features
must be dated to the last quarter of the sixteenth century, are not among more recent
pseudo-historicizing interventions.522 The mosque and its decorative features were
introduced to an academic audience in 1971 by Kiel, who first suggested its patron to
have been the early-seventeenth-century defterdâr Etmekçi-zâde Ahmed Paşa.523 This
man was the son of the Albanian baker (etmekçi) Hacı Mehmed, the head of the bakers’
guild in Edirne.
Ahmed made some money in the Edirne marketplace and became involved in
the collection of taxes. Upon this experience he built a career in financial
administration. He became a long-time defterdâr (“finance minister”) and was even
519 The Alaca is also an isolated case, so unique that it is hard to compare. Only
the decorative murals embellishing houses, churches, and mosques in the southern
Balkans between the late-eighteenth and mid-nineteenth centuries form a relatively
unified group (ill. 41). To some extent, this enables us to trace forms and features, and
occasionally even names of painters, or at least the names of the places they hailed
from. This being a specific period with its own dynamics, in patronage as in artistic
production, conclusions as to the workings between the mid-fourteenth and mideighteenth
centuries are not permissible.
520 I should like to acknowledge the support I have received from Walter Denny
and Tülay Artan with regards to the analysis of these features. They were so kind as to
agree to inspect the material and confirm what until then was a mere suspicion of mine:
that the tiles were produced long before the mosque was built, as shall be detailed
below.
521 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, VIII, p. 38.
522 These included the covering of parts of the building with machine-produced
tiles, a repainting of murals in the dome, and possibly a historicizing (or “fake”)
inscription (see below).
523 Kiel, Studies, art. III.
182
promoted to the rank of vezîr under Ahmed I (r. 1603-17).524 Before his death in the
same year as his sultanic namesake in 1617, Etmekçi-zâde Ahmed engaged in the
patronage of works of architecture centred in his native region of Thrace. They include
a mosque, hân, and hammâm in Genisea (near Xanthi), a tekye, a hân, and a hammâm in
Traianoupoli/Feres, and the Havlucular Hân (1601) and the Etmekçi-zâde kervânsarây
(1615/6) in his hometown Edirne.525 His career peaked in the early seventeenth century,
and it is for this reason that an inscription presently over the front entrance to the
mosque must be treated with much suspicion. Located in a part of the building that
dates to an enlargement in 1902/3, the inscription names as the building’s patron the
defterdâr Ahmed Paşa, cites as the reigning sovereign Murâd III (r. 1574-95), and
provides as the building’s construction date – both in a chronogram and in numerals! –
the year H. 994 (i.e. 1585/6 CE).526 Although such date could be possible judging solely
from the formal features of the mosque and its decoration, it is much too early – perhaps
by as much as two decades – for Etmekçi-zâde to have engaged in patronage on this
scale.527 His career coincided with the reigns of Mehmed III (r. 1595-1603) and Ahmed
I (r. 1603-17), and the title of paşa was only awarded in the reign of the latter. Rather
than 1585/6, a date in the first or second decade of the seventeenth century must be
assumed. It will soon become apparent why this date is important in the discussion of
that monument’s decoration.
The architecture of the mosque itself is generic: we see a domed cube of 11.4m
square, once preceded by a five-bayed portico. The latter was covered during an
524 Baki Tezcan, The second Ottoman Empire: political and social
transformation in the early modern world. Cambridge: University Press, 2010, p. 14f.
525 Machiel Kiel, “Un héritage non désiré: le patrimoine architectural islamique
ottoman dans l’Europe du Sud-Est, 1370–1912,” in: Études balkaniques, XII (2005), pp.
15-82, cit. p. 55. The endowment deed of this patron has, to the best of my knowledge,
not been discovered by scholars. From an extant (but undated?) evkâf defteri of
Komotinē (published in Osmanlı belgelerinde Batı Trakya. Ed. H. Yıldırım Ağanoğlu.
Istanbul: T.C. Başbakanlık Devlet Arşivleri Genel Müdürlüğü, 2009, app. 2, see esp. pp.
482-84) we learn that the “vakf of the mosque of Defterdâr Ahmed Efendi” included
more than fifty shops and other assets (such as a windmill).
526 For these inscriptions, see Berrin Yapar, “Yunanistan'daki Türk eserlerinde
kitabeler (Dedeağaç, Dimetoka, İskeçe, Gümülcine, Selanik, Kavala, Yenice-Karasu),”
MA thesis (Mimar Sinan University), 2007, pp. 36-42.
527 A more detailed biography of Etmekçi-zâde Ahmed is found in Mehmed
Süreyya’s Sicill-i ‘Osmânî (ed. Nuri Akbayar, tr. Seyit Ali Kahraman. Istanbul: Türkiye
Ekonomik ve Toplumsal Tarih Vakfı, 1996, p. 208).
183
enlargement of the mosque a little more than a century ago, when two-storied extra
spaces were built adjacent to the SW and NW sides of the mosque, and an extra mihrâb
was added. This conversion also seems to have affected a part of the interior decoration,
as shall be discussed below. More than the architecture, the mosque is made interesting
by what Kiel claimed in 1971 to be “examples of oriental decorative art which are
unrivalled, even in the old Ottoman capitals and the cities of Asia Minor.”528 The fact
that the tiled panels and the painted wooden ceiling of the mahfil in the Yeni Câmi‘ are
at least without parallels in Southeast Europe outside Turkey encourages speculation
about processes of work and thought.
In the former porch and in the prayer hall are found nine lunette-formed tile
panels featuring calligraphy in white (with occasional red dots) on blue ground. They
are framed by narrow polychrome bands running around the panels. Their upper parts
are shaped like pointed arches imitating a typically Ottoman form, despite (or because
of) the rectangular form of the windows. The calligraphy is in Arabic and consists of
citations from the scriptures. Yapar has recently pointed out their likeness to lunettes in
the Kılıç ‘Alî Paşa mosque (1580/1) in Istanbul-Tophane, which the panels at Komotinē
seem to imitate not only in style – the calligraphy at the Istanbul mosque is ascribed to
Demircikulı Yusûf Efendi (d. 1611), a student of a student of Ahmed Karahisârî – but
also in calligraphic design.529 We may go as far as to suggest that the Komotinē panels,
which are somewhat smaller than the ones at Tophane, were produced according to the
same calligrapher’s designs, perhaps even at the same time.530 This, of course, stands in
contrast to the fact that both mosques’ construction dates appear to be three decades
apart. To this must be added two more oddities: firstly, on the south-western wall of the
mosque we find not two (as on all others) but three such panels, one not even placed
over a window; secondly, the panels appear to be slightly broader than the breadth of
the marble window frames. This, on close look, appears rather unseemly. It may also
simply suggest, as is most likely, that the tiles were originally not fabricated for this
particular building. The ninth panel may have been included simply because it was
528 Kiel, Studies, art. III, p. 422.
529 Yapar, “Yunanistan’daki Türk eserlerinde kitabeler,” pp. 45-51; Necipoğlu,
Age of Sinan, p. 435 for the mosque in Istanbul.
530 In style and form, they can also be related to tiled lunettes of the earlier
mosque of Hadım İbrâhim Paşa at Istanbul-Silivrikapı (1551), for which cf. Goodwin, A
history of Ottoman architecture, p. 243.
184
available; and since it was probably expensive, the patron may have wanted to use it
even if there was no ninth window above which it could be placed. All in all, it seems
not too unlikely that the patron, possibly around 1610, sent to Komotenē from Istanbul
lunette-shaped tile panels produced in the 1580s for reuse in his newly-built mosque.
Another possibility, far less likely given the late date (which coincides with a period of
shortage and relative decline in Iznik), is that he commissioned from Iznik tiles
following designs by the calligrapher Demircikulı, possibly even the designs he made
for the Kılıç ‘Alî Paşa mosque. In any case, the quality of the tiles leaves no doubt that
their place of production was Iznik, and their style strongly suggests Demircikulı’s
participation.
The lunette-shaped tile panels are not the only Iznik work in the mosque,
however. To either side of the marble mihrâb are found rectangular tile panels with sâzstyle
ornamentation dominated by red, blue, and turquoise. They are different in
character from the lunette-panels described above, but they seem to date to a similar
period in the late sixteenth or seventeenth centuries and may have reached Komotenē in
a similar way as the above. Above them are niche-shaped smaller tile panels, ostensibly
from a different production phase or workshop, which are of a similar design (though
they, notably, include tulips).
Besides the stained glass windows, which I shall not discuss, the other principal
decorative feature of note in the Yeni Câmi‘ are the painted wooden panels functioning
as the ceiling of the semi-open space under the mahfil.531 They feature vegetal ornament
that includes lotus flowers. The dominating colours are red, gold, and black, creating an
ambience very different from the bright colours in the rest of the prayer hall. We see
three different areas: a central one over the entrance section, featuring a circular
ornament, and two identical longitudinal ones on the sides. The exact measurements
suggest that here, unlike possibly with the tiles, the wood panels were commissioned to
be made specifically for this mosque.
The events that led to the materialization of the Yeni Câmi‘ and its decoration
may have taken the following course: Around 1610, at the peak of his career, the
defterdâr Etmekçi-zâde Ahmed Paşa decided to build a mosque in Komotinē. This was
not to be a large mosque, for that may have been contrary to the needs of that town or
the patron’s ambition. Nonetheless, he wanted to make sure that the mosque would be
531 Kiel thought the gallery to have been reserved for women, but Evliyâ
(Seyahâtnâme, VIII, p. 38) clearly identifies it as a mahfil.
185
noticed and remembered. Rather than by its architecture, which is unspectacular,
memorability was to be achieved through the sophistication of its decoration. More
concretely, this middle-sized mosque built by a defterdâr in the provinces was to be
distinguished by features befitting a grand vizier’s mosque in the capital, however
reduced.
The patron certainly started his project by petitioning the sultan for the
permission to build a Friday mosque. As a next step, he must have communicated with
the Corps of Royal Architects and its head, Mehmed Ağa (who was, like the patron, of
Albanian origin)532 for a suitable plan. Mehmed Ağa probably dispatched one of his
assistants to the site and had him draw up a budget estimate for the construction of a
medium-sized mosque there. This mosque, it must have been agreed on beforehand, was
to be in the range of a cube ca. 11.5m square on the inside, have a dome, and a portico.
That the latter element was to feature five rather than three bays was a divergence from
the monumental provincial standard, possibly in recognition of the patron’s prominence.
Construction may have begun soon thereafter, with workmen, probably from Thrace,
operating under the supervision of one of Mi‘mâr Mehmed Ağa’s assistants dispatched
from Istanbul.
The painting of the mahfil was probably done on the spot by artists unlikely to
have been from Komotinē. They were familiar with the Ottoman court style, probably
through work in Istanbul or, perhaps more likely, Edirne. Relatively close to Komotinē,
Edirne may still have seen enough high-level patronage to sustain such crafts locally.
Another possibility is that the patron had the work done in Edirne (or Istanbul) and had
it sent to Komotinē. This was possible if the building’s exact measurements were
recorded in writing (and possibly visually) and sent to a place where a work of this kind
could be commissioned from artists working according to data (such as measurements)
communicated to them. Three panels were to be painted, with ornament radiating from
their centre. In this case, the design may have been left to the painters; it broadcasts
sophistication but ultimately draws upon a small and well-established vocabulary. They
were meant to be exceptional, if only for the intended location, but still representative of
a certain “metropolitan” style and quality.
532 For the possible implications of this fact for the work relationship, see Metin
İ. Kunt, “Ethnic-regional (cins) solidarity in the seventeenth century Ottoman
establishment,” in: International Journal of Middle East Studies, V/3 (1974), pp. 233-9.
186
A different matter yet was that of the Iznik tiles. Three imperial decrees referring
to letters by Mehmed Ağa from the period 1608-13 show that it had become
increasingly difficult even for the state to enforce a privileged treatment in the
production of tiles at Iznik. The local tile-producers, working according to designs sent
from Istanbul, had begun to favour the more lucrative private commissions.533 To
include tiles as the ones we see at Komotinē in buildings of the early seventeenth
century was thus already something quite extraordinary; potentially, it meant that a
patron had the means or connections to convince the producers to delay a commission
by the state. This may not have been the case with the defterdâr and his Komotinē
mosque. As stated before, these tiles not only display characteristics perhaps more
typical of works from the 1580s than from around 1610, their measurements also
suggest that they had not been produced for this monument. Clearly, however, they
were produced in Iznik. It is also very likely that they were intended for use in Istanbul,
where they were either not used in a building or salvaged from a building that was
destroyed. In any case, the patron must have viewed the inclusion of such works as
something highly desirable, even more so as they had become rare. He probably
purchased in Istanbul tile panels approximately (but not entirely) fitting the dimensions
of his planned mosque, as can still be seen in situ. While their slightly clumsy
positioning may have been a source of ridicule in Istanbul, where these tiles would have
been compared with some of the best examples of such work found in older mosques,
worshippers at Komotinē had seen nothing of the like.
In sum, the Yeni Câmi‘ seems to reveal artistic production that, while the result
of communication between various locales (Istanbul, Edirne, Iznik), could largely do
without truly local resources, except in the use of unskilled labour. While conceived by
agents centred in Istanbul, resources in the capital as well as possibly Edirne or Iznik
were mobilized for a monument to materialize in Komotinē.
533 For these decrees, see Robert Anhegger, “Quellen zur Osmanischen
Keramik,” appendix to Katharina Otto-Dorn, Das Islamische Iznik. Berlin: Deutsches
Archäologisches Institut, 1941, pp. 165-95, cit. pp. 171-3.
187
4.2. The duties and qualifications of mi‘mârs resident in provincial centres
4.2.1. “Provincial architects” in the light of scholarship since the 1970s
For most of the period of Ottoman rule, as discussed, there existed in the Balkans no
“architects” in the sense of liberally-trained professionals working on independent
commissions. There are found in sources of the sixteenth to eighteenth century,
however, resident professionals referred to as mi‘mârs. This chapter seeks to question
the contribution of these individuals to architectural production and especially to
matters of design. Their activity in the latter field is indeed implied in studies of the
phenomenon of what have been called “city architects” or “town architects” (şehir
mi‘mârları), “provincial architects” (vilâyet or eyâlet mi‘mârları), or, most recently,
“provincial city architects” and “city architects stationed in provincial capitals.”534These
individuals with the professional title of mi‘mâr, permanently residing in the provinces,
have been a subject of scholarship since the 1970s. Orhonlu believed their emergence to
be a phenomenon of the seventeenth century and suspected that they were installed as
provincial functionaries of the Royal Corps of Architects as a result of the “urbanization
movement” of that century. Stationed there, they were, Orhonlu concluded, “responsible
for checking the guilds of construction (artisan guilds) as well as the technical aspects
of construction business in their regions or cities.” Any construction enterprise would
require certification by them as the official authority in these matters.535 Dündar
contributed to the discussion by, inter alia, putting back the emergence of these offices
to the sixteenth century.536 Most recently, Necipoğlu has depicted the same process as
conditioned by the “administrative acumen” of Sinân and the “increasing centralization
of the empire” in the age of Süleymân. Stressing the context of provincial mi‘mârs as
part of institutions rather than as the result of local processes, she writes of the “creation
of auxiliary branches of the corps of royal architects in major provincial cities” as
534 Cengiz Orhonlu, “Town architects,” in: Fifth International Congress of
Turkish Art. Ed. G. Fehér. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1978, pp. 705-9; Abdülkadir
Dündar, “City architects in the Ottoman architecture,” in: The great Ottoman-Turkish
civilisation. Ed. Kemal Çiçek. Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2000, IV, pp. 471-9; idem,
“Osmanlı döneminde şehir mimarı bulunan bazı Avrupa şehirleri,” in: Thirteenth
International Congress of Turkish Art. Eds. Géza Dávid and Ibolya Gerelyes. Budapest:
Hungarian National Museum, 2009, pp. 231-42; Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 157 and ff.
535 Orhonlu, “Town architects,” pp. 707-8.
536 Dündar, “City architects,” p. 471.
188
having been part of an agenda of establishing “an empire-wide network with tentacles
reaching out into distant provinces.” In the seventeenth century many more “local
architectural bureaus” emerged, less frequent ties with the capital resulting in what she
diagnoses as a “growing autonomy and independence of city architects” in the “postclassical
age.”537
The documentation published by these three scholars is unequivocal about at
least some tasks and features of this office. Appointees appear to usually have been
locals rather than architects dispatched from the capital. They appear to have been
responsible for tasks that were elsewhere (perhaps where there was no mi‘mâr)
undertaken by the kadı, such as the mobilization of a skilled workforce for state-led (or
state-supported) construction enterprises elsewhere, usually in Istanbul. Typically, it
seems that a given city’s kadı had to request the appointment of a certain (qualified)
individual from the head of the Corps of Royal Architects in Istanbul, who remained the
ultimate authority on the matter. Like the head of this institution in Istanbul, his
“deputies” in the provinces would similarly exert their authority over the constructionrelated
guild(s) in their jurisdiction. Death or dissatisfaction with his work by the
authorities or local agents seems to have been the main reason for their removal of
office. In some places, a succession from father to son, if qualified, seems to have been
welcome and resulted in the emergence of veritable “local architects’ dynasties.”538
Significant is moreover that, in principle, the office was also open to non-Muslims.539
Appointment documents merely stress their qualifications as skilled in the relevant
sciences, such as geometry. Very often, their names/offices appear in the context of
construction or repair works of fortresses.
537 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 160.
538 This was, for instance, the case with Jerusalem, where in the sixteenth to
eighteenth centuries the post of mi‘mâr-başı was held by members of a single family.
Cf. Amnon Cohen, The guilds of Ottoman Jerusalem. Leiden: Brill, p. 154 (for the
eighteenth century) and Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 159 (for the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries); the names mentioned by Necipoğlu and Cohen are the same.
539 Cf. the examples of Kosta and Yorgi below. Data collected by Fatma
Afyoncu (XVII. Yüzyılda hassa mimarları ocaği. Ankara: Kültür Bakanlıgı, 2001, pp.
37-9) shows that during most the seventeenth century between a quarter and a half of
the members of the Corps of Royal Architects in Istanbul were non-Muslims. For
unexplained reasons their numbers dramatically decrease after 1685 from 9 to 1 while
that of Muslims decreases from 25 to 12.
189
4.2.2. Evidence of their activity in the Balkans and their relation with royal
architects
The seemingly most complete (but hitherto overlooked) description of the tasks of a
provincial mi‘mâr ağa in the Ottoman Balkans is provided by Evliyâ Çelebi, who in
1660 wrote of the holder of that office in Skopje as one of the city’s “functionaries”
(hâkiman). His responsibilities were, or included. “the repair [ta‘mîr] and restoration
[termîm] of the fortress and all the mosques, hâns, hammâms, and other public buildings
[imârâtlar].”540 While helpful, this elaboration must be treated with caution. In volumes
V through VII of his Seyâhat-nâme, Evliyâ reports of no less than 60 locales whose
functionaries included a mi‘mâr, a mi‘mâr ağa, or a mi‘mâr-başı.541 From the context in
which he mentions them it is clear that these refer to one and the same function, namely
that of what scholars have identified as “city architects.” The fact that only in the case
of Skopje he provides a detailed job profile may well mean that Skopje, where (as in
Buda and Sarajevo) we already have a resident architect attested in the sixteenth
century, was an exception rather than a representative example of the tasks usually
undertaken by such mi‘mârs.542
Relatively more information is available for Bosnia, where the institution of an
architect is attested as early as 1516. In the Ottoman law code (kanûn-nâme) for Bosnia
devised that year it is ordered that a mi‘mâr be equipped with a fief (timar) for the
services he rendered to the state in the construction of fortresses on the frontier
(uclar).543 Perhaps this was merely an institutionalization of a practice that existed
previously in a different guise. An entry in the tax register of the Herzegovina sancak
from 1477 reveals, for instance, that the maintenance of fortresses was at that point,
immediately after the conquest, entrusted to local masons and carpenters, who were
540 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, V, p. 296.
541 See table 4. The implications are discussed in ch. 4.2.4.
542 For the cases of Sarajevo and Buda, as well as the sixteenth-century evidence
for Skopje, see below.
543 A transcription of the law-code is offered in Ömer Lütfi Barkan. XV ve
XVIıncı asırlarda Osmanlı İmparatorluğunda ziraî ekonominin hukukî ve malî esasları,
I, kanunlar. Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi, 1943, pp. 396-7. For a translation into
Serbo-Croatian, see Kanuni i kanun-name za bosanski, hercegovački, zvornički, kliški,
crnogorski i skadarski sandžak. Eds. Branislav Đurđev et al. Sarajevo: Orientalni
Institut, 1957, p. 29.
190
exempt from taxes in return.544 Other than the entry in the 1516 law-code the evidence
for the Bosnian mi‘mârs is indirect. In the 1528 tax register are mentioned two mescids
built by individuals associated with this office: one was built by a certain mi‘mâr called
Sinân (not to be confused with his famous namesake), the other by a certain Mi‘mârzâde
Dâvûd Çelebi.545 Both appear to be related to the institution of architect
established in Bosnia in 1516, for there is neither reason to assume the existence of
independently working architects in Sarajevo around that time, nor are their names
connected to any known buildings from this period. Sinân must have been one
representative of this office at some point in the 1520s; Dâvûd was, presumably, the son
of one such mi‘mâr, as the “patronymic” suggests – perhaps even Sinân’s. Both cases
establish the office, paid from state funds, as one that allowed them a certain elite status
in their respective community.546 In 1558 also a Mi‘mâr Yûsuf appears in the vakfîye of
Hüseyin Beğ b. İlyâs for an architectural foundation in Rogatica near Sarajevo.547 As it
is unlikely that this backwater could support a resident architect, we may presume that
this was really the mi‘mâr of Sarajevo. If their hypothetical identification with the “city
architect” is correct, we are able to identify three architects by name for the period 1516
to 1558: Sinân, Yûsuf, and the unnamed father of Dâvûd. While this was indeed a
544 This register has been published by Ahmed S. Aličić as Poimenični popis
sandžaka vilajeta Hercegovina. Sarajevo: Orijentalni Institut, 1985); the relevant
section is found on pp. 599-600. It must be stressed that Bosnia in 1516 was still an
outpost in the empire’s borderlands. Conquests in the following decade would push the
frontier northward. It is around these years that Sarajevo began to be equipped with a
“monumental infrastructure,” a development culminating in the 1530s.
545 Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, I, p. 275f.
546 This is evidenced by their founding of mescids (and in the case of Sinân, also
a mekteb). Dâvûd’s use of the “patronymic” Mi‘mâr-zâde also seems to suggest that this
was a somewhat prestigious office, for not his father’s given name but his profession
became the principal denominator in his “surname.” The epithet çelebi moreover may
suggest his belonging to an educated elite, perhaps due to the relative wealth acquired
by his architect father.
547 Vakufname, p. 135. Kreševljaković (“Esnafi,” p. 358) thought that Yûsuf was
an architect living in Rogatica, which is highly unlikely. Necipoğlu (Age of Sinan, p.
564) and Yerasimos (“Osmanlı mimarları,” p. 155) record two royal architects by the
name of Yûsuf as having worked in the 1520s and 30s, among whom one “Yûsuf
Bosna,” last mentioned in 1536/7. Given the popularity of the name, there is little to
make the case for any of these having been identical with the architect mentioned in
Rogatica two decades later.
191
spectacular boom period for Sarajevo, no known source connects these architects’
names to any of the major buildings from that time.
Greater insight about the duties of a provincial architect in Bosnia, and possibly
elsewhere, may be gained from information about activities for which they apparently
did not have a mandate. In the years around 1560 we have documentation for two more
individuals identified as mi‘mârs but who were not residents of Sarajevo. The first is a
Mi‘mâr Ferhâd b. ‘Abdullâh; he was dispatched from Istanbul by Sinân to supervise the
construction of the ‘Alî Paşa mosque in and after 1558/9, and possibly another very
similar mosque, built posthumously for Ferhâd Beğ.548 A Mi‘mâr Mehmed is mentioned
a few years later, when after a destructive enemy raid in 1563 some of Sarajevo’s
Islamic infrastructure was damaged and an architect was sent from Istanbul for the
repair or reconstruction of some buildings belonging to the vakf of İskender Paşa
(including a zâviye and some mills). After Mi‘mâr Mehmed prepared a budget estimate,
the interventions were undertaken – not with funds by the state but from the mentioned
vakf.549 The central conclusion from these two cases is that the provincial mi‘mâr
installed in Sarajevo after 1516 was apparently not automatically responsible for the
548 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 184-5, 565-6. An earlier case of a royal architect
dispatched to Bosnia to oversee the building of a domed mosque patronized by a highranking
administrator was, if we choose to believe Evliyâ Çelebi (Evliyâ Çelebi
Seyahatnâmesi, VI, p. 255f.), that of Mi‘mâr Ramazân Ağa, to whom he attributes the
so-called Alaca Câmi‘ of Foča (completed 1550/1; cf. Mujezinović, Islamska
epigrafika, II, pp. 35-45 for the relevant inscriptions). Excelling in its decoration, that
building’s architecture, while monumental and harmonious, is completely generic. It is,
perhaps, of interest in this regard that Evliyâ claims that Ramazân Ağa (whom he names
the “main assistant” [başhalifesi] of Sinân) had already designed or built 21 mosques.
This case must be treated with some caution, as the name of such an architect under
Sinân has not been established in any other source (cf. Yerasimos, “Osmanlı mimarları”
and Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, esp. index and appendix). At the same time it deserves
highlighting, for Evliyâ does not mention any other architect (other than Sinân) by name
during his European travels. The connection with Ramazân Ağa was probably made on
the spot by one of Evliyâ’s local informers. That said, for the mosque in question it is
indeed unlikely that, at some point in the late 1540s, an architect working under Sinân
would not have been dispatched to Foča to oversee the construction of this building.
This may well have been the Ramazân Ağa Evliyâ mentions.
549 Norman, “An Islamic city,” pp. 241-2 (doc. 8) for a transliteration of the
document in question; pp. 133-4. for the context. Perhaps this is the same Mi‘mâr
Mehmed that was used to deliver a sultanic decree to Livno in 1565 (without being
involved in the case of “timar fraud”): cf. Ešref Kovačević, Muhimme defteri:
dokumenti o našim krajima. Sarajevo: Orientalni Institut, 1985, p. 194. Was Mehmed
sent from Sarajevo to Klis that year, perhaps to inspect that frontier town’s (important)
fortress on the eve of war with Venice?
192
execution of new architectural projects by the Ottoman elite in areas under his authority,
even in cases where the plans were generic examples of provincial mosques. Nor was he
automatically responsible for repairs, as is illustrated by the case of an architect sent
from the distant capital for this purpose.550
4.2.3. The careers of “provincial architects”: Hayrüddîn, Kosta, and others
The backgrounds of mi‘mâr appointees are difficult to trace for the general lack of
biographical information. In many cases they must have been prominent local builders,
acquiring the title mi‘mâr not through training in the palace school but through their
appointment as a “state employee.” There is one case for which such an architect’s
career may be reconstructed to a good extent. This is that of the one-time mi‘mâr-başı
of Skopje, who in a document of 1568 is identified with the name Hayrüddîn.551 There
550 We may have a third such case with a Mi‘mâr Hızır b. ‘Abdullâh whom
Kreševljaković (“Esnafi,” p. 171) – unfortunately without revealing his source – places
in Sarajevo in 1556. This man is very likely to be identical with a royal architect of the
same (relatively rare) name, who was in 1552 sent to Mut (60km south of Karaman) to
requisite marble for the Süleymâniye project. Two decades later he reappears as a
witness in the vakfîye of Mi‘mâr Sinân. (Cf. Yerasimos, “Osmanlı mimarları,” p. 45.)
This establishes Hızır as one of Sinân’s most trusted assistants indeed. It is unclear
which project could have had him dispatched to Sarajevo around 1556. While still a
period of expansion for Sarajevo, none of the city’s major monuments was built in that
decade. Rüstem Paşa’s bedesten was completed in 1551 by builders from Dubrovnik
(cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” II, p. 170) presumably under the guidance of an Ottoman
architect, though very probably not Hızır’s. Three, probably four, major domed
mosques were built in the years after 1559 – in addition to the securely dated domed
mosques of ‘Alî Paşa and Ferhâd Beğ, as well as the rebuilt (by Süleymân) “Hünkâr
Câmi‘i,” the so-called “Baščaršija mosque” must, on stylistic grounds, also be dated to
the 1560s – but there are names of other architects connected to these projects, as
discussed above. Our apparently sole candidate meriting the consultation of an Istanbul
mi‘mâr like Hızır was the small but somewhat stately mosque-cum-mekteb complex
sponsored by Bozacı Hacı Hasan, who is generally said to have been a local trader. The
domed mosque was completed in 1555/6 according to an inscription (which does not
identify the patron; cf. Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, I, pp. 375-6.; see also
Ayverdi, Avrupa, II, p. 318.) Though smaller than the rest of the domed mosques of
sixteenth-century Sarajevo, it is indeed an example of the “metropolitan style.” This
makes somewhat unusual its attribution to somebody without a title like paşa or beğ,
thus betraying a background as a soldier-administrator, and without an obvious
connection to Istanbul and the Corps of Royal Architects.
551 Dündar, “Şehir mimarı,” pp. 238-9; idem, “Osmanlı mimarisinde vilâyet
(eyâlet) mimarları,” in: Electronic Journal of Ottoman Studies, IV (2001), art. 49. p. 4f.;
193
is a very good possibility that this man is identical with another mi‘mâr by that
(relatively rare) name known to have lived in the 1560s: Mi‘mâr Hayrüddîn, the
architect responsible for the famous bridge of Mostar (1557-66). If these two
individuals are indeed the same person, a hypothetical reconstruction of his life and
career would start at the end of the fifteenth century, when he must have been born.552 If
we give credit to an oral tradition, recorded first in the late sixteenth century, according
to which the builder of the Mostar bridge hailed from these parts of the empire,553 then
Hayrüddîn may indeed have been born somewhere in the Western Balkans. The man
who may be presumed to have been a Slavonic-speaker thus probably reached the
capital as a devşirme recruit.
In documents from 1536/7 and 1548/9 Hayrüddîn is mentioned as a marblecutter
(mermerî) and mi‘mâr in the service of the Corps of Royal Architects in the
capital. In 1557 he appears to have been entrusted with the project at Mostar, in 1564 he
was present in Istanbul, and in 1568 we see him requested for the construction of a
fortress in Makarska (50km SE of Split) and mentioned as the mi‘mâr-başı of Skopje.554
Hayrüddîn’s work radius, with apparently a focus in the Western Balkans, may indeed
indicate that he hailed from these parts and was entrusted with jobs there possibly
because his mother tongue made communication with the locally-recruited workforce
more efficient.555 The fact that for the project at Makarska the already aged Hayrüddîn
Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 157f., see also 529 note 67. This document also mentions
that he was assisted by the üstâd (masters) Memi and Yûsuf.
552 A document dated 1564 places him in Istanbul at that time and his age
already at an advanced stage. Cf. Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, pp. 564-5.
553 Âşık Mehmed, Menâzırü’l-avâlim. Ed. Mahmut Ak. Ankara: Türk Tarih
Kurumu, 2007, p. 322.
554 Yerasimos, “Osmanlı mimarları,” p. 45; Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 564f.;
Anhegger, “Römerbrücke,” p. 95.
555 Âşık Mehmed (Menâzırü’l-avâlim, p. 322; see also Anhegger,
“Römerbrücke,” p. 95, 99) purports the architect to have been “a faultless master from
among the carpenters and engineers of this region” (ol diyârun neccâr ve
mühendislerinde bir üstâd-ı kâmil). How local he was, or local to what, is not clear from
this wording. The range of the term diyâr (realm, clime, region) is exemplified by its
both being used to designate the entire Ottoman realm (as in Diyâr-ı Rûm) or a relative
small district (as in Diyâr-i Bekr). It may refer to Mostar or Herzegovina, the northwestern
Balkans (“Bosna”), the European half of the empire, the Slavophone provinces,
etc. One reason to not immediately dismiss this tradition as a myth is its early date – the
1590s were no later than three decades after the construction of the bridge – and Âşık
194
was specifically requested by Hüseyin Paşa, the sancak-beği of Herzegovina,556 seems
to reflect a certain degree of fame achieved as the architect of the Mostar bridge, which
is specifically mentioned in the request of Hüseyin Paşa. In any case, he must be
considered an experienced architect. A document from 1564, when he was resident in
Istanbul, also mentions him as an elderly architect. It is thus somewhat surprising that
four years later he is mentioned as the mi‘mâr-başı of Skopje, with two assistants.
Could this mean that this office may have been given to him as a retirement post? There
is no known record of him after 1568, and the abovementioned relative renown as the
architect of a quickly legendary monument makes it unlikely that he was demoted to
what for a man like Hayrüddîn must have been a rather meagre post. Most probably
Skopje was attractive to him exactly because it lay in his native region. Alternatively,
from the case of the poet Vâlihî we may infer that Skopje, then a flourishing Ottoman
metropolis with an impressive Islamic cultural infrastructure, seemed indeed an
attractive place to retire even for somebody who had made a career in Istanbul.557 In
sum, it appears not unlikely that Hayrüddîn, after a career in Istanbul, was appointed the
mi‘mâr of a provincial locale meaningful to him, at least for the last years of his life. As
is the case with the mi‘mârs of Sarajevo discussed above, Hayrüddîn’s name is not
connected to any significant building works in Skopje in the second half of the 1560s,
when he appears to have been that town’s mi‘mâr; but this may also be because after
1565 no truly remarkable monuments were built in the city on the Vardar, for almost
three centuries. This, in any case, seems to prove that Hayrüddîn was not merely
Mehmed’s source, identified by that traveller as “the most credible” Mevlânâ Derviş
Husâm (believed by Anhegger to have been the kadı of Mostar). The oral tradition
otherwise claims that the project had been turned down by Sinân as impossible, and that
it was only resumed by the local who was ready to take up this responsibility. It is, of
course, rather unlikely that 1) Hayrüddîn’s skills exceeded those of Sinân, and 2) the
Ottoman state would agree to fund a project the success of which was hardly likely.
Clearly, Hayrüddîn took up the project as a royal architect working under Sinân. That
he was originally from Rumeli is far from unlikely, given the patterns of recruitment of
devşirme at that time. Local pride may have embellished Hayrüddîn’s taking up the task
as instead of Sinân.
556 Anhegger, “Römerbrücke,” p. 98 (doc. 1).
557 For whom see Machiel Kiel, “Traces in stone: some notes on a 16th century
Ottoman poet from the Balkans, Vâlihî-i Üskübî, and the background of his life and
work,” in: Journal of Turkish Studies, XXVI (2002), pp. 31-41, esp. p. 41
195
dispatched to Skopje to oversee important building projects, for such took place long
before his move there from Istanbul.558
All this may also induce us to conclude that that the career of Hayrüddîn was
quite exceptional. Perhaps more typical of a provincial architect’s career was that of
Mi‘mâr Kosta, the architect responsible at Lefkada on the Ionian coast between 1564
and 1574. Presumably a local Greek, Kosta’s initial task was to build waterways to
supply the isolated island fortress with the necessary freshwater. Yet, it seems that he
stayed on after this project was successfully completed and was eventually put in charge
of the maintenance of this important fortress (which indeed withstood a Venetian siege
in 1571). In 1574, we also learn, his salary was raised to one silver piece per day.559 It is
certainly interesting that, even at time of war with Christian Venice, the Ottomans had
no reservations about giving the responsibility over vital resources like freshwater for
the garrison and maintenance of this important fortress to a non-Muslim.
More unusual may have been the long period during which Kosta held this post,
if we compare it, for instance, with Sofia in the 1670s, for which we can reconstruct an
unusually long sequence of appointments. In early 1673, the mi‘mâr-başı of Sofia,
Mehmed, became seriously ill and was eventually unable to perform this job. Following
procedure, the kadı of that city sent a petition to the imperial dîvân requesting his
replacement, for which a certain Mahmûd was proposed. We may assume that this
proposition was granted. Two years later, however, we already find a certain “Esîr
Yorgi,” obviously a non-Muslim, assigned to this post; it is stressed that he is proficient
in the science of geometry (ilm-i hendese), but it may be unlikely that this really
signified a formal institutional training. In early 1677 we already find an Ahmed as the
558 A major restoration of the Murâdiye mosque there was completed in 1542.
Around 1550 (date of vakfîye), Muslihüddîn ‘Abdülganî built in Skopje the massive
Kurşumlu Hân with the adjacent Şengül Hammâm, the Dükkâncık mosque, and a
watercourse. In 1553/4 was moreover completed the monumental mosque of Hüseyin
Şâh in the village of Saraj, and in 1565/6 the nearby türbe. Only the clock-tower,
though in its simple sixteenth-century state, was completed ca. 1570. For these
buildings and their dates, see Lidiya Kumbaracı-Bogoyeviç, Üsküp'te Osmanlı mimari
eserleri. Tr. Suat Engüllü. Istanbul: Mas Matbaacılık, 2008, p. 45, 58, 138f., 163, 284,
347, and 375. Skopje had suffered a major earthquake in 1555. This may have made
necessary the installation of a reconstruction supervisor, but does not explain the
appearance of Hayrüddîn in 1568.
559 The relevant documents are published in Kiel, “Remarks on some Ottoman-
Turkish aqueducts,” p. 120, 122-3, 138.
196
mi‘mâr-başı of Sofia, and a kadı’s request to replace him with a certain İbrâhîm.560 This
incomplete chronology suggests at least four reappointments in the same number of
years. That Kosta of Lefkada stayed in his post for a decade or possibly more may thus
easily have been an exception. Perhaps the difference is due to the greater competition
for such posts in metropolises like Sofia as opposed to presumably very limited
competition in an isolated fortress town off the Ionian coast.
4.2.4. From a mapping of appointees to a revised job-profile
Most of the documentation (other than for Bosnia and Skopje) published by Orhonlu
and Dündar on Rumelia dates from the late seventeenth century, which indeed appears
to have seen a rise in such appointments. The problem with these sources is that the
information provided by the appointment decrees about the spread and duties of
provincial architects is patchy. They do not include a job profile of the appointees nor
do they explain why an architect was installed in some cities but apparently not in
others. A source thus far overlooked in this regard, Evliyâ Çelebi, as was mentioned
before, recorded no less than 60 instances of mi‘mârs resident in Balkan locales in
volumes V, VI, and VII of his Seyâhatnâme (see table 4). He usually mentions them in
the course of his introduction of the various Ottoman functionaries in a given city or
fortress. Here, the mi‘mâr is usually listed in the company of military-administrative
personnel, very often next to the dizdâr ağa.561
Looking at the sixty locations in which Evliyâ recorded the presence of mi‘mârs,
and visualizing their spread (see ill. 39), one cannot but notice discrete clusters of
mi‘mârs in some regions compared to a complete absence in others.562 It grabs our
attention that as many as half of the towns in which Evliyâ found mi‘mârs were located
560 Dündar, “Şehir mimarı,” p. 237.
561 In the same section, though less often, we also find religious functionaries or
local notables.
562 Half of them were in what today is Greece (sixteen) and Hungary (fifteen); in
the case of Greece the majority is on, or around, the Peloponnesus. Six mi‘mârs each
are found in what is now Bosnia and Serbia. In the lands of historical Hungary in the
North, five are mentioned in what is now Romania and two in Croatia. We moreover
find three in Macedonia, four in Albania, and one in Montenegro, as well as two in
Turkish Thrace.
197
in territories lost to the Ottomans in what came to be known as the Great Turkish War
of 1683-99. This only reflects their apparently typical location on the land and sea
frontiers with Venice in the Mediterranean and with the Habsburgs in Pannonia.
Looking at the map, one also wonders why such major inland centres like Sofia,
Prizren, or Prishtina were not mentioned by Evliyâ as having mi‘mârs. Did he simply
fail to record them? Evliyâ, it must be stressed, is not an official source, and many of his
accounts have been questioned with some reason. In locales such as Sofia, Plovdiv, or
Silistria he appears to make a real effort to mention all functionaries,563 however, in
accordance with his schematic method of reporting. This may well mean that these
places simply did not have mi‘mârs at the time he visited them. In that case, or at least
at the point he visited these places, the duties of mi‘mârs elsewhere may have been
observed from the capital.564 That Skopje, Sarajevo, and Buda565 had mi‘mârs already in
the sixteenth century may thus have been conditioned by their distance from the capital.
An expansion of this office in the third quarter of the seventeenth century, in turn, and
especially (and possibly first) in frontier areas, must have been a result of the wartime
necessity ensuring the proper maintenance of fortresses.
The provincial mi‘mâr thus emerges not as an architect-designer but, as also
suggested by the other documentation available, as a provincial functionary whose
principal responsibility was the maintenance of defences. His becoming an authority
over construction-related guilds, as stressed in the studies by Orhonlu, Dündar, and
Necipoğlu, may have been a result of the necessity of his control over local resources –
both workforce and materials – very probably in order to enforce the priority of state
563 Cf. Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, III, p. 189, 216, 222.
564 Evliyâ visited Sofia in 1653; the first known mi‘mâr is mentioned two
decades later (see above).
565 A decree from February 1552 informs us that also in Buda there had been an
architect with a pay of fifteen akçe (per day), with eight builders (sekiz nefer bennâ)
working under him for the repairs (termîm) for the kale and kulles of Buda and Pest. Cf.
Géza Dávid and Pál Fodor. “Az ország ügye mindenek előtt való”: A szultáni tanács
Magyarországra vonatkozó rendeletei (1544-1545, 1552). Budapest: MTA, 2005, pp.
248-9 (doc. 33). In 1572 the “Budun mi‘mârı” is mentioned as having prepared an
estimate for the renovation of that town’s Great Mosque, a church converted under
sultan Süleyman. Cf. Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 158. After the siege of Buda in 1684,
however, the master builder Siyâvuş Ağa is summoned from Istanbul for the repair of
its fortress (cf. Gerö, “Question of school and master,” p. 198). Could the local architect
have died (or fled) during the Habsburg assault on the city?
198
projects, especially in locales close to the frontier.566 At least in the case of Skopje, this
perhaps being an exception, he is also reported to have been responsible for keeping in
good repair the entire urban infrastructure.567 In no case, however, is there attested an
involvement with the design or execution of public buildings, such as mosques or
bathhouses. This seems to be further emphasized by the fact that for the construction of
the ‘Alî Paşa mosque in Sarajevo, though following a generic model (ill. 18), an
architect was sent from Istanbul even though according to the kanûn-nâme of 1516 there
was a resident mi‘mâr in that province or city! What the term mi‘mâr, at least in a
sixteenth-seventeenth context, seems to denote is a “state employee” rather than an
architect in the artistic sense.568 In contrast to what Dündar and, to some extent,
Necipoğlu believe the so-called şehir mi‘mârları or eyâlet/vilâyet mi‘mârları to have
been, their contribution to the character of the Balkans’ Ottoman-period architectural
heritage must have been marginal. His presence on constructions sites, it appears, was
in the function of an official.569 While this probably holds true for the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, by the nineteenth century, at the very latest, the term mi‘mâr had
come to be used for builders in a non-official capacity as well.570
566 In the case of Cairo, Hanna similarly stresses the role of the mi‘mâr-başı
(who she, perhaps wrongly, thinks to not “have had any particular skills with regard to
construction or to architecture”) in the enforcement of a priority for state-funded
construction enterprises. See Nelly Hanna, Construction work in Ottoman Cairo, 1517-
1798. Cairo: Institut Français d’Archéologie Orientale, 1984, pp. 7-8. In the case of
Sarajevo (cf. Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” II, p. 43, 167) we see that the “construction
guild” (a.k.a dülgers’/neccârs’ guild) included not only masons and carpenters but also
traders of construction materials, such as the kerestecis (lumber traders).
567 Could this potentially exceptional situation be a result of situation
management after the devastating Skopje earthquake of 1555?
568 Cf. Dündar, “City architects,” p. 471, 475, 477; Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p.
160 (quoted above).
569 See the very similar conclusions reached for Cairo by Hanna (Construction
work, pp. 7-10), though the situation in Cairo may compare only to some extent with
that of provincial centres in the Ottoman Balkans.
570 Brunnbauer (Gebirgsgesellschaften, p. 258) and Palairet (“Migrant workers”
p. 26) speak of “neimars” (a Slavonic corruption of mi‘mâr) as leaders of builders’
corporations in the nineteenth century.
199
4.3. Mi‘mâr Sinân’s buildings in the Balkans according to his vitae and other
sources
4.3.1. The architect’s claims for authorship
Given both the renown of what is undoubtedly the best-known and most appraised
Ottoman architect and the exceptionally fortunate survival of documentation of his
work, this chapter will be concerned with the identification of buildings in the Balkans
that are attributed – by himself or by others – to Mi‘mâr Sinân (d. 1588). This, to be
sure, is an enterprise only possible in the case of Sinân, on whose behalf were composed
several vitae in which authorship over, or at least responsibility for, a list of buildings is
claimed. Needless to say, these include some of the region’s major monuments from the
sixteenth century, whereby such an excursus seems more than justified.
The key sources for this enterprise are Sinân’s vitae, which survive in five
versions composed by his friend and client, the painter/calligrapher Mustafâ Sa‘i Çelebi,
toward the end of Sinân’s life.571 Of these, two edited versions were widely
disseminated: the Tezkiretü’l-bünyân (Record of Construction, hereafter “TB”) and the
Tezkiretü’l-ebniye (Record of Buildings, hereafter “TE”). On the basis of their content it
can be determined that the TB was composed at some point between 1586 and 1588; the
TE, on the other hand, could not date to before 1588. To be understood as a final
version intended for the wide dissemination among a reading public, the TE is more
571 While in the available literature these texts are usually classified as
biographies or autobiographies, I prefer to use the term vita, finding it necessary to
distinguish it from the biography, which is a more recent literary form with a different
function. The Ottoman terms used in the texts by/about Mi‘mâr Sinân and Mehmed Ağa
to describe their literary format are menâkıb-nâme (book of deeds) and tezkire
(memoir). In our context they are not radically different from vitae, which were usually
written by close associates (fellow artists, students, relatives), took a narrative form, and
were often apologetic, for their very format stems from a tradition of providing models
for conduct. The biography, by contrast, was a product of the eighteenth century; it is
distinguished from the vita by “criticism,” especially with regard to sources and
function. Its authors were not anymore close associates of these texts’ subjects but
usually from an educated middle-class background and writing for their own peers. The
“Verwissenschaftlichung der Viten,” as Karin Hellwig calls this process in her book
Von der Vita zur Künstlerbiographie (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2005, esp. pp. 19-22),
was completed in the first half of the nineteenth century. Early examples for the artist
biography in the Ottoman research context are Franz Babinger, “Quellen zur
osmanischen Künstlergeschichte,” in: Jahrbuch der Asiatischen Kunst, I (1924), pp. 31-
41, and the ensuing debate with Glück and Ağaoğlu. For references and analysis, see
Gülru Necipoğlu “Creation of a national genius: Sinan and the historiography of
“classical” Ottoman Architecture,” in: Muqarnas, XXIV (2007), pp. 141-84.
200
concise, while the personal voice of Sinân is far more apparent in the TB.572 A draft for
the TE has also survived: it is named the Tuhfetü’l-mi‘mârîn (Choice Gift of Architects,
hereafter “TM”). Interestingly, the TM includes a list of buildings, claimed to have been
built by the eulogized, that at times differs from the catalogue provided in the betterknown
TE. It is apparent that this list was edited, for reasons to be discussed below.
What is important and exceptional about the case of Sinân is that this Ottoman architect
actively claimed to have contributed to the materialization of specific buildings in the
provinces. As we can infer from the vast body of building inscriptions, the postmedieval
Ottoman architect was generally not expected to leave his mark on his work,
which was to glorify the patron instead. Sinân’s autobiographies must thus be
understood as a strategy to circumvent a convention that privileged the patron over the
architect.573 In what follows I shall discuss the monuments mentioned in various
versions of this list and monuments attributed to him by other sources.
The Balkan monuments claimed by the architect in both the TM and the TE, and
which are thus most straightforwardly attributable to Sinân, are:574 [1] the mosques of
Sofu/Bosna Mehmed Paşa in Sofia, [2] ‘Osmân Şâh (here: “Paşa”) in Trikala, [3] the
mosque of “Sofu Mehmed Paşa” (really: Karagöz Mehmed Beğ) in Mostar (“in
Herzegovina”), [4] the hospice of Sokollu Mehmed Paşa in Višegrad, [5] the mosque of
(Sokollu) Mustafa Paşa in Buda, and [6] the bridge of (Çoban) Mustafâ Paşa in
Svilengrad.
The monuments not found in the earlier TM but apparently added to the later TE
are the [7] bridge of Sokollu Mehmed Paşa in Višegrad and [8] a palace by the same
patron “in Bosnia” (Višegrad?), as well as the [9] mosque and [10] hospice of Haseki
Hürrem in Svilengrad. The monuments mentioned in the earlier TM but not apparent in
the later TE are [11] the caravansary of (Sokollu) Mehmed Paşa in Višegrad and [12]
the tomb of (Sokollu) Mustafa Paşa in Buda, next to his mosque (which the TE
572 Cf. Sinan’s autobiographies, introduction by Crane/Akın on pp. 1-45.
573 There are, in fact, dozens of architects’ names associated with the
construction of certain monuments recorded in various sources indeed, but in none is
included the claim on authorship to the degree that it is found in Sinân’s vitae.
574 This list excludes buildings in Eastern Thrace (European Turkey), which are
numerous and monumental, and must probably be understood as an extension of
(patronage in) the capital rather than “provincial architecture.”
201
mentions).575 There is also mention of a mosque of Mehmed Beğ, the steward of
Rüstem Paşa, in Trikala, which is already crossed out in the TM, and appears to have
been due to a mistake.576 The aforementioned caravansary and tomb may have been
omitted from the TE simply because they were not considered important enough.577
Thus, only ten Balkan monuments from the crucial period between the 1530s
and 1580s are unambiguously attributed to the architect in the list appended to the “final
edit” of his vita. Interestingly, a considerable number of monumental mosques from the
third quarter of the sixteenth century, Sinân’s most productive period during his tenure
as chief royal architect, are not claimed by him, although they were evidently built
under his institution’s authority.578 Did Sinân only highlight monuments sponsored by
high-ranking patrons? The fact that some of the monuments listed follow completely
generic designs while he does not list many almost identical buildings known to have
been erected in this period seems to support this tentative claim.
4.3.2. The evidence of Evliyâ Çelebi and the question of three burces from the
1530s
There are also a number of Balkan buildings attributed to the architect by the traveller
Evliyâ Çelebi that are not found in any of the the lists appended to Sinân’s vita. These
should not be disregarded, for in most cases they match those claimed by the architect
himself.579 Evliyâ, it follows, was well informed, and possibly had at his disposal
written sources.
575 Of these buildings survive the mosques at Trikala, Mostar, and Sofia (now a
church), as well as the bridges at Višegrad and Svilengrad.
576 Such a monument is indeed not known from any other source.
577 Cf. Sinan’s autobiographies, p. 67, 71-2, 74, 93-4, 97-8.
578 E.g. the Hüseyin Şâh Beğ mosque in Saraj near Skopje, the mosque of kadı
Haydâr and Mahmûd Efendi in Bitola, of Hüsâmeddîn Paşa in Štip, of ‘Alî Paşa and
Ferhâd Beğ in Sarajevo, etc.
579 Problematic, and thus not discussed hereafter, is Evliyâ’s attribution of the
Mostar bridge to Sinân; it has long been connected to the architect Hayrüddîn (cf.
Anhegger, “Römerbrücke”), and Sinân does not even claim it himself. Unclear is
Evliyâ’s reference to buildings by Rüstem Paşa in Ruse (III, p. 180), where there are
202
Interesting is for example the case of the Süleymân Hân Câmi‘i in Belgrade,
which Evliyâ describes as a lead-covered building with a high minaret. The latter
feature was supposedly commented on by the architect as being intended for view by
“Germans” and Hungarians alike.580 If truthful, this would place the construction of this
mosque between Sinân’s appointment to the post of chief royal architect in 1539 and the
conquest of Buda and Pest in 1541, for after this event Belgrade was no longer a frontier
town. Hence, no “Germans” or Hungarians would have seen the tall minaret from the
other side of a nearby border. Of the three food-providing hospices (me’kel-i dâr-ı
it‘âm-ı imârat) in Sarajevo, Evliyâ claims that the one by “Koca Mehmed Paşa” was a
building by Sinân.581 As for the case of the mosque at Belgrade, this building has not
survived; but if this man must be identified with Sokollu Mehmed Paşa (rather than
with Nişâncı Mehmed Paşa, also known by the epithet koca), and also considering that
patron’s interest in his native region, the very existence of such a building would not
surprise. Sinân is similarly invoked in Evliyâ’s description of the Kızıl Elma mosque of
Esztergom, a converted church.582 Considering that the town was conquered in 1543,
the architect’s agency in this conversion is again far from unlikely.
Evliyâ also attributes to Sinân the building or rebuilding of fortresses in Szeged,
Methōnē, Thessalonikē, and Vlorë.583 At Vlorë, construction began in 1537, as is
proven by archival documentation.584 This means that this project was planned already
divergences in various manuscripts of Evliyâ, as the recent Yapı Kredi autograph
edition reveals.
580 Evliyâ (V, p. 193) notes in fact two mosques named after Süleymân: one in
the lower part of the fortified town (aşağı kal‘a), which must be identified with the
Metropolitan Church converted upon conquest in 1521 (see Ljubomir Nikić, “Džamije u
Beogradu,” in: Godišnjak grada Beograda, V [1958], pp. 151-206, esp. p. 151, 188-90)
and another one in the citadel (iç kal‘a). The latter he describes as a light-filled mosque
covered with blue lead (rasâs-ı hâs-ı nîlgûn ile mestûr bir câmi‘-i nûrun).
581 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, V, p. 228. From the wording (“Evvelâ imâret-i
Koca Ferhâd Paşa ve Hüsrev Paşa ve Koca Mehemmed Paşa Süleymân Hân’ın
mi‘mârbaşısı Mi‘mâr Sinân binâsıdır”) it is not entirely clear if he claims that one or
maybe all three were built by Sinân.
582 Ibid., VI, p. 166.
583 Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi, VII, p. 142 for Szeged, and VIII, p. 67, 144,
312-3. for Thessalonikē, Methonē, and Vlorë.
584 Kiel, “The building accounts of the castle of Vlorë.” Construction was
completed in 1539.
203
during the tenure of Sinân’s predecessor, Acem ‘Alîsi. Interesting in this context is a
sentence in the TE-version of Sinân’s vita, in which the architect claims to have
accompanied Süleymân on his campaigns against Corfu and Apulia in 1537.585 This
indeed confirms the presence of the architect in Vlorë, which is where the Ottoman fleet
gathered for this campaign in the very same year the construction of its fortress
started.586 In sum, Sinân’s contribution to the planning, design, or execution of this
fortress is far from unlikely. Considering that his appointment as chief royal architect
took place only two years later, we may similarly find it not altogether odd that the
construction of a fortress may have been entrusted to him while he was present there.
Although there was considerable building activity in the 1530s in Thessalonikē,
where Evliyâ claimed to have stumbled upon another work by Sinân, his contribution to
the many interventions to that city’s fortification system during the sixteenth century
remains unclear. In 1535/6 was constructed Thessalonikē’s landmark White
Tower/Lefkos Pyrgos (originally Burc-ı Esed, i.e., Lion’s Tower).587 In 1538 and 1539
was recorded ongoing construction for the “new fortress of Thessalonikē” (kal‘a-i cedîd
der-Selânik). These interventions were headed by a certain Mi‘mâr Kosta, however, as
the construction accounts specifically record, not (or not principally) by Sinân.588
Around 1570 was recorded the construction of a new tower, next to which was added in
(and possibly after) 1573 a barbican, built according to a design sent from the capital to
the kadı of Thessalonikē.589 In 1589/90 the later chief royal architect Mehmed Ağa was
sent to the provinces to inspect fortresses, starting from that of Thessalonikē.590 It is not
known, however, if this resulted in interventions to the existing constructions. Another
585 Sinan’s autobiographies, p. 91
586 On this campaign, see also İdris Bostan, “Korfu,” TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi,
XXVI, pp. 201-2.
587 Kiel, Studies, art. VI. This date could be confirmed by dendrochronology,
which yielded the exact year of 1535 as that in which the wood to be used in
construction was felled. Attested are moreover interventions in or after 1746 and 1845.
Cf. Peter Ian Kuniholm and Cecil L. Striker. “Dendrochronological investigations in the
Aegean and neighboring regions, 1983-1986,” in: Journal of Field Archaeology, XIV/4
(1987), pp. 385-98, cit. p. 395.
588 These accounts are published in transcriptions in Barkan, Süleymaniye, II, pp.
245-8 (doc. 565/6).
589 Necipoğlu, Age of Sinan, p. 167.
590 Cf. Cafer Efendi, Risale, p. 38.
204
document, recording the construction of a new stronghold in 1592, is claimed to have
been found but has remained unpublished.591 Dendrochronological samples, which, due
to the presence of bark, allow the work to be dated to the exact year in which the trees
whose wood was used were felled, yielded 1597 as the date of the construction of the
Octagonal Tower (Frourio Vardari).592 Of all these interventions, only that of ca. 1570-
5 took place during Sinân’s tenure as chief royal architect. Evliyâ confidently attributes
to him a work of the period of Süleymân (r. 1520-66), however, which he moreover
refers to as Kal‘a-i Esed, yâ‘nî Kelemerye kal‘ası. As “Kelemerye,” rather obviously,
refers to the south-eastern suburb of Kalamaria, it is clear that Evliyâ means the White
Tower of 1535/6. It is apparent from Sinân’s vitae that already during this period, when
still a janissary, he was involved in construction and design work,593 as he may have
been in the case of Vlorë discussed above. As no buildings in either Thessalonikē or
Vlorë are mentioned in any version of his list of buildings, we must remain suspicious
about this attribution.
A possibly connected case is finally that of the fortifications of Methōnē on the
Peloponnesus, which are similarly attributed to Sinân by Evliyâ. Previous investigations
of Methōnē’s “castello” have not put forward periods more precise than before and after
1500, the year of the Venetian fortress’s conquest by the Ottomans.594 One may assume
that Bâyezîd II ordered some repair works after the fortress was subdued in 1500. There
is also circumstantial evidence that there must have been an intervention to the structure
at Methōnē (ill. 40) at some point after 1534. Such may reflect a general trend of the
period: other sources indicate the construction of a large number of fortresses in the
European provinces in the latter half of this decade,595 including the already discussed
591 Kiel, “Kjustendil,” p. 160.
592 Kuniholm/Striker, “Dendrochronological investigations,” p. 394.
593 Necipoğlu (Topkapı scroll, p. 154) in fact writes that in the early part of his
career, i.e. prior to his appointment as royal architect in 1539, he constructed “wooden
warships, fortresses, and bridges that prepared him for the masterpieces he would create
as chief royal architect,” but I was not able to find a reference in his vitae to his building
of fortresses except for the case of the kulle on the Pruth discussed below.
594 Nikolaos Lianos, “‘Castello da Mare’. Methoni, Greece,” in: Secular
medieval architecture, pp. 140-2. For the discussion, see also Pepper, “Ottoman military
architecture,” p. 295, 305, 308.
595 A document perused by Kiel (“Building accounts,” pp. 6-7) shows that
between 1535 and 1540 no less than ten fortresses were built in this region.
205
cases of Thessalonikē and Vlorë, both maritime fortresses. A 1530s intervention may
have had to do with naval raids supported by the Habsburg emperor Charles V as a
diversion from the land war in Central Europe. The Genoese admiral Andrea Doria even
captured Korōnē, a fortress neighbouring Methōnē. It was retaken by Süleymân after a
protracted siege in 1534.596 With Methōnē’s octagonal main tower’s origin already
accepted, at least for the greater part, to date from the Ottoman period – it is locally
called bourtzi (after the Ottoman/Arabic burc) – one wonders whether the major
Ottoman interventions to the fortress must not be dated to after 1534, thus after
neighbouring Korōnē was retaken. This would also be confirmed by the similarity of the
structure at Methōnē with two other Ottoman round towers (Vlorë and Thessalonikē)
built, as discussed above, in the second half of the 1530s. Lastly, a major intervention
after 1520 (and probably after 1534) is confirmed by a hitherto overlooked inscription
recorded by Evliyâ, which dates it to “the Solomon of his time, the great sultan”
(Süleymân-ı zamân sultân-ı a‘zam), that is, Süleyman the Magnificent (r. 1520-66).
Other than at Vlorë and Thessalonikē, with which Evliyâ connects it, the Methōnē tower
is not circular but octagonal, possibly because it was built upon Venetian foundations. It
seems to be accepted, however, that at least the surrounding walls are Ottoman.597
Interestingly, Evliyâ again makes a connection, as he did at Vlorë, with the White
Tower of Thessalonikē and points to Sinân.
The Ottomans, to be clear, had built round towers as part of their fortifications
before the 1530s. This is exemplified by the Yedikulle and the Rûmeli Hisârı in
Istanbul, both dating to the 1450s. In both these cases, the towers were connected to the
curtain walls, however, while at Thessalonikē, Vlorë, and Methōnē the towers – referred
to in all instances as burc and/or kulle ([fortified] tower) – were surrounded by an apron
wall to accommodate artillery.598 This type may be related to late Mamluk coastal
fortifications: in 1479 the sultan Qaytbay constructed at Alexandria a famous tower
(burj) to protect the town from Frankish corsair incursions. It was surrounded by a wall
sheltering gunmen. Similar towers with walls are reported to have existed in other
596 Cf. Kiel. “Koron,” in: TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi, XXVI, pp. 208-9.
597 Lianos, “‘Castello da Mare’.”
598 Today, this apron wall is only preserved in the case of Methoni, while that of
Thessalonikē vanished about a century ago. Nothing remains of the structure at Vlorë,
which was demolished by the Ottoman authorities in 1906, the materials reused (cf.
Kiel, “Building accounts,” p. 3).
206
locations on the Mamluk Mediterranean and Red Sea coasts, apparently none of which
surviving.599 Could Sinân have seen such fortresses while traversing these lands during
campaigns? The TE establishes him as a participant in Süleymân’s conquest of Baghdad
in 1535, or at least the campaign leading to which; but this was a land campaign that led
him through Mesopotamia rather than through the Mediterranean.600 Of greater interest
is a section in the TB, in which he mentions not only his traversing “the lands of the
Arabs and Persians” in the service of Selîm I (r. 1512-20) but also his studying of the
architecture of these lands.601 The experience of participation in Selîm’s successful
campaigns into Mamluk realm in these years would have made Sinân familiar with the
primary examples of this fortress type indeed.
The above discussion thus establishes that Sinân, prior to his appointment as
chief royal architect in 1539, may have proven responsible for a number of structures,
including three fortifications on the coasts of Southeast Europe. They are distinguished
by round or octagonal towers (kulle, burc), which looked similar enough for Evliyâ to
link them and attribute them to Sinân. We may assume that Evliyâ was familiar with
Sinân’s vitae and was thus aware of the fact that they were not listed in them. This is
also remarkable as a rare case of a group of buildings being attributed to one artist on,
presumably, the basis of likeness. The similar design of these three structures dating
from the 1530s may have been inspired by examples of Mamluk burces with which the
architect may well have been acquainted as a result of his participation in the Egyptian
campaign of Selîm I, when Sinân was in his twenties. In this context it is perhaps also of
great concern that during Süleymân’s Moldavian campaign in 1538 Sinân, as revealed
by a section in the TB, was ordered to build a kulle adjacent to a bridge he built over the
Pruth River.602 Could his involvement in the projects at Vlorë, Thessalonikē, and
Methōnē have qualified him specifically for such enterprise in the eyes of his superiors?
Be that as it may, Sinân’s appointment as chief royal architect in 1539 and his
successful completion of one of Istanbul’s principal monuments, the Şehzâde mosque
599 Pepper, “Ottoman military architecture,” p. 305 (esp. note 54).
600 Sinan’s autobiographies, p. 91.
601 Ibid., p. 115. The transcription on p. 142 reads: “Bir zamân hizmet-i pâdişâhî
ile ‘Arab u ‘Acemi geşt ü güzâr eyleyüp her küngüre-’i eyvândan bir gûşe ve her
zâviye-’i vîrândan bir tûşe peydâ eyleyüp [etc.].”
602 Sinan’s autobiographies, p. 116/143. In this case, Sinân actually advised his
superiors against the building of a kulle.
207
(1543-8), only a few years later seems to show that he must have been a fairly
accomplished architect in the 1530s, when already in his forties. The unusual
ornamentality and polychromy of this monument, as well as elements such as
crenellations and ribbed domes, seem to substantiate the idea that Sinân was a keen
observer of the artistic traditions of the Mamluk lands,603 as possibly echoed in his
fortress designs in/for the 1530s Balkans.604
603 The choice of the quatrefoil plan for the Şehzâde similarly may have been
inspired by that of the Bıyıklı Mehmed Paşa Câmi‘i at Diyarbakır (1518-20), the first
Ottoman mosque to use that plan, which Sinân may have seen while participating in the
eastern campaigns of Selîm I or Süleymân I.
604 By mid-century this “synthetic” approach, as one might call it, was replaced
by a canonical style: Sinân’s key contribution was the codification of a standardized
architectural vocabulary that was easily reproducible outside Istanbul. It did not
necessitate the personal involvement of the royal architect at all stages of the design and
execution process, which must have become increasingly unfeasible in a greatly
expanded empire. Rather, there were developed basic types, based on a standardized
formal vocabulary, that were adapted to be commensurate with a patron’s rank. From
the perspective of imperial ideology, this also helped, as Necipoğlu writes (Age of
Sinan, p. 21), project “a hegemonic imperial identity” by replicating standardized
designs which functioned as “territory markers that visually unified diverse regions.”
208
4.4. Iconography or provincialism? Centre/periphery and the building craft on the
early modern Adriatic frontier
Previous chapters have suggested that in most cases one may be misguided to attribute
to the agency of provincial forces the design of the monumental Islamic infrastructure
that appeared in the Ottoman Balkans between the mid-fifteenth and mid-seventeenth
centuries. While the participation of locals is well documented in many a case, it was
the execution rather than the design that was in their hands. It is due to this degree of
involvement of the “Centre,” which exported types and the staff to oversee their
transplantation to provincial contexts, that, as a result, there can be detected in the vast
region that is the Balkans little in the way of “regional styles” in monumental Islamic
architecture. Significant differences between individual monuments almost always have
more to do with period and patron than with local forces impacting the output.
The present chapter will deal with phenomena that are potential border cases in
this regard, and the fact that the examples to be discussed are all located in the
Herzegovina region, that is, the early modern frontier of the Ottoman Empire and
Venice and Dubrovnik, may not be entirely incidental. The first sub-chapter will
address the curious phenomenon of minarets whose form has been likened to Christian
campaniles, the second that of non-Ottoman ornamental forms on one particular
monument. Both cases serve to illustrate the problematic of the nature of the
contribution of builders to such “irregularities,” if seen through the lens of the Centre,
and the question of intentionality.
4.4.1. The “campanile minarets” of East Herzegovina, the Catholic littoral, and the
economy of the karst
Confined to the eastern half of the Herzegovina region is the phenomenon of stone-built
mosques with pyramidal roofs and, most conspicuously, minarets in the form of towers
resting on a square foundation – a feature which often has them likened to bell-towers
(ill. 47). These mosques are not “monumental” in the sense that they are not products of
extensive funding and efforts to reproduce the “metropolitan provincial style,” as were
contemporary structures in urban centres like Sarajevo or Mostar. Rather, they are more
part of an “other” Ottoman-period heritage, the character of which often overlapped
209
with residential or utilitarian architecture in the use of forms and material. Its “design”
was more influenced by the availability of building materials and reasonably skilled
workforce, as well as the lesser economic potency of patrons whose careers did not
necessarily revolve around Istanbul, and hence may have lacked the desire for an
association with the style of the capital. Less monumental and of a more local than
regional consequence, this heritage is also less permanent, for its support by relatively
minor endowments certainly made it more vulnerable. Moreover, it is usually poorly
documented: poetically composed and artistically designed inscriptions, extensive
vakfîyes, or rich biographical texts on the patrons are rare. Potentially incisive
interventions to the buildings are rarely recorded, making impossible building
chronologies that allow conclusions as to the spread of certain forms in certain periods.
This has made this heritage relatively resistant to in-depth analysis, its practical
invisibility in scholarship being one result.
The “campanile mosques” of Herzegovina are a border case on two levels.
Firstly, they are neither truly “metropolitan” in scope nor truly minor provincial
monuments. They are solidly built and display occasional references to
“metropolitanness,” as shall be discussed below. Secondly, the feature by which they
diverge from the more typical mosques built in this region in the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, the “campanile minaret,” appears to be one of the rarer cases of a
regionally-specific phenomenon. More important for our discussion is, as shall be
discussed hereafter, that it may be the builders rather than the patrons that are to be held
accountable for its inclusion and spread. In addition to this feature, which usually bring
to mind an association with churches, their concentration in a relatively compact area
and the extant documentation of at least some of them or their patrons make attractive
their discussion in the context of the study of peripheral forces and the agency of those
involved in their design and/or execution.
As a group, the mosques with “campanile minarets” have only been very
recently the subject of an independent study by Kiel. He identified fourteen documented
examples in the Herzegovina region, where they are (or were) confined to the districts
of Nevesinje and Bileća/Dabar. He also suggests that their number may once have been
higher,605 perhaps even significantly so. Given the potential of these monuments of
605 Kiel, “The campanile-minarets of the southern Herzegovina.” Kiel’s principal
contribution, other than an updated (and corrected) “inventory” of such buildings to the
extent possible, is his analysis of fifteenth and sixteenth century Ottoman tax registers
with the view to a reconstruction of the economic basis of this phenomenon.
210
underlining the claim that the borders between the various cultures that came to inhabit
Yugoslavia (in which ethnic groups were principally defined according to their religious
background) were at times rather fluid – a goal dear to many commentators at a time of
revived nationalisms – two Bosnian authors devoted at least a couple of sentences to
this phenomenon in texts published in the 1990s. 606 Čelić, who knew of “at least some
10 examples,” thought their minarets to derive from the forms of “simple Romanesque-
Gothic tower[s].” The medium, he claimed, was the “the domestic constructor,” who
used an “inventory of forms from his own experience.”607 Pašić similarly discusses the
phenomenon under the rubric of “Christian architectural elements in mosques,” not
without noting it as an oddity: places of worship, he writes, are “spatial
symbolization[s] of a separate ideological background of a society” and are thus
“usually built with a commitment to some standard forms of construction.” The
minarets “resembling Romanesque and Gothic campaniles” are, according to this
author, one of the frequent deviations from standard forms in Bosnia-Herzegovina. Both
Pašić and Čelić also relate the “campanile minarets” to the region’s Ottoman-period
clock-towers, in which the former similarly sees an “influence of Italian campaniles and
Dubrovnik clock-towers.”608 In sum, both authors seek to explain the phenomenon with
the vicinity of the Adriatic coast, which lay outside Ottoman territory and was within
the orbit of Western art. More significantly, they attribute these buildings’ abnormal
features to the agency of Dalmatian builders.609 They leave open the question of the
606 Džemal Čelić, “The domestic and the oriental in the material cultural heritage
of Bosnian-Herzegovinian muslims,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, L (2000), pp.
353-64, cit. pp. 361-2. The text is translation of his earlier “Domaće i orijentalno u
materijalnom kulturnom nasljeđu bosansko-hercegovačkih Muslimana,” in: ibid., XLI
(1991), pp. 347-57.
607 In cases of other non-“standard” minarets – Čelić (“The domestic and the
oriental,” p. 360) here contrasts the “domestic” (read: Bosnian, Yugoslav) and the
“oriental” (read: Ottoman, Turkish) in his analysis – he elaborates this as having been
due to the “limited skill of the domestic constructor.”
608 Pašić, Islamic architecture in Bosnia, pp. 190-2.
609 Čelić (“The domestic and the oriental,” p. 361) also thought that Mostar may
have been of key importance to the spread of this phenomenon to other places (Bileća,
Plana, Dabrica, Bjeljani, Nevesinje), but two examples he gives from Mostar, one of
which not extant, are claimed by Kiel (p. 65) to always have had “standard Ottoman
minarets.” By consequence, their dissemination from the regional metropolis of Mostar
to peripheral areas, while interesting, is questionable.
211
motives of the builders to do so, or the patron’s motive, or at least his reason for the
toleration of an element perhaps not only seen as “irregular” by modern art historians.
A more recent theory, which is (to the best of my knowledge) not yet found in
scholarly texts, purports these minarets to have been the outcome of a colonization of
the area by dervishes in the pre-Ottoman period. These dervishes, it is said, came from
northern Africa, whence they brought along the square shape of the minaret.610 There is,
of course, a forbidding array of reasons to instantly dismiss such a theory. The first is
the lack of pertinent sources; one should assume that Rome, well informed of the
supposed Bosnian “heretics” in this period, would have been alarmed by such a foray of
Islam into Christian territory. It also seems hard to believe that the inhabitants of the
area should have welcomed these foreigners in their midst. Secondly, if they were
dervishes, why should they have built congregational mosques rather than dervish
lodges or convents, better suited to their quotidian? Thirdly, the documentation
available for at least some of these buildings appears to prove that most of them date to
the period between the mid-sixteenth and mid-seventeenth century, when Islam actually
made great advances in Herzegovina.611 Fourthly, it is quite a great leap to compare the
quite primitive square minarets of this Balkan fringe with the square minarets of major
monuments in Muslim North Africa.
While this theory can thus be dismissed, it must be noted that both
interpretations identify as models for the “campanile minarets” of Herzegovina
architectures from outside the Ottoman realm. This chapter, by contrast, will try to
account for this formal anomaly by looking at local structures and argue for causes
more in the domain of ecology than iconography.
I shall here restrict myself to introducing only four examples of tower-minaret
mosques, the documentation and/or preservation of which, as well as their geographical
vicinity, allows for cautious conclusions. All four are located roughly between Stolac
and Bileća in and around the so-called Plain of Dabar (Dabarsko polje) and seem to date
610 I was made aware of this theory at the conference Centres and peripheries in
Ottoman architecture: rediscovering a Balkan heritage in Sarajevo in late April 2010. It
seems to be according to this theory that a plate on the mosque at Kruševljani, destroyed
in 1992 and reconstructed in 2007, curiously claims this monument was “built at the end
of thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century.”
611 On the Islamization of eastern Herzegovina, see Kiel, “Campanile-minarets,”
p. 77, 79.
212
from the period between the mid-sixteenth and the mid-seventeenth centuries.612 They
are:
1) the mosque at Dabrica (near Stolac), built in 1574/5 or 1610/1613 by a certain
Sefer Ağa, whom local tradition gives the “surname” Begović (i.e. Beğ-zâde)
and purports to have been born in Dabrica. The mosque, destroyed in the recent
war and reconstructed in 2004/5, is a square edifice of stone, covered by a
pyramidal roof of slate (as typical for rocky Herzegovina), which continues to
cover the porch. The main structure is flanked by a tower-like stone minaret
with an enclosed şerefe with four windows. Noteworthy is finally that over the
lower rows of windows of the prayer hall we see decorative four-centred blind
arches, apparently employed to “Ottomanize” the building.
2) The mosque at Bijeljani in the Dabarsko polje, built by an unknown patron at an
unknown date – possibly in the early seventeenth century.614 The building is
ruined and roofless since about World War I. The minaret is very similar to that
at Dabrica, with four windows and a pyramidal roof. The masonry is rough and
different on the minaret and the main body of the mosque, perhaps due to a
renovation around 1890.
3) The so-called Avdić(a) mosque in Plana near Bileća, completely destroyed in
1992. Again we see a tower-minaret almost identical to the two aforementioned.
Like in Dabrica (and possibly in Bijeljani before World War I?), there was a
slate-covered pyramidal roof, extending over the porch. In the case of Plana, the
porch was very large and completely covered by the descending roof, which
612 For the documentation of these four buildings, I rely on Kiel, “Campanileminarets,”
who also provides the relevant visual documentation on which the above
observations are based.
613 The inscription of this now destroyed mosque yielded the date 1574/5 given
in a chronogram and 1610/1 in Arabic letters. The calligrapher and/or poet (who
composed the chronogram) or the stone-cutter, perhaps a local, must have made a
mistake. Nothing is known of the patron, but his title of ağa makes him an Ottoman
functionary. The design for the indeed lavishly executed calligraphic inscription plate is
purported to have been sent from Istanbul. The hân, hammâm, and mekteb he also built
around the mosque are not preserved. By 1585 Dabrica had only 23 Muslim (and 17
Christian) households, although the state seems to have promoted settlement there,
granting tax incentives.
614 It seems to be because Bijeljani is first mentioned in Ottoman tax registers in
1585 that Kiel chooses to date this building to the early seventeenth century. Local
tradition attributes it to the Telarević family.
@̃
213
may mean that this space was once joined with the main prayer hall, perhaps to
accommodate a larger number of worshippers. It once had an inscription, which
not only related the date of construction as 1617/8 but also that of a renovation
in 1795. It is said to have been built by a man named Avdo, the founder of a
family (called, after him, Avdić) who lived in Plana until 1992. According to
local tradition, Avdo also built a church (!) for his mother at only 500m distance
from the mosque.
4) The so-called Predojević mosque in Polje near Bileća. It was built around 1570
by a native of Bileća, Hasan Paşa (d. 1593), whom local tradition remembers to
have been called Nenad Predojević before his conversion and who had a
subsequent career as an Ottoman soldier-administrator.615 As with Avdo, it was
said that “Nenad-paša” also built a church for his mother in Prijevor near Bileća.
The mosque burnt down in World War II and still stands in ruins, roofless.
While the square minaret is very similar to the other three examples, here it rises
from the building rather being attached to it.616
Few conclusions can be made on the basis of “style,” given the ultimate rusticity of the
monuments in question. A comparison of measurements available for three of them (see
table 5), however, suggests that they were indeed examples of a certain type that was
not uncommon between the mid-sixteenth and mid-seventeenth centuries. Prayer halls
are square (which is not always the case in roofed mosques) with the walls’ length
measuring between seven and nine metres on the outside. The minarets are roughly two
metres square. A very interesting correspondence is the walls’ thickness: it is around
615 This patron, who died in the Battle of Sisak in 1593, is known from Ottoman
and Habsburg sources as Gâzî or Deli Hasan Paşa. A mosque, a caravansary, a cistern,
and a family türbe appear to have been built by him in Bileća ca. 1570. Du Fresne-
Canaye wrote in 1573 of having stayed in the “caravansérail de Biletsche, fait par Hasan
Pacha, aujourd’hui sandjak[bey] de Castelnuovo [i.e. Herceg-Novi], parce qu’il naquit
en ce lieu d’un pauvre père chrétien. On y voit une belle citerne et un tombeau turc oú
reposent quelques-uns de ses parents.” Cf. Le voyage du Levant de Philippe du Fresne-
Canaye. Ed. M. H. Hauser. Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1893, p. 24.
616 Very similar square minarets are also found in the so-called Surković mosque
in Donja Bijenje and Kruševljane, both north of Nevesinje, while the former also has
the pyramid roof (since the 2007 reconstruction with red tiles rather than slate). Both
features are also apparent at the early seventeenth-century mosque of “Fatma Kadun
Šarić” in Mostar, destroyed in World War II. For all these mosques, see Kiel,
“Campanile-minarets.”
214
70cm in all cases. All this may suggest that the four buildings, certainly conceived and
built by local workmen, were the product of the same individuals or workshops or of
later ones working in the same tradition. Needless to say, no names of builders are
related in the known sources, meaning that any attribution must be due to conjecture.
Though the shape of the bell-tower may make a connection with Dubrovnik sound
reasonable, as has been suggested by virtually all authors reporting on the phenomenon,
the agency of builders from there may in fact be rather unlikely given the relative lack
of sophistication and essentially rural setting of most of these mosques. It is unclear
whether the limited ambition of these buildings reflects their location or the limited
means of their patrons. In any case, it may be unlikely that skilled Dubrovnikan builders
– presumably expecting rather high salaries – were called into Herzegovina for the
monuments in question. It appears more probable that they were the products of
builders not only local to the region but also working for a regional market. As I shall
argue below, it is quite probable that these were builders from the Popovo Polje, an area
already mentioned on several occasions in this work.
The Popovo Polje is a karst plain in the hinterland of the Adriatic, from whose
coast it is separated by a mountain range. By the end of the nineteenth century, when its
culture was first studied, it was home to around 5,000 inhabitants in twenty villages
located on the slopes of a valley thirty kilometres in length. Almost every village had a
church and a medieval necropolis, the latter testifying to a not insignificant pre-Ottoman
settlement history. The population was divided in roughly equal parts into Catholics and
Orthodox Christians, Muslim settlement apparently having been insignificant in this
particular plain. Its inhabitants had the reputation of being neither particularly brave nor
determined. They were well-known abroad, however, for the limitations of the plain’s
economy regularly forced a large part of its able-bodied population to seek work outside
the area. This was conditioned by the geological particularities of the plain, which is
flooded and becomes a lake every fall. As a result, no settlements are found in the low
parts of the valley. The mud deposits left there by the water, which retreats every year
in late spring into underground courses, acts as manure that can easily be used for
agricultural purposes. While the plain’s fertility and natural self-fertilization was a
blessing for its inhabitants, it also created problems at times: an early flooding in fall
could destroy the harvest, while a late retreating of the water in spring could cause the
seeds to be sown too late in time for a punctual harvest. More importantly, the plain
could only support a limited amount of people. More than any other area in
215
Herzegovina, the Popovo Polje became an area of temporary work migration. Every
year after the sowing of seeds in spring, reportedly as many as 3,000 people left the
plain to seek work in the rest of Herzegovina, in Bosnia, Dalmatia, or even in Istanbul
or further afield.617
Unusual for Herzegovina was also these inhabitants’ professional specialization:
many if not most of them were engaged in construction work. Living in an almost
treeless area with seasonal problems of water-supply, they were particularly skilled with
regards to the working of stone and water architecture and engineering. It must not
surprise that for the repair of a bridge in Sarajevo at the end of the eighteenth century
the two builders Risto and Jovan “from Ljubinje” (which, being a town near the
entrance to the the plain, probably stands in for the Popovo Polje) were selected as the
most qualified. An early mention of Popovo builders is in a document pertaining to the
construction of the bridge at Mostar. Dated 1566, it orders the recruitment of builders
from the area to work with (or under?) builders from Dubrovnik on that site. This seems
to suggest that already by the sixteenth century the Popovo Polje was known, as it was
later named, as a “dunđerska oblast” (builders’ canton). At the same time they appear
not to have reached the sophistication of their Dubrovnikan colleagues, apparently often
working according to the orders of somebody else. In the mid-nineteenth century, for
instance, they contributed the workforce in the construction of the new Catholic church
at Mostar, which was led, however, by a certain foreign-trained master by the name of
Peter Bakula. This also seems to have been the case at the aforementioned site of the
bridge at Mostar.618
Though a direct connection between the “campanile-minaret mosques” and the
Popovo Polje builders is not corroborated by any known source, much makes this
association very likely. The exclusivity of this phenomenon to eastern Herzegovina, and
to the area south of the Neretva River, would strongly suggest it to have been of local
origin. Had the builders of these mosques come from elsewhere, the “belfry minarets”
617 Christophor Mihajlović, “Das Popovopolje in der Hercegovina und die
Merkwürdigkeiten von Zavala,” in: Wissenschaftliche Mittheilungen aus Bosnien und
der Hercegovina, I (1893), pp. 349-75; Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 278.
618 Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 278; Stoianovich, Balkan Worlds, p. 333;
Hannes Grandits, Herrschaft und Loyalität in der spätosmanischen Gesellschaft: das
Beispiel der multikonfessionellen Herzegowina. Vienna: Böhlau, 2008, pp. 313-6;
Heinrich Renner, Durch Bosnien und die Hercegovina kreuz und quer: Wanderungen.
Berlin: Reimer, 18972, p. 254 (for Peter Bakula); Mazalic, Leksikon, p. 66, 123 (for
Risto and Jovan); Kiel, “Campanile-minarets,” pp. 66-3, for the 1566 documents.
216
probably would have had a wider distribution. Patrons in the plains of Nevesinje and
Dabar certainly knew of the “builders’ reserve” in the Popovo Polje, and there was little
cause to recruit builders from more distant locations.619
Why did they choose to build according to a form that diverged from the
minarets they must have seen in the region’s larger cities? Did the patrons of
“campanile-minaret mosques” hope to attract a Christian population in the course of the
gradual conversion to Islam of the Dabar and Nevesinje plains in the sixteenth century?
While certainly an attractive hypothesis, we must also acknowledge that the usually
very simple churches in the area are largely devoid of bell-towers. The Popovo builders
would not have had much practice in building such, for the simple reason that churches
with bell-towers were not built in the Ottoman Balkans before the mid-nineteenth
century. One may also simply doubt that they were capable of building a tall and
slender Ottoman “pencil minaret,” for this certainly posed a structural challenge that
was possibly usually in the hands of travelling specialized “minaret-makers,” or
minârecis.620 Rather than of belfries or minarets, the Herzegovinian “campanile
minarets” are in fact evocative of the clock towers built on square foundations with a
pyramidal roof in Bosnia and Herzegovina between the sixteenth and eighteenth
centuries.621 Though impossible to prove, the Popovo builders may have reproduced a
familiar type of structure when confronted with the challenge of building a minaret,
which posed a challenge that surpassed their proficiency. Rather than due to
iconographical considerations, the “campanile minarets” thus seemed to have been the
result of pragmatism. Such a compromise was apparently considered tolerable for the
newly Muslim population of a rural periphery yet unfamiliar with metropolitan
Ottoman-Islamic forms.
619 Given the rurality of the area, one should not imagine a developed craft
economy anywhere between Mostar and Dubrovnik.
620 For mentions of such a specialized profession in the early seventeenth
century, see Şerafettin Turan, “Osmanlı teşkilatında hassa mimarları,” in: Tarih
Araştırmaları Dergisi, I/1 (1963), pp. 159-200, cit. p. 181 and tables 1&2. Goodwin
(“Ottoman architecture in the Balkans,” p. 56) speculates: “Often the minaret was much
more skilfully built than its mosque and one wonders if masons trained in minaret
construction travelled up and down the peninsular.”
621 For which see Hamdija Kreševljaković, “Sahat-kule u Bosni i Hercegovini:
prilog za studij konzervacije,” in: Izabrana djela, II, pp. 493-506.
217
If the above reconstruction is correct, we may conclude that it was indeed
possible for builders of a provincial background to influence the formal aspects of a
building – or, if such can be said, to contribute to its “design.” More than a “regional
style,” however, the regionally-specific phenomenon of a certain minaret shape came
about as a result of provincial pragmatism rather than of premeditation. One the whole,
it may not be wrong to suggest here that the potential for the divergence from standard
forms was relative to the proximity and availability of metropolitan models and of
workmen whose skills corresponded to a given patron’s budget. Moreover, the question
of appropriateness to the occasion was decisive. In addition to the materials available in
rocky East Herzegovina, which endowed minor structures with more permanence than
the wood-built mosques found elsewhere in the Balkans, it was the correspondence
between these factors that effected the phenomenon of “campanile minarets” in East
Herzegovina around 1600. While the formal choice was not due to the builders’ fancy,
it may have been informed by their previous work experience.
4.4.2. The mosque of Nasûh Ağa (Vučijaković) at Mostar: Ottoman meets
“Gothic” and “Renaissance” on the frontier?
While in the case of the “campanile minarets” of East Herzegovina the iconographical
ambition can be downplayed by reference to “frontier pragmatism” or perhaps even the
architecturally common form, this is less easy for the case of some formal elements of
another Herzegovinian monument, the mosque of Nasûh Ağa in Mostar, locally better
known as the “Vučijaković mosque” (ill. 48). One of Mostar’s three domed mosques,
this potentially significant monument has been largely overlooked by scholars outside
the former Yugoslavia. Pašić writes of this monument as having been “built in 1568”
and “designed under the influence of Dalmatian Renaissance,” as visible at “its porch
consoles and window frames.”622 On site we see a monument built of rubble masonry.
The porch features pointed but not purely “metropolitan” Ottoman pointed arches. The
three cupolas surmounting the three bays of the porch are a bit more hemispherical than
usual – perhaps appearing thus as a result of the relatively high drums on which they
rest. The capitals of the columns in the porch, which are now (again?) hidden behind an
622 Pašić, Islamic architecture, p. 192.
218
external porch with a descending roof, are markedly un-Ottoman. The tympanum
holding the inscription is semicircular rather than slightly pointed, as is the “entrance
arch” to the simple (and once colourfully painted) stone minber. The minaret is plain
and lacks geometric ornamentation, as does the monument as a whole. The oddest
feature is perhaps the pointed-arched windows on the side-walls of the sanctuary,
however, which are unquestionably of Gothic formal derivation. The anomaly of these
features has led one restorer to suspect that they are due to a nineteenth-century
intervention,623 but there seems to be no indication for such otherwise.624
While the previous sub-chapter has sought to explain provincial anomalies as a
result of micro-regional specificities, the relatively patent, western/Christian origins of
the mentioned elements at the Vučijakovića calls for a more universal, comparative
perspective on the phenomenon of what may be seen as “culturally displaced” elements,
especially ornament. An interesting point of reference is early Islamic India, which in
the twelfth and thirteenth centuries witnessed political and cultural changes not unlike
those in Herzegovina and the Western Balkans in the fifteenth and sixteenth century.
The triumph of Muslim conquerors and the subsequent growth of Islam in these areas
necessitated an infrastructure of Islamic worship. In India, some of the early monuments
feature ornamentation that can easily be related to pre-Islamic Hindu temple
architecture. One approach has been to attribute these features to the native (Hindu)
craftsmen employed in these (Islamic) monuments’ construction. In many cases the
claim that they were re-used from earlier monuments on site – a claim that has uneasy
political implications – was reasonable too. Most recently has been stressed the role of
the Muslim patrons: they had apparently not only tolerated such “un-Islamic” elements
but promoted their use, perhaps for reasons of triumphalism.625
623 Zeynep Ahunbay, “Ottoman architecture in Mostar,” in: Proceedings of the
international symposium on Islamic civilisation in the Balkans; Sofia, April 21-23,
2000. Eds. Rama M. Z. Keilani and Svetlana Todorova. Istanbul: IRCICA, 2000, pp.
13-28, cit. p. 17.
624 Bosnia’s “Commission to Preserve National Monument’s” records no such
intervention in the relevant file (“Nesuh-age Vučijakovića džamija, graditeljska
cjelina”) at its website www.kons.gov.ba.
625 The historiography of this heritage has been most recently addressed in
Finbarr Barry Flood, Objects of translation: material culture and medieval “Hindu-
Muslim” encounter. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009.
219
From a different geography, yet corresponding to events contemporary with the
Ottomanization of Herzegovina, are examples from early Spanish Mexico. While one
approach has overstressed the degree of the extinction of indigenous artistic traditions at
the expense of the conquerors’, another has overstressed the implication of the natives’
large-scale participation in the production of Christian art in the vice-regal period.626
Kubler has pointed to curious processes of transmission in this regard, giving the
example of sites at which there could be found “arabesques and grotesques of Italian
Renaissance architectural ornament.” Copied in Spain, they were transmitted to Mexico
in book illustrations and wood engravings, which were “then turned back into relief
sculpture by native craftsmen.”627 What concerns these craftsmen’s own iconographic
traditions, Kubler asserted a “virtual cessation of the art of the vanquished and its
replacement by the art of the conqueror.” This, he believed, was a general consequence
of “the triumph of one culture over another.” Pre-conquest forms, he conceded, may
return after they became “symbolically inert,” and thus “safe” to play with, for they had
been “emptied of previous vital meanings.”628 The implications of an occasionally
hybrid art, known variously as arte indocristiano, tequiqui (“tributary”), or mestizaje
(“mixture”) are still hotly debated, the roles of patrons and artists as agents in their
becoming not always clear, as is the question of audience.
There may be raised a number of questions applicable to all three cases. Was the
inclusion of pre-conquest forms deliberate or “incidental”? Were they addressed toward
the “users” of these buildings, who were often of convert background, and for whom
these forms may have been familiar? Or were they simply a result of conditions on the
periphery, where the forms of a new hegemonic art were not yet mastered by the local
workmen? For a tentative answer to these questions in the case of the Vučijaković
mosque we shall first have a closer look at the building itself and the context in which it
materialized. The documentation that has surfaced is relatively plentiful but ambiguous:
the two primary sources for a history of the building as such are the patron’s vakfîye and
an inscription. The latter remains in situ and contains a date given in the form of a
626 See the discussion in DaCosta Kaufmann, Toward a geography of art, ch. 9.
627 George Kubler, Studies in Ancient American and European art. Ed. Thomas
F. Reese. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985, p. 68.
628 Kubler, Studies, p. 66.
220
chronogram. Its letters calculate to a sum corresponding to the year 1528/9 CE629; yet,
Nasûh Ağa’s vakfîye was notarized in 1564, that is, more than thirty years later.630 It is,
of course, possible that Nasûh Ağa was born around 1500, became very wealthy already
in his twenties or thirties, built the mosque in question, and then drew up a vakfîye
toward the end of his life in 1564. As in most cases architectural foundations seem to
have been made roughly a decade or two before the patron’s death (or shortly thereafter)
– a point at which they had accumulated enough wealth and prestige and had become
increasingly aware of the utility of pious foundations in ensuring a pleasant afterlife –
this would be a very unusual case indeed. As Mostar had only four Muslim households
at the time of the census of 1519,631 and there are no indications for a radical increase in
the next couple of years that would justify the construction of a Friday mosque, the
chronogram date of 1528/9 must be wrong. Probably the composer of the chronogram
had simply miscalculated the date.632 Alternatively, the person who chiselled the
inscription into stone may have been less than careful, as had been the case too in
Livno, 85km northwest of Mostar, where an inscription was long wrongly read as
1514/5 rather than 1560/1.633 In sum, we must assume that the mosque of Nasûh Ağa at
Mostar was built at some point prior to 1564, the date of the vakfîye.
Little is known about the patron, whom local tradition surnames Vučijaković,
perhaps rightfully so. This Slavonic patronymic is also mentioned in the chronicle of the
Franciscan friar Nikola Lašvanin, who records that in 1748 Mostar’s kapudan
Vučijaković was killed at the onset of a rebellion.634 Kreševljaković demonstrates that
since its formation in the first decade of the eighteenth century, the Mostar kapudanlık
629 Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, III, pp. 155-6.
630 Published in Vakufname iz Bosne, pp. 145-9 (tr. Muhamed A. Mujić).
631 Cf. Kiel, “Un héritage non desire,” p. 35.
632 Evliyâ (Seyahâtnâme, VI, p. 288) even read the ebced as H. 878 (i.e. 1473/4)!
633 Kiel, Machiel. “Livno (N.W. Bosnia): Islamic architecture and urban
development of an Ottoman provincial capital at the very end of the Muslim world
(1469-2002),” in: Arts and crafts in the Muslim world: proceedings of the International
Congress on Islamic Arts and Crafts, Isfahan, 04-09 October 2002. Eds. Nazeih Taleb
Maarouf and Semiramis Çavuşoğlu. Istanbul: IRCICA, 2008, pp. 15-28, cit. p. 19.
634 Nikola Lašvanin, Ljetopis. Ed./Tr. Ignacije Gavran. Sarajevo: Synopsis,
2003, p. 227.
221
was traditionally held by members of this family.635 Hüseyin Ağa b. Hasan Ağa, a
member of this family, resided in Mostar as late as 1896/7.636 Thus we may presume
that the memory of Nasûh Ağa as an ancestral member of the Vučijaković family, with
which neither the inscription nor the vakfîye related him, was kept alive by the family
itself and has thus entered local memory. The patronymic also implies that the family’s
founder was a man with the Christian Slavonic name of “Vučija” or “Vučja,” a name
not untypical for the area. Nasûh Ağa’s birth as a Christian is in fact confirmed by his
identification as a “son of ‘Abdullâh” on the inscription of a mosque he built in
Ljubuški (26km SW of Mostar) in 1558/9.637 The fact that this family chose to be
remembered as the descendents of Vuč(i)ja rather than as those of Nasûh Ağa might
hint to what may have been a prominent pre-Ottoman family. Little is known of his
career, other than that the Ljubuški inscription identifies him as the dizdâr of that town
and in 1564/5 he is recorded as the sancak-beği of the Slavonian town of Požega.638 In
any case, it stands to reason whether his being a convert to Islam would really have
made him more receptive to pre-/non-Islamic forms or perhaps the exact opposite, for
he was to demonstrate membership in a new community, not highlight links to another.
More insight about his mosque may be gained by looking closely at another
mosque of Mostar, namely that of Karagöz Mehmed Beğ (ill. 35). Dated by inscription
to 1557/8,639 this domed monument in the “pure” style of the age is even found on
Mi‘mâr Sinân’s lists of buildings (if, erroneously, as the “Mehmed Paşa mosque).640
There is reason to assume that the mosque of Nasûh Ağa was built around the same
time, if slightly earlier. For one, seeing the model character the Karagöz mosque had for
other buildings in Mostar, such as the Koskı Mehmed Paşa mosque of 1618/9, which is
635 Kreševljaković, Izabrana djela, I, p. 216.
636 This is the year of his death as recorded on his tombstone in the cemetery
section of Mostar’s Derviş Paşa mosque; cf. Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, III, p.
216.
637 The mosque is not extant, the inscription at Ravello (near Genoa); see
Muhamed A. Mujić, “Arapski epigraf iz Ravella potječe iz Ljubuškog,” in: Prilozi za
orijentalnu filologiju, III/IV (1976), pp. 191-202.
638 Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, III, p. 156.
639 Ibid., pp. 175-9.
640 Yet, erroneously, as the “Mehmed Paşa mosque.” Cf. Necipoğlu, Age of
Sinan, App. 1 (p. 559).
222
almost a replica, it appears inconceivable that this perfect model for a provincial
mosque in the metropolitan style, repeated a number of times in the second half of the
sixteenth century in this region, would not have been imitated at the expense of a
comparably clumsy variant.
Mostar as a city developed not before the mid-sixteenth century, when the
construction of the famous bridge gave the settlement a raison d’être. A basic
infrastructure, including a roofed mosque completed in 1552/3, was sponsored by the
kethüdâ (of the Herzegovinian sancak-beği?) Keyvân. This marked the beginning of the
boost Mostar was to experience in the course of the following century as an economic,
cultural, and eventually also administrative centre.641 There is reason to assume that the
Vučijaković mosque was built between the early 1550s, when Mostar was “founded” by
Keyvân Kethüdâ, and 1557/8, when Karagöz Mehmed Beğ completed his mosque. It
was most probably because no model like Karagöz’s mosque was available as a
reference that the monument’s builders – almost certainly Catholic Slavs from Dalmatia
– had to improvise for the details. Otherwise, it would mean that the “irregularities”
were intentional, which I find rather improbable in the light of the patron’s situation as
an Ottoman dignitary of non-Muslim background. As somebody born in this region,
possibly as the offspring of a known family, and somebody who continued to work in
the region following his conversion, he was probably more pressed to demonstrate his
allegiance to the ways of the “centre.” The construction of a (certainly costly) Friday
mosque on the frontier not only emphasized the patron’s commitment to the
conqueror’s faith; it also revealed a connection, however indirect, with the sovereign,
who had to expressly permit such a building project, for his name was to be invoked
during the Friday sermons.
The overall type was mastered remarkably well by the Dalmatian masters. It is
apparent, however, that no Ottoman plan with detailed measurements was at their
disposal, whereby the dimensions and their relationships appear somewhat
impressionistic. Since this was probably the first domed mosque in Mostar, should we
maybe assume that Nasûh Ağa sent these builders to nearby cities where such mosques
had been built before or around 1550 – such as Sarajevo, Livno, or Foča, all
approximately 80km from Mostar (as is Dubrovnik)? Having studied these monuments,
they were able to replicate their common type in Mostar to the best of their abilities,
641 For the buildings of Keyvân, see Mujezinović, Islamska epigrafika, III, pp.
162-3.
223
using their own building techniques. Unable to produce intricate mukarnas-type Islamic
ornament or the four-centred Ottoman arch, they reverted to forms familiar to them as a
result of their work experience on the non-Ottoman coast.
One imperative conclusion is, again, that the character of provincial monuments
apparently depended on the availability of “metropolitan” models. That aberrations
seem to be more consequential in Herzegovina than in other Ottoman-Balkans regions
may be a reflection of the peripherality of this area if seen from Istanbul. The case of
the Vučijaković mosque also seems to suggest that the “metropolitan-ness” depended in
part on the resources and networks a patron could mobilize. A dizdâr of a fortified town
a 1000km away from the capital apparently was less successful in exploiting the
potential than the brother of a grand vizier, as was Karagöz Mehmed Beğ, who
managed to have his mosque planned and its construction supervised by an architect of
the Corps of Royal Architects in the capital.642 The builders, in both cases, were
Dalmatians; but in the latter case they had better guidance. If we consider that their
hometown’s principal monuments – at least those built after the earthquake of 1667 –
were not designed by architects from the other side of the Adriatic,643 one could assume
642 As discussed in ch. 4.3.1, this mosque is claimed by Mi‘mâr Sinân as “his,”
but given the generic plan one wonders if he really contributed to its design. Since
Sinân wrongly remembered it as the mosque of “Sofu Mehmed Paşa,” we may presume
that this was because he desired to associate himself with such illustrious patrons. On
this point, see also ch. 5.
643 Trifunović, Kunstdenkmäler in Jugoslawien, I. p. XXXV. The Herzegovina
remains an interesting region even after the sixteenth century. It must have been in the
1720s that a clock-tower was built by Resulbeğ-zâde Osmân Paşa, the kapudan of the
area (and a recent convert from Herceg Novi), or a relative of his. With its rounded
windows and execution it reminds of the campanili of the Adriatic. It certainly looked
Western, or un-Ottoman, enough for Ayverdi (Avrupa’da Osmanlı mimârî eserleri, II,
p. 469) to (wrongly) date it to the nineteenth century. No doubt that, again, Dubrovnikan
builders proved responsible, just as they did for the two mosques built in the new town
of Trebinje in this period. See Hasandedić, Muslimanska baština u istočnoj
Hercegovini, pp. 232-40. In more general terms, as discussed in ch. 2.5.4, one sees in
parts of the Western Balkans looking toward the Adriatic a certain tendency toward the
semicircular rather than the typical Ottoman pointed arch, long before the semicircular
arch became palatable in the architecture of the capital in the second half of the
eighteenth century. This is curious in the sense that the Ottoman pointed arch belonged
to what has been seen one key element – next to the hemispherical dome and the “pencil
minaret” – that made the Ottoman style recognizable and exportable. Yet, in these cases
it is unlikely that this was the result of a deliberate “Western influence” in the border
provinces. More probable is that it simply reflected the local conditions far from the
centre and the abilities of the local workforce, some of which, as we have seen in the
case of the Dubrovnikans, indeed recruited from beyond the Ottoman borders.
224
that they were quite used to such a hierarchy in the process of their work. In the case of
the Karagöz mosque a Muslim architect from Istanbul simply took the place that may
have been taken by a Catholic Italian when they continued work at the eastern Adriatic
coastline. The probable absence of a trained architect in the case of the Nasûh Ağa
mosque might explain its uncommon features.
225
CHAPTER 5
CONCLUSION
This final chapter seeks to recapitulate the broad developments and phenomena
described in the four preceding chapters and the findings of this study more generally. It
also tries to fill some gaps with examples that did not find mention before but which
might help in completing the picture. As stated at the beginning of this study, its
purpose was not to reconstruct the life and work of those outstanding individual artists
for which there is adequate documentation but to track developments and structures and,
most importantly, change over time. The gaps between the various well-documented
cases on which I have based my analysis are sometimes considerable; I believe,
however, that the change I have sought to track can be generalized by pointing to
different situations in ca. 1400, 1550, 1700, and 1850.
As might be expected, the earliest period of Ottoman rule is documented in the
least detail. The material evidence seems to suggest that there was little change in
Christian Orthodox architecture and painting, though the impact of the conquest – both
in terms of destruction (in those cases in which towns did not surrender) and loss of
wealthy rulers as patrons – was certainly felt. Painting does not change much in form or
character; in fact, it continues to bring about considerable works.644 With architecture
we have the problem of dating, and it may be the case that many churches without
inscriptions that have been tentatively dated to the pre-Ottoman period are really from
the Ottoman period.645 As the evidence is ambiguous, there is hardly anything
conclusive that can be said at this point, but the earliest Islamic buildings certainly show
continuity in construction techniques in practically all regions. Very probably, this is the
644 See e.g. Gojko Subotić, Ohridska slikarska škola XV veka. Belgrade:
Filozofski Fakultet u Beogradu, 1980.
645 Scholars may have dated them to before the conquest simply based on the
assumption that after this event no churches were built.
226
result of the new masters engaging local (non-Muslim) builders in construction work.
That said, it is obvious that they worked according to plans supplied by patrons’
associates, often probably learned men rather than “architects”.646 The inscriptions on
the Great Mosques completed by Murâd II in Edirne and Komotinē also show that
planners, builders, and architects, maybe for the larger projects, were brought from
Anatolia in this early period.647
While after the conquest of Constantinople, architects from Istanbul would still
prove responsible for monumental projects in the provinces, where there emerged no
class of independently working liberally-trained architects, their names are not anymore
found recorded on inscriptions. This, as discussed, may have been due to a notion of
corporate authorship within the Corps of Royal Architects in Istanbul, which had
probably emerged in response to challenges in the transformation of the capital after
1453. Only in the case of Mi‘mâr Sinân do we see an acute awareness of, and claim for,
authorship of works of architecture. This has no echo in inscriptions, however, but in
lists of works appended to versions of his vita. Yet again, his selection of monuments
seems more related to the prominence of their patrons than to stylistic or architectural
features.648
Sinân’s contribution to the design of Islamic monuments in the Balkans was
greater than the few buildings directly claimed by him, however. What he supplied was
ready-made models, characterized by a standardized vocabulary of forms. When the
necessity for a monumental domed project in the provinces arose, he would dispatch
one of the architects working under him to manage the construction there according to
blueprints drafted by his institution. These mi‘mârs were not necessarily “architects” in
the modern sense, for they may have had more to do with the construction of buildings
than with their design, nor was this the case with the type of officials which scholarship
646 I have tried to demonstrate that these factors occasionally worked together
“creatively” in the case of the ‘imâret of Komotinē in ch. 4.1.2.
647 Cf. the names in Sönmez, Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde sanatçılar, p.
388, 423-6.
648 This is best illustrated by the example of the Karagöz Mehmed Beğ mosque
at Mostar, which is found in one these lists: although it follows a completely generic
design, almost identical to several other such mosques built in Bosnia and Herzegovina
in the third quarter of the sixteenth century (ill. 18), it is claimed by Sinân. It is probably
because the architect misremembered the monument’s patron as the more prominent
Sofu Mehmed Paşa that he thought that this mosque was worth inclusion.
227
has named “town architects” or “provincial architects.” As I have argued in chapter 4.2,
these mi‘mârs should rather be understood as building officials who supervised the
construction industry and kept defensive structures in good good repair. When
necessary, they might also enforce the primacy of the state regarding access to building
materials, for instance in times of conflict. There has surfaced no evidence that
establishes them as “designing architects,” however.
We also do not know whom to credit for the often very metropolitan-style
carved ornament that we see at mosques, medreses, and hammâms.649 Different levels of
sophistication seem to suggest that there were both specialists, perhaps from
metropolitan centres and able to work from mathematical drawings, and other stonecarvers
who simply tried their best to imitate what they saw elsewhere. While
inscriptions, which they also carved, were based on designs by poets and calligraphers,
probably often the same person, we cannot say whether these were prepared in situ by
locals or in the capital or elsewhere where the patron may have been based at the
time.650 Medreses existed already since the last century, at least in the South, so there
were places where training may have been provided and older manuscripts could be
studied. Still, it seems that throughout the period the ideal of the calligrapher-to-be was
to receive training in Istanbul, which after the fifteenth century became a centre of this
art even beyond the Ottoman domain.
Few great non-Muslim builders are known from this period. They occasionally
found work in the rebuilding of churches or, far more rarely, the building of new
churches. In both cases models known from previous centuries continued to be used.
More interesting in ca. 1550 is the case of painting. The style imported by Cretan artists,
who learned in the Balkans how to translate their art from the medium of wood-panels
to walls, became popular in important centres like Athōs and the Meteōra; but the
example of churches (re)painted within the jurisdiction of the resurged Peć patriarchate
also shows that the conservative Palaiologan style retained its attraction. It may be that
this was as a result of some painters’ dislike of novelties introduced from within the
649 Again, I do not dispute that in some cases there can be found documents
providing the names of stone-workers, for instance, but this information does not
necessarily help us reconstruct the design process or determine these individuals’
contribution.
650 It could be said more generally that, theoretically, significant monuments
could be built in the provinces without any participation by locals other than unskilled
workforce. They did not depend on local resources.
228
Balkan sphere in the early modern period that they began to compose manuals – a genre
popularized in the period of ca. 1700-1850. The important texts left to us by painters
such as Žefarovič, Doksaras, and Dionysios of Fourna are also vital sources for their
identities and professional cultures. They were written, however, in a period that was,
on the whole, one of relative stagnation. Between 1646 and 1740 the Ottomans were at
war with Austria and Venice, and this seems to have greatly impacted the production of
arts. There is also considerable destruction in the western half of the peninsula, which is
repeatedly invaded and/or devastated by foreign powers. Much of the building work
must have taken place in the reconstruction of metropolises like Sarajevo or Skopje,
which the Austrian armies had set on fire. Much of the interesting work by Žefarovič
and Doksaras from the first half of the eighteenth century in fact takes place outside the
Ottoman realm, in Corfu and Pannonia, where these two contemporaries had come into
contact with western forms of art – and texts written about it. In terms of Islamic
architecture, the design and execution of the mosque of Şerîf Halîl Paşa at Šumen
(1744/5) is so sophisticated that one cannot see it as anything else than a fortunate
anomaly. At Šumen, the same patron sponsored the post of a calligraphy teacher
working in the attached medrese, and this was to bear fruits decades later.
Around 1800 both the money and the artistic expertise make a gradual move
from the SW-Balkans (especially West Macedonia and adjacent areas, where there were
located short-lived economic powerhouses such as Voskopojë, Siatista, and Ampelakia
as well as districts with excellent artists, such as Debar, Kastoria, Korçë, and Kozanē) to
the SE-Balkans, especially to the central area’s of present-day Bulgaria. This change
was greatly felt in Plovdiv, which by the mid-nineteenth century attracted artists from
Macedonia and Istanbul alike, and in nearby areas such as Samokov and the mountain
pass townships and monasteries in the Stara Planina.
Architecture caught up when Ottoman restrictions on church-building were
gradually lifted between the 1820s and 50s. This facilitated the construction of new
churches and, eventually, the inclusion of features such as domes and belfries. It also
meant new challenges and opportunities for builders, whose technical knowledge
occasionally already approached that of institutionally-trained architects. In the 1850s
and 60s we see what one may call the last “indigenous” Balkan style, with builders like
Damjanov and Fičev freely mixing Byzantine, Baroque, and whatever they may have
seen (very probably in portable media), before the Europeanization and
institutionalization of post-1878 made both their styles and professional cultures
229
obsolete. What is different, however, is that the generation of the middle decades of that
century, unlike previous generations of artists, have remained remembered. The
attraction of their work certainly played an important part, but so may have the
competition for their services among a relatively new wealthy class of non-Muslim
patrons willing to invest funds in buildings whose designs did not suffer substantial
restrictions, as had been the case for centuries. Perhaps also the gradual spread of
literacy, not least among the artists themselves, made possible a more substantial record
of their life and work.
It is in this period that the divisions of “builder/architect” and also
“iconographer/painter” become blurred, for also in the latter category artists begin to
embrace different genres and techniques that include portrait painting and non-religious
decorative painting. The apparent fact that many of these developments are not shared
in Muslim circles seems to have to do less with different notions of art and artisthood
than with the changed focuses of artistic production. After a small wave of dispersed
mosques built by local strongmen in places such as Gradačac, Shkodër, or Prizren in the
period of ca. 1770-1835, Islamic architecture in the Balkans more or less came to a
standstill. There are indeed large mosques built, but these were typically utilitarian
structures built in areas to which the state moved Muslim refugees, such as the Bosnian
Posavina or the Dobrogea. The resurgent state, in fact, built a lot during the Tanzîmât
and thereafter, but these are mostly infrastructural buildings whose most remarkable
feature is their size. The most prominent building type of the period is really the church,
irrespective of these monuments’ occasionally marginal location within townscapes.
Again, Islamic calligraphy and the arts of the book are somewhat of an
exception ca. 1850. The important but certainly exceptional case of the flourishing
manuscript production industry at Šumen in this period has been mentioned; but also
elsewhere calligraphy is anything but dead. Well-documented is the case of the
calligrapher Râkım Efendi (Islamović), who was born in Sarajevo in 1839 and received
his education at his hometown’s prestigious medrese of Gâzî Hüsrev Beğ. First trained
locally with the celebrated calligrapher ‘Abdullâh Aynî (d. 1872), he received a more
specialized training in Istanbul, from where he returned at some point before 1867.
Back in Sarajevo, he trained a number of students, as evidenced by the diplomas he
issued. After the advent of Austro-Hungarian rule in 1878, and a bazaar fire in the
following year that necessitated many restorations, he received the commission to
230
design the calligraphy of the Gâzî Hüsrev Beğ mosque, Sarajevo’s largest, in 1884/5.
Exceptionally, the blueprints for these works have survived (ills. 49/50).651
In 1860s Sarajevo were also active the Anatolian-born yüzbaşı Mustafâ, who
taught drawing at the local military school and painted portraits of prominent superiors,
the Macedonian master builder Andreja Damjanov and his tayfa, who equipped the city
with a remarkable church with five Byzantine domes and a Baroque belfry, the master
builders Franjo Linardić and Franjo Moise from Split (then part of Habsburg Dalmatia),
who built for the Bosnian vâlî a representative konak, and, lastly, the portrait painter
Stanislav Dospevski from Samokov.652 What emerges is the picture of, in point of fact,
a remarkably “international” artistic environment even in this provincial metropolis.
Mentioning all these artists working in different fields together in one sentence, one
should also raise the question of how they and their arts were valued differently in this
society. This question is as important as it is difficult to answer. While portrait-painters
and calligraphers were certainly beyond the point of being seen as manual workers,
builders were probably not – irrespective of their pay and sophistication of their
work.653 The gathering together of all these individuals and their works under the labels
“artists” and “art,” finally, is certainly more a reflection of our modern understanding of
their professions, and of their products as belonging to one class of objects and
monuments that our culture qualifies as “art,” than of contemporaries’ sensibilities.
At long last I shall return to one of the principal questions of this study, namely
the extent to which an art history on the theme of Balkan artists facilitates our study of
the region’s artistic heritage. The cases discussed have shown that it very much depends
on the time, the place, and the art in question. Thus, we have seen different degrees of
commitment to acknowledge artists’ contributions by recording their stories, or at least
their names, in different periods and in different lines of work. This thesis has sought to
emphasize that artists did not “create” in a vacuum but worked within a concrete social,
cultural, physical, and professional environment. Changes in the conditions of artistic
production usually resulted in a changed art as well, and it is unfeasible to study one
without the other. This is not to say, however, that art in the Ottoman Balkans was
651 Mehmed Mujezinović, “Diplome kaligrafa Islamovića u Gazi Husrevbegovoj
biblioteci u Sarajevo,” in: Anali Gazi Husrev-begove biblioteke, I (1972), pp.
91-4 (plus three plates). Râkım Efendi died in Anatolia in 1895 on return from the Hajj.
652 For these individuals, see ch. 2.5.6 and 3.1.2.
653 See the contemporary observations by Kanitz in ch. 2.2.4.
231
anonymous, depersonalized, and that the agency of the individual cannot be tracked.
Several examples discussed have shown quite the contrary. In an age in which art was
not an instrument of self-realization but a livelihood, and in which the artist a medium
rather than an independent agent, we must accept that it is seldom easy to positively
identify change as due to either artist or patron, or to both. We also do not need detailed
biographies, drawings, or contracts to see that artists were generally not expected to
exceed the bounds of certain traditions. It is through an identification of such structures
and the dynamics of artists’ work within which that I have sought to fill in the
supposedly insurmountable gaps left by incomplete documentation.
232
APPENDIX: TABLES
Table 1. Terms of professions and related tools and objects in various Balkan
languages ca. 1840, according to Boué, Turquie d’Europe, III, p. 39, 68-9, 78-80,
87-8.
French Turkish Serbian Albanian Vlach Greek
ingénieur Koumbaradje
Inschinir
Zemlemier
Inschinir
Inschinir
Geometre
Architecte Mimar Neimar Mgieschire
(Gheg.;
Tosk = V)
Architektor Architekton
Maçon Divardje Sidar Sidariou Ktistès
Chaux Kiredj Kretsch Kiretsch Varoul Asbèstès
Plâtre Altje Gips Altzi Gypsos
Sculpteur Oymadje Bildaour Glyptes,
Glypheys,
Agalmatopotos
Graveur Kalemkiar Rozatzi [?]
Cachets a
sentences [?]
Hatkiak Petschelnikariou Voullographes
Peinture Resamgilik Zographikè
Sculpture [sic!] Oimagelouk Agalmatopotia
Peintre Souretdji Moler Tzographos Sougrav Zôgraphos
Charpentier Durguer Drvodjela Berdasch Xylokopos
Hache Balta Keser Sopata Sekoure,
Toporou
Tzekouri
Petite hachette Keser Malasikira Vogla sopata Barde Mikron Tzekouri
Scie Testere Testera, tila Cheresstreou Prioni
Ciseau Arda Dlijeto Glypheion
Coin Keuchédolate Klin, kout Poukike Ik Sphèn
Planche Taghta Daska Dogha Blane Sanidi
Menuisier Doghramadje Astaldja (faiseur
de tables)
Messariou,
Masariou
Leptourgos
Marteau Tschekidj Tschekitsch Kòpan, Tzekan Tschokan Sphyrion
Rabot Réndé Stroug Giuleou Rokani
233
Table 2. Non-Muslim dülgers of Sarajevo and their guarantors in 1788 (after
Kreševljaković, “Ćefilema sarajevskih kršćana iz 1788 godine.”)
Name Profession Guarantor(s) Profession/identific
ation
of guarantor
1 Mihajlo Builder-carpenter (dülger) Jovan Sirdan Furrier
2 Petar Builder-carpenter Risto Tailor
3 Nikola Builder-carpenter Simo
Risto
?
Tailor?
4 Nikola Builder-carpenter / /
5 Mihajlo Builder-carpenter Josip Packsaddle maker
6 Đuro Builder-carpenter Marica ?
7 Rada Builder-carpenter Mihajlo Tailor
8 Nikola Builder-carpenter Lako, son of Jelka ?
9 Jovan Builder-carpenter Monla Sâlih “Jabučar”
10 Petar Builder-carpenter Hadži Tripko Furrier
11 Petar Glassmaker Jovan
Petar
Packsaddle-maker
Jovan’s servant
12 Todor Builder-carpenter Todor
Jovan
Builders-carpenters
13 Jovan Builder-carpenter Jovan
Nikola
Builders-carpenters
14 Nikola Builder-carpenter Todor
Jovan
Builders-carpenters
15 Risto Builder-carpenter Jovan Blanket-maker
16 Simo Builder-carpenter Ilija
Simo
Soap-maker
Ilja’s servant
17 Marko Builder-carpenter Miloš Builder-carpenter
18 Miloš Builder-carpenter Marko Builder-carpenter
19 Jeftan Builder-carpenter Mihajlo Builder-carpenter
20 Mihajlo Builder-carpenter Jeftan Builder-carpenter
21 Todor Builder-carpenter Stevan, Mihat, Ivan Builders-carpenters
22 Stevan Builder-carpenter Todor, Mihat, Ivan Builders-carpenters
23 Mihat (?) Builder-carpenter Todor, Stevan, Ivan Builders-carpenters
24 Ivan Builder-carpenter Todor, Stevan, Mihat Builders-carpenters
25 Mićo Builder-carpenter Mihajlo, Kršman Builders-carpenters
26 Mihajlo Builder-carpenter Mićo, Kršman Builders-carpenters
27 Krsman Builder-carpenter Mićo, Mihajlo Builders-carpenters
28 Tripko Builder-carpenter Şahin
Risto
?
Tailor
29 Mićo Builder-carpenter Besara
Jovan
Furrier
?
30 Staniša Builder (neimar) Mihajlo
Jovan
Furrier
Son of Mihajlo
31 Tanasije Builder (neimar) Jovan
Božo
Gavrilo
His servant
Baker
Božo’s servant
32 Jovan Plumber (suyolcu) Nikola
Ivan
Petar
His son
His servant
(Jovan’s or
Ivan’s?)
Builder-carpenter
33 Petar Builder-carpenter Jovan
Nikola
Ivan
Plumber
Jovan’s son
Jovan’s servant
34 Tripko Builder-carpenter Staniša Tailor
35 Neško Glass-maker Mihajlo
Todor
His servant
Tailor
234
Pavle His tenant
36 Đuro Builder-carpenter Gavrilo Packsaddle-maker
37 Đuro Builder-carpenter Marko
Vasilj
Petar
Đuro
His servant
Furrier
Vasilj’s brother
Petar’s servant
38 Jovan Builder-carpenter Mitar
Risto
Tanasije
Furrier
Baker
Jovan’s servant
39 Nikola Plumber Soka
Mihajlo
Widow
Baker
40 Tanasije Builder / /
41 Pavle Builder-carpenter Panto Tailer
42 Lazo Builder-carpenter Lako Builder-carpenter
43 Lako Builder-carpenter Lazo Builder-carpenter
44 Luka Builder-carpenter Marko
His sons Risto and Blagoje
Builders-carpenters
45 Marko Builder-carpenter Luka, Risto, Blagoje Builders-carpenters
46 Risto Builder-carpenter Luka, Marko, Blagoje Builders-carpenters
47 Blagoje Builder-carpenter Luka, Marko, Risto. Builders-carpenters
48 Mosto Builder-carpenter Spasoje
Đorđo
Janko
Simo
Petar
His servant
His son
Builder-carp.
Janko’s servant
Furrier
49 Janko Builder-carpenter Mosto
Spasoje
Đorđo
Simo
Petar
Builder-carp.
Mosto’s servant
Mosto’s son
Janko’s servant
Furrier
50 Čirko Builder-carpenter Ilija
Stjepan
Lazo
Blagoje
His servant
His servant
Builder-carp.
Lazo’s servant
51 Lazo Builder-carpenter Čirko
Ilija & Stjepan
Blagoje
Builder-carp.
Čirko’s servants
His servant.
52 Ivan Builder-carpenter Nikola
Toma
Petar & Miloš
His servant
Baker
Toma’s servants
53 Jovan Lime-maker (kireççi) Vasilj
Lazo
Risto
Jovan
His servant
Baker
Lazo’s servant
Cook
54 Đuro Builder-carpenter Petar
Risto
Tešo
His servant
Tailor
Risto’s servant
55 Tomaš Builder-carpenter Jeftan
Petar
Builder-carp.
Baker
56 Jeftan Builder-carpenter Tomaš
Petar
Builder-carp.
Baker
57 Jovan Builder-carpenter Vasilj
Nikola
His cousin
Landlord
58 Spasoje Builder-carpenter Simo Builder-carpenter
59 Simo Builder-carpenter Spasoje Builder-carpenter
60 Ivan Builder-carpenter Blagoje Builder-carpenter
61 Blagoje Builder-carpenter Ivan Builder-carpenter
62 Tripko Builder-carpenter Stjepan
Andrija
Goldsmith
Stjepan’s servant
63 Petar Builder-carpenter Jovan Mosto
Janko
Builder-carpenter
?
64 Jovan Builder-carpenter Petat Builder-carpenter
235
Mosto Janko ?
65 Petar Builder-carpenter Risto
Jovan
His servant
Builder-carpenter
66 Jovan Builder-carpenter Petar
Risto
Builder-carpenter
Petar’s servant
67 Toma Builder-carpenter Risto
Jovan
Toma’s servant
Builder-carpenter
68 Jovan Builder-carpenter Toma
Risto
Builder-carpenter
Toma’s servant
69 Đuro Builder-carpenter Spasoje
Petar
Đuro’s brother
Builder-carpenter
70 Petar Builder-carpenter Đuro
Spasoje
Builder-carpenter
Đuro’s brother
71 Mitar Builder-carpenter Simo
Miloš
Buildercarp./
brother
Their servant
72 Simo Builder-carpenter Mitar
Miloš
Buildercarp./
brother
Their servant
73 Luka Builder-carpenter Risto Baker
74 Tanasije Builder-carpenter Mitar
Maksim
Blacksmith
Mitar’s servant
75 Mihajlo Builder-carpenter Tripko Blacksmith
76 Jovan Glass-maker Stanko
Janko
Blacksmith
Stanko’s servant
77 Petar Builder-carpenter Mijat Goldsmith
78 Marko Builder-carpenter Joskim
Nikola
His servant
Blacksmith
79 Aramit Builder-carpenter Jovan
Mihajlo
Gardener
Miller
80 Bojan Builder-carpenter Risto
Đuro
Furrier
Risto’s servant
81 Đorđo Builder-carpenter Lako
Sava
Mićo
His brother
Baker
Furrier
82 Jovan Builder-carpenter Antun Packsaddle-maker
83 Mijat Builder-carpenter Simo Builder-carpenter
84 Simo Builder-carpenter Mijat Builder-carpenter
85 Stjepan Builder-carpenter Mato
Nikola
Đorđo
His servant
Builder-carpenter
Nikola’s servant
86 Nikola Builder-carpenter Đorđo
Stjepan
Mato
His servant
Builder-carpenter
Stjepan’s servant
87 Petar Builder-carpenter Risto
Jefto
Dyer
Risto’s servant
88 Nikola Builder-carpenter Marko Tailor
89 Aćim Builder-carpenter Toma
Janko
Jakov
Blacksmith
Blacksmith
Toma and Janko’s
servant
90 Ilija Builder-carpenter Todor Builder-carpenter
91 Todor Builder-carpenter Ilija Builder-carpenter
92 Risto Builder-carpenter Panto Blacksmith
236
Table 3. Values of probates of nine deceased dülgers of Sarajevo, 1779-98, as
registered with the kadı.654
Year Name Father’s
name
Assets (in akçe),
except tools,
sometimes incl.
real estate
Tools
(akçe)
Total
(assets
incl.
tools)
Percentage
of tools’
value
1779 Jovan Jovan 1580 160 1740 9%
1783 Mitar Jovan 12966 1260 14226 10%
1785 Mate Stjepan 9840 420 10260 4%
1790 Ca’fer
Beşe
Hüseyin 54258655 240 54498 >1%
1792656 Toma Ivan 5280 600 5880 10%
1794 Tanasije657 Raho (?) 205756 960 206716 >1%
1794 Mičić Toma 3418 240 3658 7%
1795 Simo Gavrilo 120960 960 121920 >1%
1798 Stojan Stefan 8034 720 8754 8%
Total 422092 5560 427652 -
Average 46799 618 47517658 1%
Median 9840 600 10260659 7%
Highest 205756 1260 206716 10%
Lowest 1580 240 1740 >1%
654 Adapted from data provided in Kreševljaković, “Esnafi,” p. 172.
655 28800 akçe of this sum accounted for his house alone.
656 Krešejlaković writes “1729,” but this seems to be a typographical mistake.
657 Tanasije died not in Sarajevo but in Valjevo in present-day Serbia.
658 Calculated as the ninth part of all assets (incl. tools) combined, not by
addition of both averages.
659 Median of all assets combined, not by addition of values from the two
previous boxes.
237
Table 4. Locales with “provincial architects” (1656-71), according to Evliyâ
Çelebi
Place Modern
country
Term used
by E. Ç.
Vol./date Page no.
Gelibolu TUR mi‘mâr ağa 162
Timişoara ROM mi‘mâr-başı 203
Sarajevo BOS mi‘mâr-başı 224
Livno BOS mi‘mâr-başı 235
Skopje MAK mi‘mâr ağa 296
Bitola MAK mi‘mâr-başı 307
Smederevo SER mi‘mâr ağa
V (1656-61)
317
Shkodër ALB mi‘mâr 56
Halkalı TUR mi‘mâr-başı 73
Osijek CRO mi‘mâr-başı 105
Pécs HUN mi‘mâr ağa 114
Buda HUN mi‘mâr-başı 137
Esztergom HUN mi‘mâr ağa 162
Užice SER mi‘mâr ağa 244
Herceg Novi MON mi‘mâr-başı 268
Ključ BOS mi‘mâr ağa 277
Gabela BOS mi‘mâr 283
Mostar BOS mi‘mâr ağa 286
Zvornik BOS mi‘mâr ağa 294
Szigetvár HUN mi‘mâr ağa 306
Nagykanizsa HUN mi‘mâr-başı
VI (1661-4)
314
Koppány (S of Lake Balaton) HUN mi‘mâr ağa 15
Kaposvár HUN mi‘mâr-başı 17
“Şemetorna” (before
Székesfehérvár)
HUN mi‘mâr ağa 20
Székesfehérvár HUN mi‘mâr ağa 23
Ilok CRO mi‘mâr ağa 57
Hatvan HUN mi‘mâr ağa 60
Szolnok HUN mi‘mâr 135
Csongrád HUN mi‘mâr 136
Baja HUN mi‘mâr ağa 137
Bač SER mi‘mâr ağa 139
Titel SER mi‘mâr ağa 140
“Soboçka” (Szabadka, i.e.
Subotica?)
SER mi‘mâr ağa 141
Szeged HUN mi‘mâr-başı 142
Csanád HUN mi‘mâr 143
“Göle” near Arad ROM mi‘mâr ağa 146
Oradea ROM mi‘mâr ağa 151
“İhram” between Timişoara and
Orşova
ROM mi‘mâr ağa 167
Golubac SER 168
Orşova ROM mi‘mâr ağa
VII (1664-6)
171
Thessalonikē GRE mi‘mâr-başı 65
Trikkala GRE mi‘mâr ağa 91
Halkida (Eğriboz) GRE mi‘mâr ağa 107
Athens GRE mi‘mâr ağa 114
Corinth GRE mi‘mâr ağa 125
Patras GRE mi‘mâr-başı
VIII (1667-
71)
130
238
“Holumic” (Morea) GRE mi‘mâr ağa 134
Arkadia GRE mi‘mâr 139
Pylos GRE mi‘mâr-başı 142
Methōnē GRE mi‘mâr ağa 143
Korōnē GRE mi‘mâr ağa 148
Mistra GRE mi‘mâr ağa 154
Nafplion GRE mi‘mâr ağa 163
Nafpaktos GRE mi‘mâr ağa 271
Agia Mavra (on Lefkada) GRE mi‘mâr ağa 280
Iōannina GRE mi‘mâr ağa 287
Gjirokastër ALB mi‘mâr ağa 299
Berat ALB mi‘mâr ağa 306
Elbasan ALB mi‘mâr ağa 318
Ohrid MAK mi‘mâr ağa
327
239
Table 5. Comparison of measurements of three mosques in the Dabar region660 (see
chapter 4.4.1)
Plana Polje Dabrica
Measurements (external) 11.30 x 7.2 11.76 x 8.37 13.08 x 9.12
Measurements (internal, minus
porch)
5.84 x 5.42 6.97 x 7.06 7.63 x 7.67
Thickness of walls (approximate) 70 70 75
Minaret (dimensions) 2.51 x 2.33 1.83 x 2 1.95 x 1.95
Minaret (height, without roof) 11 7.12 15-17
660 Data according to the Commission to Preserve National Monuments
(kons.gov.ba).
240
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Ackerman, James S. “A theory of style,” in: Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism,
XX/3 (1962), pp. 227-37
Afyoncu, Fatma. XVII. Yüzyılda hassa mimarları ocaği. Ankara: Kültür Bakanlıgı,
2001.
Ağanoğlu, H. Yıldırım et al. (eds.), Osmanlı arşiv belgelerinde Kosova vilayeti =
Vilajeti i Kosovës në dukumentet arkivore Osmane. Istanbul: T.C. Başbakanlık
Devlet Arşivleri Genel Müdürlüğü, 2007.
Osmanlı belgelerinde Batı Trakya. Istanbul: T.C. Başbakanlık Devlet Arşivleri
Genel Müdürlüğü, 2009.
Osmanlı belgelerinde Bosna-Hersek. Istanbul: T.C. Başbakanlık Devlet
Arşivleri Genel Müdürlüğü, 2009.
Ahmet Refik: see Altınay.
Ahunbay, Zeynep. “Ottoman architecture in Mostar,” in: Proceedings of the
international symposium on Islamic civilisation in the Balkans; Sofia, April 21-
23, 2000. Eds. Rama M. Z. Keilani and Svetlana Todorova. Istanbul: IRCICA,
2000, pp. 13-28.
“Ottoman architecture in Kosova and the restoration of Hadum Mosque in
Gjakovo (Ðakovica),” in: Centres and peripheries in Ottoman architecture:
rediscovering a Balkan heritage. Ed. Maximilian Hartmuth.
Stockholm/Sarajevo: Cultural Heritage without Borders, 2010, pp. 108-17.
Akin, Esra. “Mustafa Ali’s epic deeds of artists: a study on the earliest Ottoman text
about the calligraphers and painters of the Islamic world,” Ph.D. dissertation
(Ohio State University), 2007.
Aličić, Ahmed S (tr.). Poimenični popis sandžaka vilajeta Hercegovina. Sarajevo:
Orijentalni Institut, 1985.
Allacci, Leone [Leo Allatios]. The newer temples of the Greeks. Tr. Anthony Cutler.
Philadelphia: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1969.
[Altınay,] Ahmet Refik. Türk mimarları: hazinei evrak vesikalarına göre. İstanbul:
Hilmi Kitaphanesi, 1936.
Andrejević, Andrej. “Prilog proučavanju islamske uticaja na umetnost XVI. i XVII.
veka kod srba u Sarajevu i Bosni,” in: Prilozi za proučavanje istorije Sarajeva, I
(1963), pp. 51-7.
“Manastir Moštanica pod Kozarom,” Starinar, XIII/XIV (1965), pp. 163-175.
Aladža džamija u Foči. Belgrade: Inst. za istoriju umetnosti, 1972.
241
Arhitektura i zidno slikarstvo XVI veka sarajevske Careve džamije,” in:
Saopštenja, XXVIII (1986), pp. 148-56.
Islamska monumentalna umetnost XVI veka u Jugoslaviji: kupolne džamije.
Beograd: SANU, 1984.
Anhegger, Robert. “Quellen zur Osmanischen Keramik,” appendix to Katharina Otto-
Dorn, Das Islamische Iznik. Berlin: Deutsches Archäologisches Institut, 1941,
pp. 165-95.
“Die Römerbrücke von Mostar: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte und Organisation des
Bauwesens im Osmanischen Reich,” in: Oriens, VII/1 (1954), pp. 87-107.
“Beiträge zur osmanischen Baugeschichte III: Moscheen in Saloniki und Serre;
zur Frage der Planmoscheen,” in: Istanbuler Mitteilungen, XXVII (1967), pp.
312-30.
Artan, Tülay. “Arts and architecture,” in: The Cambridge history of Turkey, III: The
later Ottoman Empire, 1603-1839. Ed. Suraiya Faroqhi. Cambridge: University
Press, 2006, pp. 408-80
Asbóth, János. Bosnien u. die Herzegowina: Reisebilder u. Studien. Vienna: Hölder,
1888.
Âşık Mehmed, Menâzırü’l-avâlim, 3 vols. Ed. Mahmut Ak. Ankara: Türk Tarih
Kurumu, 2007.
Ayverdi, Ekrem Hakkı. Avrupa’da Osmanlı mimârî eserleri, 4 vols. Istanbul: İstanbul
Fetih Cemiyeti, 1979-1982.
Babinger, Franz. “Quellen zur osmanischen Künstlergeschichte,” in: Jahrbuch der
Asiatischen Kunst, I (1924), pp. 31-41.
Beiträge zur Frühgeschichte der Türkenherrschaft in Rumelien (14.-15.
Jahrhundert.) Brno: Rohrer, 1944.
Bağcı, Serpil. “Painted decoration in Ottoman architecture,” in: Ottoman civilization.
Eds. Halil İnalcık and Günsel Renda. Istanbul: Ministry of Culture, 2003, II, pp.
737-59.
Bajraktarević, Fehim. “Turski spomenici u Ohridu,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju,
V (1955), pp. 111-34.
Balta, Evangelia. Les vakıfs de Serrès et de sa région (XVe et XVIe s.): un premier
inventaire. Athens: Centre de Recherches Néo-Helléniques, 1995.
Banfi, Florio. “Two Italian maps of the Balkan peninsula,” in: Imago Mundi, XI (1954),
pp. 17-34.
242
Barkan, Ömer Lûtfi. “Osmanli İmperatorluğunda bir iskân ve kolonizasyon metodu
olarak vakıflar ve temlikler,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, II (1942), pp. 279-386.
XV ve XVIıncı asırlarda Osmanlı İmparatorluğunda ziraî ekonominin hukukî ve
malî esasları, I, kanunlar. Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi, 1943.
“L’organisation du travail dans le chantier d'une grande mosquée à Istanbul au
XVIe siècle,” in: Annales: Histoire, Sciences Sociales, XVII/6 (1962), pp. 1093-
106.
Süleymaniye cami ve imareti inşaatı (1550-1557), 2 vols. Ankara: 1972, 1979.
Bastéa, Eleni. The creation of modern Athens: planning the myth. Cambridge:
University Press, 2000.
Batur, Selçuk. “Osmanlı camilerinde sekizgen ayak sisteminin gelişimi üzerine,” in:
Anadolu sanatı araştırmaları, I (1968), pp. 139-66.
Bayram, Sadi and Adnan Tüzen, “İstanbul Üsküdar Ayazma Camii ve Ayazma Camii
inşaat defteri,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, XXII (1991), pp. 199-288.
Bejtić, Alija. “Spomenici osmanlijske arhitekture u Bosni i Hercegovini,” in: Prilozi za
orijentalnu filologiju, III/IV (1953), pp. 229-97.
Bekker, Immanuel (ed). Corpus scriptorum Byzantinae [etc.]: Michaelis Ducae Nepotis
Historia Byzantina. Bonn: Ed. Weber, 1834.
Belting, Hans. Likeness and presence: a history of the image before the era of art. Tr.
Edmund Jephcott. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1997.
Bentchev, Ivan. Die Technologie in den griechischen und bulgarischen Malerbüchern
des 16. - 19. Jahrhunderts: Nektarij, Anonymus I und II, Dionysios von Phourna,
Georgi Damjanov, Panagiotes Doxaras, Christofor Žefarovič, Zacharij
Petrovič, Christo Jovevič, Cod. D. slavo 39, Dičo Zograf, Zacharij Zograf.
Recklinghausen : Museen der Stadt Recklinghausen, 2004.
Berbenliev, Pejo Nikolov and Vladimir Hristov Partăčev, Bracigovskite majstoristroiteli
prez XVIII i XIX vek i mjahnoto arhitekturno tvorčestvo. Sofia: Tehnika,
1963.
Bichev, Milko. Architecture in Bulgaria: from ancient times to the late nineteenth
century. Sofia: Foreign Languages Press, 1961.
Bogdanović, Fra Marijan. Ljetopis Kreševskog samostana (1765-1817). Tr. Ignacije
Gavran. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1984.
Boschkov, Atanas. Monumentale Wandmalerei Bulgariens. Mainz: Kupferberg, 1969.
Bostan, İdris. “Korfu,” TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi, XXVI, pp. 201-2.
Boué, Ami. La Turquie d'Europe [etc.], 4 vols. Paris: Bertrand, 1840.
243
Braudel, Fernand. The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean world in the age of Philip
II., Ed. Richard Ollard. London: Harper Collins, 1992.
Brisby, Claire. “The Samokov archive: nineteenth-century icon-painters’ practice and
the perception of Western art,” in: Proceedings of the 21st International
Congress of Byzantine Studies, III. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006, pp. 272-3.
Brouquière: see de la Brouquière.
Brouskari, Ersi (ed.). Ottoman architecture in Greece. Athens: Hellenic Ministry of
Culture, 2008.
Brunnbauer, Ulf. Gebirgsgesellschaften auf dem Balkan: Wirtschaft und
Familienstrukturen im Rhodopengebirge. Vienna: Böhlau, 2004.
Bryer, Anthony. “The rise and fall of the Macedonian school of Byzantine art (1910-
1962),” in: Ourselves and others: the development of a Greek Macedonian
cultural identity since 1912. Eds. Peter Mackridge and Eleni Yannakakis.
Oxford: Berg, pp. 79-87.
Bunčić, Aleksandra. “Bosanskohercegovačko pokretno naslijeđe u rasijanu = The
dispersal of Bosnia and Herzegovina’s movable heritage,” in: Baština/Heritage,
IV (2008), pp. 441-62, cit. pp. 447-50.
Cafer Efendi, Risale-i mimariyye: an early-seventeenth-century Ottoman treatise on
architecture: facsimile with translation and notes by Howard Crane. Leiden:
Brill, 1987.
Cerasi, Maurice. “Late-Ottoman architects and master builders,” in Muqarnas, V
(1988), pp. 87-102.
Čelić, Džemal and Mehmed Mujezinović, Stari mostovi u Bosni i Herzegovini.
Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1969.
Čelić, Džemal. “Domaće i orijentalno u materijalnom kulturnom nasljeđu bosanskohercegovačkih
Muslimana,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, XLI (1991), pp.
347-57.
“The domestic and the oriental in the material cultutral heritage of Bosnian-
Herzegovinian muslims,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, L (2000), pp. 353-
64.
Chapman, Chapman. “The strange case of the Turkish and Venetian judges in
eighteenth-century Mani wall paintings,” in: Byzantine and Modern Greek
Studies, XXX/2 (2006), pp. 151–66.
Chatzidakis, Manolis. “Marcantonio Raimondi und die Postbvzantinisch-kretische
Malerei,” in: Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte, LIX (1940), pp. 147-61.
244
“Contribution à l´étude de la peinture postbyzyantine,” in: 1453-1953: le cinqcentième
anniversaire de la prise de Constantinople, 29 mai 1453. Athens:
Imprimerie Nationale, 1953, pp. 193-216.
Ellēnes zōgrafoi meta tēn alōsē, 1450-1830, 2 vols. Athens: Kentro
Neoellēnikōn Ereunōn, 1987 and 1997.
Crane, Howard and Esra Akin (eds. and tr.), Sinan’s autobiographies: five sixteenthcentury
texts. Leiden: Brill, 2006.
Croix: see de la Croix.
Ćurčić, Slobodan. “Byzantine Legacy in Ecclesiastical Architecture of the Balkans after
1453,” in: The Byzantine Legacy in Eastern Europe. Ed. Lowell Clucas.
Boulder: Colorado, 1988, pp. 59-81.
Ćurčin, M. “The story of an artist,” in: Ivan Meštrović: a monograph. London: Williams
and Norgate, 1919, pp. 15-23
Cvetnić, Sanja. “Bezgrešno začeće donatora Stjepana Dragojlovića (1621),” in: Svjetlo
riječi, XXV (2007), pp. 62-3.
DaCosta Kaufmann, Thomas. Toward a geography of art. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2004.
Dávid, Géza and Pál Fodor. “Az ország ügye mindenek előtt való”: A szultáni tanács
Magyarországra vonatkozó rendeletei (1544-1545, 1552). Budapest: MTA,
2005.
Davidov, Dinko. “Serbische und griechisch-zinzarische Malerei in den Kirchen der
Budaer Eparchie Ende des XVIII. und zu Beginn des XIX. Jahrhunderts,” in:
Proceedings of the Fifth Greek-Serbian Symposium. Thessaloniki: Institute for
Balkan Studies, 1991, pp. 175-83.
Dēmaras, K. Th. “Theophanous tou ex Agrafōn vios Dionysiou tou ek Fourna,” in:
Ellēnika, X (1938), pp. 213-73
De la Brouquière, Bertrandon. Voyage d’Outremer. Ed. Ch. Schefer. Paris: Ernest
Leroux, 1892.
De la Croix, Horst. “The literature on fortification in Renaissance Italy,” in: Technology
and Culture, IV/1 (1963), pp. 30-50.
Denny, Walter B. “Dating Ottoman Turkish works in the Saz style,” in: Muqarnas, I
(1983), pp. 103-21.
“Provincial Ottoman architecture and the metropolitan style: questions of
meaning and originality,” in: Art turc/Turkish art. Ed. François Deroche.
Geneva: Van Berchem Foundation, 1999, pp. 243-52.
Dionysius of Fourna: see The ‘Painter’s manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna.
245
Doda, Bajazid Elmaz. Albanisches Bauernleben im oberen Rekatal bei Dibra
(Makedonien). Tr. Franz Baron Nopcsa [1914]. Ed. Robert Elsie. Münster: LIT,
2007.
Dodwell, Edward. A classical and topographical tour through Greece during the years
1801, 1805, and 1806, 2 vols. London: Rodwell and Martin, 1819.
Doukas, Decline and fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman Turks. Tr. Harry J. Magoulias.
Detroit: Wayne State University, 1975.
Doytchinov, Grigor and Christo Gantchev. Österreichische Architekten in Bulgarien
1878–1918. Vienna: Böhlau, 2001.
Drumev, Dimitar and Asen Vasilev, Die Holzschnitzkunst in Bulgarien. Tr. Michail
Matliev. Sofia: Balgarski Hudoschnik, 1955
[du Fresne-Canaye, Philippe,] Le voyage du Levant de Philippe du Fresne-Canaye. Ed.
M. H. Hauser. Paris: Ernest Leroux, 1893.
Duda, Dorothea. Islamische Handschriften II/2: die Handschriften in türkischer
Sprache, Textband. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der
Wissenschaften, 2008.
Dündar, Abdülkadir. “City architects in the Ottoman architecture,” in: The Great
Ottoman-Turkish Civilisation. Ed. Kemal Çiçek. Ankara: Yeni Türkiye, 2000,
IV, pp. 471-9.
“Osmanlı mimarisinde vilâyet (eyâlet) mimarları,” in: Electronic Journal of
Ottoman Studies, IV (2001), art. 49.
“Osmanlı döneminde şehir mimarı bulunan bazı Avrupa şehirleri,” in: Thirteenth
International Congress of Turkish Art. Eds. Géza Dávid and Ibolya Gerelyes.
Budapest: Hungarian National Museum, 2009, pp. 231-42.
Durand, Maximilian. Sixtine des Balkans: peintures de l'église Saint-Athanase à
Voskopojë (Albanie). Paris: Somogy, 2008.
Đurđev, Branislav et al. (eds.), Kanuni i kanun-name za bosanski, hercegovački,
zvornički, kliški, crnogorski i skadarski sandžak. Sarajevo: Orientalni Institut,
1957.
Elezović, Gliša. “Turski Spomenici u Skoplju”, in: Glasnik skopskog naučnog društva, I
(1926), pp. 135-76 and II (1929), pp. 243-61.
Emir, Sedat. Erken Osmanlı mimarlığında çok-işlevli yapılar: kentsel kolonizasyon
yapıları olarak zâviyeler, 2 vols. Izmir: Akademi Kitabevi, 1994.
Evliyâ Çelebi Seyahatnâmesi [etc.], 10 vols. Ed. Yücel Dağlı et al. Istanbul: Yapı Kredi
yayınları, 1996-2007.
246
Eyice, Semavi. “Ohri’nin Türk devrine ait eserleri,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi, VI (1956),
137-45.
“İlk Osmanlı devrinin dini-içtimai bir müessesesi: zaviyeler ve zaviyeli
camiler,” in: İ.Ü. İktisat Fakültesi Mecmuası, XXIII/1-2 (1963), pp. 3-80.
Eyüpgiller, Kemal K. “Preliminary results from the survey of Rumelikavağı fort,” in:
Monuments, patrons, contexts: papers on Ottoman Europe presented to Machiel
Kiel. Eds. Maximilian Hartmuth and Ayşe Dilsiz. Leiden: NINO, 2010, pp. 129-
42.
Filipović, Milenko. “Andrija Damjanović iz Velesa, zograf i neimar (oko 1813-1878),”
in: Muzeji, II (1949), pp. 33-40.
Fisković, Cvito. Naši graditelji i kipari XV. I XVI. stoljeća u Dubrovniku. Zagreb:
Matica Hrvatska, 1947, pp. 97-102.
Faroqhi, Suraiya. “Fifty years after the conquest: eighteenth-century reforms in
Ottoman Crete,” in: The Eastern Mediterranean under Ottoman rule: Crete
1645-1840. Ed. Antonis Anastasopoulos. Rethymnon: University of Crete Press,
2008, pp. 243-254.
Artisans of empire: crafts and craftspeople under the Ottomans. London: IB
Tauris, 2009.
Flood, Finbarr Barry. Objects of translation: material culture and medieval “Hindu-
Muslim” encounter. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009.
Focillon, Henri. The life of forms in art. Tr. Charles B. Hogan and George Kubler. New
York: Zone books, [1934] 1989.
Foucault, Michel. “What is an author?” [1969], reprinted in Paul Rabinow (ed.), The
Foucault reader. New York: Penguin Books, 1984, pp. 101-20.
Fraenkel, Eran. “Skopje from the Serbian to Ottoman empires: conditions for the
appearance of a Balkan Muslim city,” dissertation (University of Pennsylvania),
1986.
Gacović, Slavoljub. “Otkuda reč neimar u epici Balkana?” in: Glasnik etnografskog
instituta (SANU), IL (2000), pp. 155-60.
Gavra, Eleni. “The Zincirli mosque in Serres,” in: The Ottoman Empire, the Balkans,
the Greek lands: toward a social and economic history: studies in honor of John
C. Alexander. Eds. Elias Kolovos et al. Istanbul: ISIS, 2007, pp. 135-55/
Gazić, Lejla (ed.). Vakufname iz Bosne i Hercegovine (XV i XVI vijek). Sarajevo:
Orijentalni Institut, 1985.
Gerelyes, Ibolya and Gyongyi Kovács (eds.) Archaeology of the Ottoman period in
Hungary. Budapest: Hungarian National Museum, 2003.
247
Gerő, Győző. “The question of school and master in the study of the history of Muslim
architecture in Hungary,” in: The Muslim East: Studies in honour of Julius
Germanus. Gyula Káldy-Nagy. Budapest: Eötvös Lorand Univ., 1974, pp. 189-
99.
Giakoumēs, Kōnstantinos. “Kritikē ekdosē epigrafōn sinergeiōn apo to Linotopi stis
perifereies tēs Orthodoxēs Ekklēsias tēs Alvanias,” in: Deltion tēs Christianikēs
Archaiologikēs Hetaireias, XXI (2000), pp. 249-66.
Ginzburg, Carlo and Enrico Castelnuovo. “Symbolic domination and artistic geography
in Italian art history” [tr. by Maylis Curie], in: Art in Translation, I/1 (2009), pp.
5-48.
Gökbilgin, M. Tayyib. XV-XVI. asırlarda Edirne ve Paşa Livası: vakıflar-mülklermukataalar.
Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi Edebiyat Fakültesi Yayınları, 1952.
Gombrich, Ernst. “Style” [1968], repr. in The art of art history: a critical anthology. Ed.
Donald Preziosi. Oxford: University Press, 1988, pp. 150-63.
Goodwin, Godfrey. A history of Ottoman architecture. London: Thames & Hudson,
1971.
“Ottoman architecture in the Balkans,” in: Art and Archaeology Research
Papers, IX (1975), pp. 55-59.
Göyünç, Nejat. “The procurement of labor and materals, in the Ottoman Empire (16.
and 18. Centuries),” in: Economies et sociétés dans I’empire Ottoman (fin du
XVIII-début du XX siécle), Eds. Jean-Louis Bacqué Grammont and Paul
Dumont. Paris: CERS, 1986, pp. 327-33.
Gradeva, Rossitza. Rumeli under the Ottomans, 15th-18th centuries: institutions and
communities. Istanbul: Isis Press, 2004
“Between hinterland and frontier: Ottoman Vidin, fifteenth to eighteenth
centuries,” in: Proceedings of the British Academy, CLVI (2009), pp. 331-51.
Grandits, Hannes. Herrschaft und Loyalität in der spätosmanischen Gesellschaft: das
Beispiel der multikonfessionellen Herzegowina. Vienna: Böhlau, 2008.
Grisebach, A. Reise durch Rumelien und nach Brussa im Jahre 1839. Göttingen:
Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1841.
Hadjinicolaou, Nikos. “Kunstzentren und periphere Kunst,” in: Kritische Berichte, XI
(1983), pp. 36-56.
Hadžieva Aleksievska, Jasmina and Elizabeta Kasapova, Arhitekt Andreja Damjanov,
1813-1878 = Architect Andreja Damjanov, 1813-1878. Skopje: Jasmina
Hadžieva Aleksievska, 2001.
Hadžimuhamedović, Fehim. “Turski neoklasicizam Azizije džamije u Brezovom Polju,”
in: Baština/Heritage, V (2009), pp. 249-316.
248
Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph Freiherr von. Geschichte der osmanischen Dichtkunst, III.
Pesth: [s.n.] 1837.
Hanna, Nelly. Construction work in Ottoman Cairo, 1517-1798. Cairo: Institut Français
d’Archéologie Orientale, 1984.
Harbova, Margarita. “L’espace culture de la ville balkanique entre l’Orient et l’Europe
(d’après l’exemple de la ville de Plovdiv, XVIIIe-XIXe siècles),” in: Etudes
Balkaniques, XXVIII/1 (2002), pp. 128-43.
Hartmuth, Maximilian. “Negotiating tradition and ambition: comparative de-
Ottomanization of the Balkan cityscapes,” in: Ethnologia Balkanica, X (2006/7),
pp. 15-33.
“Multicultural pasts as a problem in the construction of national programs of
cultural heritage in modern Southeast Europe,” (paper read at the 10th Annual
Kokkalis Program Workshop at Harvard University, 2007, published at
hks.harvard.edu/kokkalis)
“De/constructing a 'Legacy in Stone': Of interpretative and historiographical problems
concerning the Ottoman cultural heritage in the Balkans,” in: Middle Eastern
Studies, XLIV/5 (2008), pp. 695-71.
“Is there a crisis in Balkan studies? A position paper," in: Kakanien Revisited, 92
(2009) [http://www.kakanien.ac.at/beitr/balkans/MHartmuth1.pdf]
“Insufficiently oriental? An early episode in the study and preservation of the
Ottoman architectural heritage in the Balkans,” in: Monuments, patrons,
contexts: papers on Ottoman Europe presented to Machiel Kiel. Eds.
Maximilian Hartmuth and Ayşe Dilsiz. Leiden: Netherlands institute for the
Near East, 2010, pp. 171-84.
“The history of centre-periphery relations as a history of style in Ottoman
provincial architecture,” in: Centres and peripheries in Ottoman architecture:
rediscovering a Balkan heritage. Ed. Maximilian Hartmuth.
Stockholm/Sarajevo: Cultural Heritage without Borders, 2010, pp. 18-29.
Hasandedić, Hivzija. Muslimanska baština u istočnoj Hercegovini. Sarajevo: El-Kalem,
1990.
Hauser, Arnold. The social history of art [1951], 4 vols. London: Routledge, 1989.
Hellwig, Karin. Von der Vita zur Künstlerbiographie. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2005.
Hochhut, Pia. Die Moschee Nûruosmâniye in Istanbul: Beiträge zur Baugeschichte
nach osmanischen Quellen. Berlin: Schwarz, 1986.
Hoddinott, R. F. “The tradition of wood carving in Macedonia,” in: The Burlington
Magazine, XCVI/618 (1954), pp. 278-83.
249
Hristov, Petko. “Transborder exchange of seasonal workers in the central regions of the
Balkans (19th – 20th Century),” in: Ethnologia Balkanica, XII (2008), pp. 215-
30.
Huart, Clément. Les calligraphes et les miniaturistes de l’Orient muselman. Paris:
Leroux, 1908.
Ianeva, Svetla. “Samokov: an Ottoman Balkan city in the age of reforms,” in: The
Ottoman state and societies in change: a study of the nineteenth century
Temettuat registers. Eds. Hayashi Kayoko and Mahir Aydın. London: Kegan
Paul, 2004, pp. 46-76.
İbrahimgil, Mehmet. “Kalkandelen (Tetovo) Alaca-Paşa Camii,” in: Vakıflar Dergisi,
XXVI (1997), pp. 249-66.
Ippen, Theodor A. Skutari und die nordalbanische Küstenebene. Sarajevo: Kajon, 1907.
İnalcık, Halil. “Mutual political and cultural influences between Europe and the
Ottomans,” in: Ottoman Civilization. Eds. Halil İnalcık and Günsel Renda.
Istanbul: Ministry of Culture, 2003, II, pp. 1090-121.
İnbaşı, Mehmet. “Osmanlı idaresinde Üsküb kazası,” dissertation (Atatürk Üniversitesi
[Erzurum]), 1995
Jezernik, Božidar, “Qudret kemeri: a bridge between barbarity and civilization,” in:
Slavonic and East European Review, LXXIII/3 (1995), pp. 470-84.
Jireček, Konstantin. Das Fürstenthum Bulgarien: seine Bodengestaltung, Natur,
Bevölkerung, wirthschaftliche Zustände, geistige Cultur, Staatsverfassung,
Staatsverwaltung und neueste Geschichte. Prag: Tempsky, 1891.
Kafadar, Cemal. “A Rome of one’s own: reflections of cultural geography and identity
in the lands of Rum,” in: Muqarnas, XIV (2007), pp. 7-25.
Kafescioğlu, Çiğdem. “‘In the image of Rūm’: Ottoman architectural patronage in
sixteenth-century Aleppo and Damascus,” in: Muqarnas, XVI (1999), pp. 70-96.
Constantinopolis/Istanbul: cultural encounter, imperial vision, and the
construction of the Ottoman capital. University Park: Pennsylvania State
University Press, 2009.
Kalopissi-Verti, Sophia. Dedicatory inscriptions and donor portraits in thirteenthcentury
churches of Greece. Vienna: Verl. d. Österr. Akad. d. Wiss., 1992.
Kanitz, Felix [Philipp]. Serbien, historisch-ethnographische Reisestudien aus den
Jahren 1859-1868. Leizpig: Fries, 1868.
Donau-Bulgarien und der Balkan: Histor.-geogr.-ethnogr. Reisestudien aus den
Jahren 1860-1875, 3 vols. Leipzig: Fries, 1876-82.
Das Königreich Serbien und das Serbenvolk, 3 vols. Leipzig: Meyer, 1904-14.
250
Kaplan, Benjamin J. “Fictions of privacy: house chapels and the spatial accommodation
of religious dissent in early modern Europe,” in: American historical review,
CVII (2002), pp. 1031-64
Karabacek, Josef von. Abendländische Künstler zu Konstantinopel im XV. und XVI.
Jahrhundert: Italienische Künstler am Hofe Muhammeds II. des Eroberers,
1451-1481. Vienna: Alfred Hölder, 1918.
Kayoko. Hayashi and Mahir Aydın (eds.), The Ottoman state and societies in change: a
study of the nineteenth century Temettuat registers. London: Kegan Paul, 2004.
Kemura Šejh Sejfuddin Fehmi bin Ali (sic), Sarajevske džamije i druge javne zgrade
turske dobe. Sarajevo: Zemaljska štamparija, 1913.
Kiel, Machiel. “Armenian and Ottoman influences on a group of village churches in
North-Eastern Macedonia: a contribution to the history of art of the Armenian
diaspora,” in: Revue des études arméniennes, VIII (1971), pp. 267-82.
“Observations on the history of Northern Greece during the Turkish rule
historical and architectural description of the Turkish monuments of Komotini
and Serres, their place in the development of Ottoman architecture, and their
present condition,” in: Balkan Studies, XII/2 (1971), pp. 415-62.
“Aspects of Ottoman-Turkish architecture in Albania”, in: Vth International
Congress of Turkish Art, Budapest 23-28 September 1975. Ed. Géza Fehér.
Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1978, pp. 541-65.
Art and society of Bulgaria in the Turkish period: a sketch of the economic,
juridical and artistic preconditions of Bulgarian post-Byzantine art and its place
in the development of the art of the Christian Balkans, 1360/70–1700: a new
interpretation. Assen: Van Gorcum, 1985.
Ottoman architecture in Albania. Istanbul: IRCICA, 1990.
Studies on the Ottoman architecture of the Balkans. Aldershot: Variorum, 1990.
“Byzantine architecture and painting in Central Greece 1460-1570: its
demographic and economic basis according to the Ottoman census- and taxation
registers for Central Greece preserved in Istanbul and Ankara,” in: From
Mantzikert to Lepanto: The Byzantine World and the Turks 1071-1571. Ninth
Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies. Birmingham 1985 = Byzantinische
Forschungen, XVI (1991), pp. 429-46.
“Remarks on some Ottoman-Turkish aqueducts and water supply systems in the
Balkans: Kavalla, Chalkis, Aleksinac, Levkas and Ferai (Ferecik),” in: De
Turcicis Aliisque Rebus: commentarii Henry Hofman dedicati, III. Ed. Mark van
Damme. Utrecht: Inst. voor Oosterse Talen en Culturen, 1992, pp. 105-39.
“Ottoman Kyustendil in the 15th and 16th Century: Ottoman administrative
documents from the Turkish archives versus myths and assumptions in the work
251
of academician Jordan Ivanov,” in: Izvestija na Istoričeski Muzej, Kjustendil, V
(1993), pp. 141-69.
“Traces in stone: some notes on a 16th century Ottoman poet from the Balkans,
Vâlihî-i Üskübî, and the background of his life and work,” in: Journal of Turkish
Studies, XXVI (2002), pp. 31-41.
“Die Rolle des Kadis und der Ulema als Förderer der Baukunst in den
Provinzzentren des Osmanischen Reiches,” in: Frauen, Bilder und Gelehrte:
Studien zu Gesellschaft und Künsten im Osmanischen Reich. Eds. Sabine Prätor
and Christoph K. Neumann. Istanbul: Simurg, 2002, pp. 569-601.
“The construction of the Ottoman castle of Anavarin-i Cedid according to the
orders of the Imperial Council as preserved in the Mühimme Defters 19-31,” in:
A historical and economic geography of Ottoman Greece: the southwestern
Morea in the 18th century. Eds. Fariba Zarinebaf, John Bennet, and Jack L.
Davis. Athens: American School of Classical Studies, 2005, pp. 265-81.
“Un héritage non désiré: le patrimoine architectural islamique ottoman dans
l’Europe du Sud-Est, 1370–1912,” in: Études balkaniques, XII (2005), pp. 15-
82.
“Livno (N.W. Bosnia): Islamic architecture and urban development of an
Ottoman provincial capital at the very end of the Muslim world (1469-2002),”
in: Arts and crafts in the Muslim world: proceedings of the International
Congress on Islamic Arts and Crafts, Isfahan, 04-09 October 2002. Eds. Nazeih
Taleb Maarouf and Semiramis Çavuşoğlu. Istanbul: IRCICA, 2008, pp. 15-28.
“The campanile-minarets of the southern Herzegovina: a blend of Islamic and
Christian elements in the architecture of an outlying border area of the Balkans,
its spread in the past and survival until our time,” in: Centres and peripheries in
Ottoman architecture. Ed. Maximilian Hartmuth. Stockholm/Sarajevo: Cultural
Heritage without Borders, 2010, pp. 60-79.
“Koron,” in: TDV İslam Ansiklopedisi, XXVI, pp. 208-9.
Kissas, Sotirios. “Icons of a Kozani nenologion,” in: Balkan Studies, XVII/1 (1976),
93–113.
Koch, Guntram. “Christliche Monumente in Albanien,” in: Albanien zwischen Kreuz
und Halbmond. Ed. Wener Daum. Munich: Staatliches Museum für
Völkerkunde, 1998, pp. 71-102.
Klusákova, Ludá. “Between reality and stereotype: town views of the Balkans,” in:
Urban History, XXVIII/3 (2001), pp. 358-77.
Koeva, Margarita I. and Nikolaj L. Tuleškov, Părvomajstor Genčo Kănev. Sofia: Dărž.
izd. “Tehnika,” 1987.
Kojić, Branislav. Stara gradska i seoska arhitektura u Srbiji. Belgrade: Prosveta, 1949.
252
Koller, Markus and Arifa Ramović, “Die Integration eines ägyptischen Händlers in
Sarajevo in der zweiten Hälfte des 18. Jahrhunderts,” in: Jahrbücher für
Geschichte und Kultur Südosteuropas, III (2001), pp. 149-57.
Kolovos, Elias. “A town for the besiegers: social life and marriage in Ottoman Candia
outside Candia (1650-1669),” in: The Eastern Mediterranean under Ottoman
rule, pp. 103-75.
Koneski, Blaže. Towards the Macedonian Renaissance: Macedonian Textbooks of the
nineteenth century. Skopje: Institute of National History, 1961.
Koniordos, Vasileios and Philippos Oreopoulos, “Heptapyrgion. Thessaloniki, Greece,”
in: Secular medieval architecture in the Balkans 1300-1500 and its preservation.
Eds. Slobodan Ćurčić and Evangelia Hadjitryphonos. Thessaloniki: Aimos,
1997, pp. 192-5.
Konuk, Neval. Yunanistan’da Osmanlı mimarisi. Ankara: SAM, 2010.
Ќornakov, Dimitar. Petre Garkata. Skopje: Gjurgja, 1998.
Kornrumpf, Hans-Jürgen. Osmanische Bibliographie: mit besonderer Berücksichtigung
der Türkei in Europa. Leiden: Brill, 1973, pp. 199-203.
Kostof, Spiro. “The architect in the Middle Ages, East and West,” in: The architect:
chapters in the history of the profession. Ed. Spiro Kostof. Oxford: University
Press, 1977, pp. 59-95.
Koukodis, Asterios. Studies on the Vlachs. Thessalonikē: Zētros, 2003.
Kovačević, Ešref (tr.). Muhimme defteri: dokumenti o našim krajima. Sarajevo:
Orientalni Institut, 1985.
Kreiser, Klaus. “Über einige Eigenschaften osmanischer Inschriften,” in: Prilozi za
orijentalnu filologiju, XXX (1980) pp. 279-87.
Kreševljaković, Hamdija. “Prilozi povijesti bosanskih gradova pod turskom upravom,”
in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, II (1951), pp. 115-45.
“Ćefilema sarajevskih kršćana iz 1788 godine,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu
filologiju, III/IV (1953), pp. 195-214.
“Esnafi i obrti u Bosni i Hercegovini” [1935/1951], in: Izabrana djela, II.
Sarajevo: IP “Veselin Masleša,” 1991, pp. 7-384.
“Sahat-kule u Bosni i Hercegovini: prilog za studij konzervacije,” in: Izabrana
djela, II, pp. 493-506.
Kris, Ernst and Otto Kurz, Legend, myth, and magic in the image of the artist: a
historical experiment. Tr. Alastair Laing. New Haven: Yale University Press,
1979.
253
Kristeller, Paul Oskar. “‘Creativity’ and ‘tradition’,” in: Journal of the History of Ideas,
XLIV/1 (1983), pp. 105-13.
Kuban, Doğan. “Les mosquées à coupoles a base hexagonale,” in: Beiträge zur
Kunstgeschichte Asiens: in Memoriam Ernst Diez. Istanbul: İstanbul Üniversitesi
Edebiyat Fakültesi Sanat Tarihi Enstitüsü, 1963, pp. 35-47.
Kubler, George. The art and architecture of ancient America: the Mexican, Maya, and
Andean peoples. Baltimore: Penguin, 1962.
The Shape of time: remarks on the history of things. New Haven: Yale
University Press, 1965.
Studies in Ancient American and European art. Ed. Thomas F. Reese. New
Haven: Yale University Press, 1985.
Kumbaracı-Bogoyeviç, Lidiya. Üsküp'te Osmanlı mimari eserleri. Tr. Suat Engüllü.
Istanbul: Mas Matbaacılık, 2008.
Kuniholm, Peter Ian and Cecil L. Striker. “Dendrochronological investigations in the
Aegean and neighboring regions, 1983-1986,” in: Journal of Field Archaeology,
XIV/4 (1987), pp. 385-98.
Kunt, Metin İ. “Ethnic-regional (cins) solidarity in the seventeenth century Ottoman
establishment,” in: International Journal of Middle East Studies, V/3 (1974), pp.
233–9.
Kyriakidou-Nestoros, Alke. “Folk art in Greek Macedonia,” in: Balkan Studies, IV
(1963), pp. 15-36.
Kukuljević-Sakcinski, Ivan. Slovnik umjetnikah jugoslavenskih. Zagreb: Lj. Gaj, 1858.
Lawless, Richard I. “The economy and landscapes of Thessaly during Ottoman rule,”
in: An Historical Geography of the Balkans. Ed. Francis W. Carter. London:
Academic Press, 1977, pp. 501-33.
Lazaliska, Sneška. Hristijanskite spomenici na kulturata vo Skopje i Skopsko. Skopje:
Muzej na Grad Skopje, 2000.
Leake, William Martin. Travels in Northern Greece, 4 vols. London: Rodwell, 1835.
Lianos, Nikolaos. “‘Castello da Mare’. Methoni, Greece,” in: Secular medieval
architecture in the Balkans 1300-1500 and its preservation. Eds. Slobodan
Ćurčić and Evangelia Hadjitryphonos. Thessaloniki: Aimos, 1997, pp. 140-2.
Lindner, Rudi Paul. Nomads and Ottomans in medieval Anatolia. Bloomington:
Research Institute for Inner Asian Studies, 1983.
Lory, Bernard. Le sort de l'héritage ottoman en Bulgarie: l'exemple des villes bulgares,
1878-1900. Istanbul: Editions Isis, 1985.
254
Lovrenović, Ivan. Bosnien und Herzegowina: eine Kulturgeschichte. Vienna: Folio,
1998.
Lowry, Heath W. Studies in Defterology: Ottoman society in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. Istanbul: Isis Press, 1992.
The shaping of the Ottoman Balkans, 1350-1550: the conquest, settlement &
infrastructural development of Northern Greece. Istanbul: Bahçeşehir University
Publications, 2008.
Macdermott, Mercia. A History of Bulgaria, 1393-1885. London: George Allen &
Unwin, 1962.
Madran, Emre. Osmanlı imparatorluğu’nun klasik çağlarında onarım alanının
örgütlenmesi, 16.-18. yüzyıllar. Ankara: ODTÜ, 2004.
Maginnis, Hayden B.J. “In search of an artist,” in: The Cambridge Companion to
Giotto. Eds. Anne Derbes and Mark Sandona. Cambridge: University Press,
2004, pp. 10-31.
Maguire, Henry. The icons of their bodies: saints and their images in Byzantium.
Princeton: University Press, 1996.
Banu Mahir, “Saray nakkaşhanesinin ünlü ressamı Şah Kulu ve eserleri,” in: Topkapı
Sarayı Müzesi Yıllık, I (1986), pp. 113-130.
“Osmanlı sanatında saz üslubundan anlaşılan,” in: Topkapı Sarayı Müzesi Yıllık,
II (1987), pp. 123-140.
Makuljević, Nenad. “The trade zone as the cultural space: traders, icons and the crosscultural
transfer at the Adriatic frontiers in early modern times”, in: 11th
Mediterranean Research Meeting. Florence: European University Institute, 2009
(CD-Rom).
Malcolm, Noel. Kosovo: a short history. London: Macmillan, 1998.
Manević, Zoran. “Novija Srpska Arhitektura,” in: Srpska Arhitektura 1900-1970. Ed.
Zoran Manević. Belgrade: Muzej Savremene Umetnosti, 1972, pp. 7-38.
Margaritoff, Michael. “Das Rila-Kloster in Bulgarien: Der Versuch einer historischen
und stilistischen Eınordnung,” dissertation (Univ. Kaiserslautern), 1979.
Mazalić, Đoko. “Nekoliko starih slika,” in: Glasnik Zemaljskog Muzeja, LIV (1942),
pp. 207-40.
Slikarska umjetnost u Bosni i Hercegovini u tursko doba, 1500-1878. Sarajevo:
“Veselin Masleša,” 1965.
Leksikon umjetnika : slikara, vajara, graditelja, zlatara, kaligrafa i drugih koj su
radili u Bosni i Hercegovini. Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1967.
255
McKay, Ian. “Evliya Çelebi’s account of Anavarin,” in: A historical and economic
geography of Ottoman Greece: the southwestern Morea in the 18th century. Eds.
Fariba Zarinebaf, John Bennet, and Jack L. Davis. Athens: American School of
Classical Studies, 2005, pp. 215-22.
Medaković, Dejan. “Die griechisch-serbischen Verbindungen in der Kunst der neueren
Zeit,” in: Proceedings of the fifth Greek-Serbian symposium. Thessaloniki: Inst.
for Balkan Studies, 1991, pp. 185-199.
Serbischer Barock. Vienna: Böhlau, 1991.
Megas, Georgios A. Die Ballade von der Arta-Brücke: eine vergleichende
Untersuchung. Thessaloniki: Institute for Balkan Studies, 1976.
Mehmed Süreyya, Sicill-i Osmanî. Ed. Nuri Akbayar. Tr. Seyit Ali Kahraman. Istanbul:
Türkiye Ekonomik ve Toplumsal Tarih Vakfı, 1996.
Meinecke, Michael. “Zur sogenannten Anonymität der Künstler im islamischen
Mittelalter,” in: Künstler und Werkstatt in den orientalischen Gesellschaften. Ed.
Adalbert J. Gail. Graz: Akadem. Druck-u. Verlagsanstalt, 1982, pp. 31-45.
Mihajlović, Christophor. “Das Popovopolje in der Hercegovina und die
Merkwürdigkeiten von Zavala,” in: Wissenschaftliche Mittheilungen aus
Bosnien und der Hercegovina, I (1893), pp. 349-75.
Moutafov, Emmanuel. “Post-Byzantine hermeneiai zographikes in the eighteenth
century and their dissemination in the Balkans during the nineteenth century,”
in: Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, XXX/1 (2006), pp. 69–79.
Moutsopoulos, Nikolaos. “Oi prodromoi tōn prōtōn ellinon tehnikōn epostēmonōn:
koudaraioi makedones kai ēpeirōtes maistores,” in: Prōtoi Ellines technikoi
epistēmones periodou apeleutherōsē. Eds. Paulos Kyriazēs and M. Nikolinakos.
Athens: Techniko epimelētērio Hellados, 1976, pp. 353–433, 449–53.
Kastoria: Greek traditional architecture. Tr. Philip Ramp. Athens: Melissa,
1990.
Mujezinović, Mehmed. “Diplome kaligrafa Islamovića u Gazi Husrev-begovoj
biblioteci u Sarajevo,” in: Anali Gazi Husrev-begove biblioteke, I (1972), pp. 91-
4 (plus three plates).
Islamska epigrafika u Bosni i Hercegovini, 3 vols. Sarajevo: “Veselin Masleša,”
1974-82.
Ferhad-pašina vakufnama iz 995 (1587) godine. Banja Luka: Bošnjačka
zajednica kulture “Preporod,” 2005 [1973].
Mujić, Muhamed A. “Arapski epigraf iz Ravella potječe iz Ljubuškog,” in: Prilozi za
orijentalnu filologiju, III/IV (1976), pp. 191-202.
256
Mula Mustafa Ševki Bašeskija. Ljetopis (1746-1804). Tr. Mehmed Mujezinović.
Sarajevo: Veselin Masleša, 1987².
Mustafa Ali [Gelibolulu], Hattatların ve kitap sanatçılarının destanları (Menakıb-ı
hünerveran). Tr. Müjgan Cunbur. Ankara: Kültür ve Turizm Bakanlığı
Yayınları, 1982.
Mutafčieva, Vera (ed.). Rumelijski delnici i praznici ot XVII vek. Sofia: Izdatelstvo na
Otečestvenija Front, 1978.
Mutapčić, Snježana. “Pola milenija zidnog slikarstva Sarajeva,” in: Prilozi historiji
Sarajeva: radovi sa znanstvenog simpozija Pola milenija Sarajeva. Ed. Dževad
Juzbašic. Sarajevo: Institut za istoriju, 1997, pp. 457-66.
Nagy, Márta. “Νικολαος Ιωαννου Ταλη‘ορος (Jankovicz Miklós) ca 1750-1817 and his
wood-carver's workshop in Eger,” in: Balkan Studies, XXX/1 (1989), pp. 43-66.
Nametak, Fehim. Fadil-paša Šerifović: pjesnik i epigrafičar Bosne. Sarajevo:
Orijentalni Institut, 1980.
Nayır, Zeynep. Osmanlı mimarlığında Sultan Ahmet Külliyesi ve sonrası. Istanbul: İTU
Mimarlık Fakültesi Baskı Atölyesi, 1975.
Necipoğlu[-Kafadar], Gülru. “Plans and models in 15th- and 16th-century Ottoman
architectural practice,” in: Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians,
XL/3 (1986), pp. 224-43.
“From International Timurid to Ottoman: a change in taste in sixteenth-century
ceramic tiles,” in: Muqarnas, VII (1991), pp. 136-70.
The Topkapı scroll: geometry and ornament in Islamic architecture. Santa
Monica: Getty Center for the History of Art and the Humanities, 1995.
“Creation of a national genius: Sinan and the historiography of “classical”
Ottoman Architecture,” in: Muqarnas, XXIV (2007), pp. 141-84.
Age of Sinan: architectural culture in the Otoman Empire. Princeton: University
Pres, 2005.
Nikić, Ljubomir. “Džamije u Beogradu,” in: Godišnjak grada Beograda, V (1958), pp.
151-206.
Norman, York. “An Islamic city? Sarajevo’s Islamization and economic development,
1461-1601,” Ph.D. dissertation (Georgetown University), 2005.
Oğuz, Mustafa. “Girit (Resmo) şeriyye sicil defterleri (1061 - 1067),” dissertation
(Marmara University, Istanbul), 2002.
O’Kane, Bernard. “Monumentality in Mamluk and Mongol art,” in: Art History, XIX/4
(1996), pp. 499-522.
@̃
257
Orhonlu, Cengiz. “Town architects,” in: Fifth International Congress of Turkish Art.
Ed. G. Fehér. Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1978, pp. 705-9.
Ousterhout, Robert. “Ethnic identity and cultural appropriation in early Ottoman
architecture,” in: Muqarnas, XII (1995), pp. 48-62.
Master builders of Byzantium. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.
Özergin, M. Kemal and Hasan Kaleşi and İsmail Eren, “Prizren kitabeleri,” in: Vakıflar
Dergisi, VII (1968), pp. 75-96.
[Paissij of Hilendar] tr. Athanase Popov, “L'histoire slavo-bulgare de Paisij de Hilendar:
traduction et commentaire,” DREA (Inalco), 2005.
Palairet, Michael. “The migrant workers of the Balkans and their villages (18th Century
–World War II),” in: Handwerk in Mittel- und Südosteuropa: Mobilität,
Vermittlung und Wandel im Handwerk des 18. bis 20. Jahrhunderts. Ed. Klaus
Roth. Munich: Südosteuropa-Gesellschaft, 1987, pp. 23-46.
Pamfilij [Monah], Žitie na prepodobnia naš otec Pimen Zografski. Sofia: Ljubomodrie,
2007.
Pamuk, Şevket. A monetary history of the Ottoman Empire. Cambridge: University
Press, 2000.
Pantelić, Bratislav. The Architecture of Dečani and the role of Archbishop Danilo II.
Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 2002.
Papageorgiou, Petros N. “Ai Serrai kai ta proasteia, ta peri tas Serras kai ē monē
Iōannou tou Prodromou,” in: Byzantinische Zeitschrift, III (1894), pp. 225-329.
[Papasynadinos of Serres,] Conseils et mémoires de Synadinos, prêtre de Serrès en
Macédoine (XVIIe siècle). Ed. and tr. Paolo Odorico. Paris: Editions de
l'Association “Pierre Belon,” 1996.
Pašić, Amir. Islamic architecture in Bosnia and Hercegovina. Istanbul: IRCICA, 1994.
Paskaleva, Virginia. “Die Entwicklung des Handwerks und die kulturelle
Vermittlungsfunktion von Handwerkern bei der ‘Europäisierung’ Bulgariens im
19. Jahrhundert,” in: Handwerk in Mittel- und Südosteuropa. Ed. Klaus Roth.
München: Südosteuropa-Gesellschaft, 1987, pp. 129-35.
Paton, Andrew Archibald. Servia, Youngest Member of the European Family, or, A
Residence in Belgrade and Travels in the Highlands and Woodlands of the
Interior, during the years 1843 and 1844. London: Longman, Brown, Green,
and Longmans, 1845.
Pay, Salih. “Baş Mimar Hacı Ivaz Paşa,” in: Bir Masaldı Bursa. Ed. Engin Yenal.
Istanbul: Yapi Kredi Yayinlari, 1996, pp. 177-85.
Péew, Ch. D. Alte Häuser in Plovdiv, Berlin: Kupferberg, 1943.
258
Pepper, Simon. “Ottoman military architecture in the early gunpowder era: a
reassessment”, in: City walls: the urban enceinte in global perspective. Ed.
James D. Tracy. Cambridge: University Press, 2000, pp. 282-313.
Petkova, Eleonora. Rezbata vo makedonskata kukja, od XIX I početokot na XX vek.
Skopje: Muzej na Makedonija, 1998.
Petković, Sreten. Zidno slikarstvo na području Pećke patrijaršije: 1557-1614. Novi
Sad: Matica Srpska, Odeljenje za Likovne Umetnosti, 1965.
“Art and patronage in Serbia during the early period of Ottoman rule (1450–
1600),” in: Byzantinische Forschungen, XVI (1991), pp. 401-14.
Petronitis, Argyris. Arcadia: Greek traditional architecture. Tr. Philipp Ramp. Athens:
Melissa, 1986.
Peyfuss, Max Demeter. “Gibt es eine aromunische Kunst?” in: Studien zur rumänischen
Sprache und Literatur, 6 (1984), pp. 29-41.
“Voskopoja und Wien: österreichisch-albanische Beziehungen um 1800,” in:
Albanien-Symposion 1984: Referate der Tagung [etc.]. Ed. Klaus Beitl. Kittsee:
Österreichisches Museum für Volkskunde, Ethnographisches Museum Schloss
Kittsee, 1986, pp. 117-32.
Popescu, Carmen. Le style national Roumain: construire une nation a travers
l’architecture. Rennes: Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2004.
Popova, Elena. “Samokovski ikoni v selata iz Caribrodsko,” in: Niš i Vizantija, III. Niš:
Prosveta, 2005, pp. 377-82.
Popovic, Alexandre. “La Qâdiriyya/Kadiriyye dans les Balkans: une vue d'ensemble,”
in: Journal of the History of Sufism, I/II (2000), pp. 167-211.
Popović, Toma. “Kad je sedište Hercegovačkog sandzaka premešteno iz Foče u
Plevlja,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu filologiju, X/XI (1961), pp. 267-71.
“Spisak hercegovačkih namesnika u XVI veku,” in: Prilozi za orijentalnu
filologiju, XVI/XVII (1970), pp. 93-101.
Pouqueville, F.C.H.L. Travels in Epirus, Albania, Macedonia, and Thessaly. London:
Richard Phillips and Co., [1805] 1820.
Prijatelj Pavičić, Ivana. “Contributo alla ricerca delle pale d’altare di Baldassare
D’Anna nei conventi francescani della Dalmazia, Quarnaro e Bosnia,” in: Ikon,
III/3 (2010), pp. 327-42.
Puljevski, Đorđe. Rečnik od tri jezika. Belgrade: Državna Štamparija, 1875.
259
Rabbat, Nasser O. “The ideological significance of the Dār al-Adl in the medieval
Islamic Orient,” in: International Journal of Middle East Studies, XXVII/1
(1995), pp. 3-28.
Reindl-Kiel, Hedda. “‘On Monday the bread of the baker Malco has to written’:
property, maintenance, market and crime in the early 17th-century court of
Küstendil,” in: Mélanges Prof. Machiel Kiel. Ed. Abdeljelil Temimi. Zaghouan:
Fondation Temimi, 1999, pp. 429-55.
Renda, Günsel. Batılılaşma döneminde Türk resim sanatı, 1700-1850. Ankara:
Hacettepe Üniversitesi Yayınları, 1977.
“Westernisms in Ottoman art: wall paintings in 19th century houses,” in: The
Ottoman House. Proceedings of the Amasya Conference, 24-27 September 1996.
Eds. Stanley Ireland and William Bechhoefer. London: British Institute of
Archaeology at Ankara, 1998, pp. 103-9 (plus plates).
Renner, Heinrich. Durch Bosnien und die Hercegovina kreuz und quer: Wanderungen.
Berlin: Reimer, 18972.
Restle, Marcell. “Bauplannung und Baugesinnung unter Mehmet II. Fâtih,” in:
Pantheon, XXXIX (1981), pp 361-7.
Riefstahl, Rudolf M. “Early Turkish tile revetments in Edirne,” in: Ars Islamica, IV
(1937), pp. 249-81.
Roškovska, Anna. Văzroždenska dekorativna stenopis ot Samokovski zografi. Sofia:
Izdatelstvo Bălgarski Hudožnik, 1982.
Roxburgh, David. Prefacing the image: the writing of art history in sixteenth-century
Iran. Leiden: Brill, 2001.
Šabanovič, Zaim (sic, Hazim). “Bosanski namjesnik Ferhad-beg Vuković-Desisalić,”
in: Zbornik Filozofskog Fakulteta [Belgrade], VI/1 (1957), pp. 113-27.
Saïtas, Yanis. Kastoria: Greek traditional architecture. Athens: Melissa, 1990
Schaff, Philip and Henry Wace (eds.). Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, XIV. Grand
Rapids: Eerdmans, 1955.
Sezgin, Halûk. “Makedonya’daki Türk mimari eserlerinden örnekler,“ Doçentlik tezi
(Devlet Güzel Sanatlar Akademisi, Istanbul), 1973.
Shai, Donna. “A Kurdish Jewish variant of the ballad of “the Bridge of Arta”,” in:
Association for Jewish Studies Review, I (1976), pp. 303-10.
Sinan’s autobiographies: see Crane and Akin (eds.)
Sönmez, Zeki. Başlangıçtan 16. yüzyıla kadar Anadolu Türk-İslâm mimarisinde
sanatçılar. Ankara: Türk Tarih Kurumu Basımevi, 19952.
260
Sörries, Reiner. Von Kaisers Gnaden: protestantische Kirchenbauten im Habsburger
Reich. Vienna: Böhlau, 2008.
Stanley, Tim. “Shumen as a centre of Qur'an production in the 19th century,” in: M.
Uğur Derman armağanı. Ed. Irvin Cemil Schick. Istanbul: Sabancı University,
2000, pp. 483-512.
“After Müstakim-zade,” in: Islamic art in the 19th century: tradition, innovation,
and eclecticism. Eds. Doris Behrens-Abouseif and Stephen Vernoit. Leiden:
Brill, 2006, pp. 98-108.
Subotić, Gojko. Ohridska slikarska škola XV veka. Belgrade: Filozofski Fakultet u
Beogradu, 1980.
Šuput, Marica. Spomenici srpskog crkvenog graditeljstva XVI - XVII vek. Beograd:
Institut za Istoriju Umetnosti, 1991.
Tanındı, Zeren. “An illuminated manuscript of the wandering scholar Ibn al-Jazari and
the wandering illuminators between Tabriz, Shiraz, Herat, Bursa, Edirne,
Istanbul in the fifteenth century,” in: Art Turc –Turkish Art, 10th International
Congress of Turkish Art [etc.]. Ed. François Déroche. Geneva: Fondation Max
van Berchem, 1999, pp. 261 –71.
Tarih-i Câmi-i Nuruosmânî (ed. Ali Öngül) in: Vakıflar Dergisi, XXIV (1994), pp. 127-
46.
Tezcan, Baki. The second Ottoman Empire: political and social transformation in the
early modern world. Cambridge: University Press, 2010.
The ‘Painter’s manual’ of Dionysius of Fourna. Tr. Paul Hetherington. London:
Sagittarius Press, 1974.
Todorov, Nikolai. Kolyo Ficheto. Sofia: Foreign Languages Press, 1966.
Todorović, Jelena. An Orthodox festival book in the Habsburg Empire: Zaharija
Orfelin's Festive greeting to Mojsej Putnik (1757). Hampshire: Ashgate, 2006.
Todić, Branislav and Danica Popović (eds.). Manastir Morača. Belgrade: SANU, 2006.
Tomovski, Krum. “Veleškite majstori i zografi vo XIX i XX vek: pregled na
tvorčestvo,” in: Kulturno nasledstvo, V (1959), pp. 51-9.
Makedonskite majstori-graditeli od devetnaesettiot vek. Skopje: Macedonian
Academy of Sciences and Arts, 2006.
Trifunović, Lazar. Kunstdenkmäler in Jugoslawien, I. Munich/Berlin: Deutscher
Kunstverlag, 1981.
Truhelka, Ćiro. “Gazi Husrefbeg, njegov život i njegovo doba”, in: Glasnik Zemaljskog
Muzeja Bosne i Hercegovine, XXIV (1912), pp. 91-232.
261
“Pabirci iz jednog jajačkog sidžila,” in: Glasnik Zemaljskog Muzeja, XXX
(1918), pp. 157-75.
Turan, Şerafettin. “Osmanlı teşkilatında hassa mimarları,” in: Tarih Araştırmaları
Dergisi, I/1 (1963), pp. 159-200.
Turczynski, Emanuel. Die deutsch-griechischen Kulturbeziehungen bis zur Berufung
König Ottos. Munich: Oldenbourg, 1959.
Turski dokumenti za makedonskata istorija, V (1827-1839). Skopje: Institut za
Nacionalna Istorija, 1958.
Turski dokumenti za istorijata na Makedonija XI/1: opširen popisen defter za vakafite
vo Paša sandžakot od 1568/69 godina. Tr. Aleksandar Stojanovski. Skopje:
Arhiv na Makedonija, 2007.
Tursun Bey, Fatih'in tarihi = Tarih-i Ebul Feth. Tr. Ahmet Tezbaşar. Istanbul: Kervan
Kitapçılık, 1973.
Uluçay, Mustafa Çağatay. “Bayazid II. in âilesi,” in: Tarih Dergisi, X/14 (1959), pp.
105-24.
Ünver, Süheyl. “Şumnu’da Türk hattaları ve eserleri,” in: Belleten, 185 (1983), pp. 31-
6.
Uzunçarşılı, İsmail Hakkı. “Osmanlı sarayında Ehl-i hiref (Sanatkârlar) defteri,” in:
Belgeler, XI/15 (1986), pp. 23-76.
Vakufname iz Bosne: see Gazić.
Vansina, Jan. Oral tradition as history. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985
Vasari, Giorgio. Le Vite de' più eccellenti architetti, pittori, et scultori italiani, da
Cimabue a' tempi nostri. Florence: Lorenzo Torrentino, 1550.
Vasiliev, Asen. Bălgarski văzroždenski majstori: živopisci, rezbari, stroiteli. Sofia:
Izdat. “Nauka i Izkustvo,” 1965.
Veïkou, Despoina and Danae Nomikou-Rizou. Siatista: Greek traditional architecture.
Tr. Philipp Ramp. Athens: Melissa, 1990.
Vryonis, Speros. “The Byzantine legacy in the formal culture of the Balkan peoples,”
in: The Byzantine tradition after the Fall of Constantinople. Ed. John Yiannias.
Charlottesville: University of Virginia, 1991, pp. 17-44.
Vucinich, Wayne S. “Transhumance,” in: Yugoslavia and its historians: understanding
the Balkan wars of the 1990s. Eds. Norman M. Naimark and Holly Case.
Stanford: University Press, 2003, pp. 66-90.
Wace, A. J. B. and M. S. Thompson. The nomads of the Balkans: an account of life and
customs among the Vlachs of northern Pindus. London: Methuen & Co., 1914.
ŀ
262
Wachtel, Andrew Baruch. Making a nation, breaking a nation: literature and cultural
politics in Yugoslavia. Stanford: University Press, 1998.
Watenpaugh, Heghnar Zeitlian. The image of an Ottoman city: imperial architecture
and urban experience in Aleppo in the 16th and 17th centuries. Leiden: Brill,
2004.
Weigand, Gustav. Die Aromunen: ethnographisch-philologisch-historische
Untersuchungen über das Volk der sogenannten Makedo-Romanen oder
Zinzaren, 2 vols. Leipzig: Barth, 1894.
Wenzel, Marian. “Bosnian and Herzegovinian tombstones: who made them and why,”
in: Südostforschungen, XXI (1962), pp. 102-43.
Wessel, Klaus. “Pictores graeci: über den Austausch künstlerischer Motive zwischen
Orthodoxie und Katholizismus in Montenegro,” in: Jugoslawien:
Integrationsprobleme in Geschichte und Gegenwart. Ed. Klaus-Detlev
Grothusen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1984, pp. 98-104.
Vătăşianu, Virgil. “Roumanie,” in: Actes du premier congres international des etudes
balkaniques et sud-est europeennes, II. Sofia: Bulgarian Academy of Sciences,
1969, pp. 745-66.
Woodhead, Christine. “Nergisī,” in: EI2, VIII, p. 6.
Yapar, Berrin. “Yunanistan'daki Türk eserlerinde kitabeler (Dedeağaç, Dimetoka,
İskeçe, Gümülcine, Selanik, Kavala, Yenice-Karasu),” MA thesis (Mimar Sinan
University), 2007.
Yerasimos, Stefanos. “15.-16. yüzyıl Osmanlı mimarları: bir prosografya denemesi”, in:
Afife Batur’a Armağan. Eds. Deniz Mazlum et al. Istanbul: Literatür Yayıncılık,
2005, pp. 37-62.
Začinović, Jusuf. “Zidne dekoracije Ferhadije džamije u Sarajevu,” in: Naše starine,
XIII (1972), pp. 221-31.
Zarinebaf, Fariba and John Bennet and Jack L. Davis, A historical and economic
geography of Ottoman Greece: the southwestern Morea in the 18th century. Athens:
American School of Classical Studies, 2005.
263
ILLUSTRATIONS
Ill. 1/2. The “village” of Galičnik in the area north of Debar (West Macedonia), home to
many prominent artists and workshops from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries
(photos by author, June 2007).
264
Ill. 3. Monastery of Sveti Jovan Bigorski, north of Debar; iconostasis from ca. 1830 by
workshop of Petre Filipovič Garkata (photo by author, June 2007).
Ill. 4. Monastery of St John the Baptist (Bigorski), north of Debar; self-representation of
wood-carvers in iconostasis (photo by author, June 2007).
265
Ill. 5. The “pečalbar belt” (Palairet) in the late Ottoman Balkans (map adapted from
maps-for-free.com)
Ill. 6. Prominent home locales of late Ottoman period artists and some principal targets
of their work (adapted from maps-for-free.com)
266
Ill. 7. Movements of builders’ teams in nineteenth-century Serbia (from Kojić, Stara
gradska i seoska arhitektura, p. 13).
267
Ill. 8. (top left) Self-portrait of Mutul at Bordeşti, fresco (1699; after Vătăşianu,
“Roumanie,” p. 758)
Ill. 9. (top right) Self-portraits of Mino, Marko, and Teofil at Tešovo, fresco (1880s?;
after Vasilev, Majstori, p. 293)
Ill. 10. (bottom left) Self-portrait of Petăr Valkov at Varvara, fresco (1845; after
Vasilev, Majstori, p. 441).
Ill. 11. (bottom right) Self-portrait of Petăr Valkov Goljamo Belovo, fresco (1852; after
Lory, Le sort de l'héritage ottoman, p. 142).
268
Ill. 12. Zahari Zograf, self-portrait in Bačkovo monastery, fresco (after Boschkov,
Monumentale Wandmalerei, p. 148).
Ill. 13. The construction of the Morača monastery church (13th century) as represented
in an icon of St Simeon and Sava (1645) in the monastery (drawing by Petković,
reproduced from Todić and Popović (eds.), Manastir Morača, n. p.)
269
Ill. 14. Builders of the Šop ethnicity from the Pirot area in the second half of the
nineteenth century, drawing (from Kanitz, Königreich Serbien, III, p. 98).
Ill. 15. “Tsintsar” (Vlach? Macedonian?) masons in Serbia in the 1850s or 60s, drawing
(from Kanitz, Reisestudien, p. 335).
270
Ill. 16. The Yedikulle (Eptapyrgio) citadel at Thessalonikē, ca. 1430 [?] (plan after
informational material on site).
Ill. 17. Pylos (SW Peloponnesus), plan of fortress with hexagonal Ottoman citadel with
protruding bastions, ca. 1570 (after Zarinebaf et al., A historical and economic
geography, p. 259).
271
Ill. 18. The “standard” plan of sixteenth-century mosques in Bosnia and elsewhere:
Foča, Alaca Câmi‘, 1550/1 (after Pašić, Islamic architecture, p. 58).
Ill. 19. Foča, Alaca Câmi‘, inscription “in celî style of Karahisârî” (Evliyâ Çelebi; see
ch. 3.3.1), 1550/1 (after Pašić, Islamic architecture, p. 58).
272
Ill. 20. Foča, Alaca Câmi‘,1550/1, decoration on the upper part of the mihrâb (after
Andrejević, Aladža džamija u Foči, p. 39).
Ill. 21. Sarajevo, mosque of Ferhâd Beğ, structure of ornamental patterns of murals by
Jusuf Začinović (repr. from Andrejević, Islamska monumentalna umetnost, p. 92).
273
Ill. 22. Shkodër, Kurşumlu Câmi‘, 1773/4 (after Kiel, Ottoman architecture in Albania,
n. p.).
Ill. 23. Serres, Zincirli Câmi‘ (ca. 1590?), section, (after Brouskari [ed.], Ottoman
architecture in Greece, p. 286).
274
Ill. 24. Tetovo, Alaca Câmi‘ (1833/4), section, (drawing after Sezgin, “Makedonya’daki
Türk mimari”).
Ill. 25. Tetovo, Alaca Câmi‘, section showing concealed dome (drawing after
İbrahimgil, “Kalkandelen”).
275
Ill. 26. Voskopojë, St Michael (1722), section and ground plan: 1. South porch, 2.
narthex, 3. naos, 4. apse, 5. interior domes (after Koch, “Christliche Monumente,” p.
94).
Ill. 27. Mlado Nagoričane, St George (16th ct.?), axonometric section (drawing by Šuput
repr. from Ćurčić, “Byzantine legacy,” ill. 25).
276
Ill. 28. Mlado Nagoričane, St George (16th ct.?), drawing of south façade window (after
Šuput, Spomenici, p. 150).
Ill. 29. Novo Hopovo monastery church (1576), ground plan (drawing by Šuput after
Ćurčić, “Byzantine legacy,” ill. 19).
277
Ill. 30/31. Mystras, St Nicholas, 17th ct., apse and interior (photos by author, June 2011).
278
Ill. 32/33. Kelefa, St Basil (1750s), representation of the Ottoman kadı and the Venetian
judge and crowds in local dress (photos by author, June 2011).
279
Ill. 34. Brezovo polje, Azîziye mosque, after 1863; destroyed in 1993 (axonometric
drawing, reproduced from Hadžimuhamedović, “Turski neoklasicizam Azizije
džamije,” p. 256).
Ill. 35. Mostar, mosque of Karagöz Mehmed Beğ: drawings of simplified mukarnas
hood on portal, mukarnas column capital, and pointed-arched tympana (after Pašić,
Islamic architecture, p. 176).
280
Ill. 36. “Project” for Orthodox church at Sarajevo by Andreja Damjanov (after
Tomovski, Makedonskite majstori-graditeli, p. 29).
Ill. 37. Sketch for icon or fresco by Damjan Jankulov (reproduced from Hadžieva,
Arhitekt Andreja Damjanov, p. 11).
Ill. 38. Plan for mosque to be built with state funds in Sjenica (West Serbia), 1869
(published in Ağanoğlu et al. [eds.], Osmanlı belgelerinde Bosna-Hersek, p. 502).
281
Ill. 39. Map showing concentration of provincial mi‘mârs (according to table 4) in
Süleymân-era boundaries, roughly coinciding with those at the time of Evliyâ’s travels
in the region (map adapted from http://www.zonu.com/images/0X0/2010-01-03-
11581/The-Ottoman-advance-in-Europe-and-Asia-Minor-1451-1566.jpg).
Ill. 40. Methonē, burc; ca. 1500 and/or 1530s (photo by author; June 2011).
282
Ill. 41. Kastoria, Tsiatsapas mansion,wooden and painted decoration on third floor,
1798, drawing (from Moutsopoulos, Kastoria, p. 61).
283
Ill. 42/43. Komotinē, ‘imâret, ca. 1375 (photos by author, March 2011).
284
Ill. 44. Komotinē, Yeni Câmi‘, ca. 1610 [?], interior with tiles from ca. 1590 [?] (photo
by author, March 2011).
Ill. 45. Komotinē, Yeni Câmi‘, tiled lunette in porch (photo by author; March 2011).
Ill. 46. Komotinē, Yeni Câmi‘, painted base of wooden mahfil platform.
285
Ill. 47. Examples of Herzegovinian mosques with square-based minarets (after Pašić,
Islamic architecture, p. 191).
Ill. 48. Mostar, mosque of Nasûh Ağa (Vučijaković), ca. 1555 (?), details of “foreign”
forms (after Pašić, Islamic architecture, p. 193).
286
Ill. 49/50. Two sheets with designs for calligraphy in the Gâzî Hüsrev Beğ mosque (ca.
1885) by Râkim Efendi Islamović (d. 1895) (after Mujezinović, “Diplome kaligrafa
Islamovića”).