Born in Karbala, Iraq, in 1935, Hamid al-Attar actually trained as a lawyer before embarking on a career as an artist. Al-Attar graduated in 1955 from the University of Baghdad with a law degree,...
Written by
MYSA KAFIL-HUSSAIN
Born in Karbala, Iraq, in 1935, Hamid al-Attar actually trained as a lawyer before embarking on a career as an artist. Al-Attar graduated in 1955 from the University of Baghdad with a law degree, and then proceeded to pursue artistic training in Baghdad, Germany and Egypt, where he received a Diploma in Art Criticism from Cairo University.[1]
Whilst studying art in Baghdad, he was taught by the renowned artist Atta Sabri, and worked alongside peers such as Kadhim Haydar, Muhammed Muhraddin and Idan al-Sheikhly.[2] In this time, he was also a co-founding member of the Iraqi Plastic Artists Society, which was established in 1956 and exists to this day.
His early works from the 1950s caught the eyes of many, with his paintings full of city scenes, local motifs and folkloric patterns and abound with vibrancy and warmth. Being trained by master artists led al-Attar to embrace his full potential quickly and he soon found his personal style. His paintings of the Baghdad souqs and streets in the 1950s shifted in the 1960s to experimental collages of local fabrics, before moving on to explorations of mythical and historical themes from Iraqi heritage, such as Sumerian and Assyrian heroic and tragic tales – a “desire for immortality and survival…a call from the past” according to fellow artist and writer Nizar Selim.[3] Figures such as Ishtar and Gilgamesh feature heavily in his work, using a mix of painting, collage and bas-relief in a modern retelling of their stories. Historian, artist and critic Jabra Ibrahim Jabra sees in al-Attar’s explorations of Gilgamesh a struggle for “godship that cannot be attained.”[4] This may have been al-Attar’s way of creatively interpreting and visualising the endless political movements and quests for power in Iraq at the time, as well as his own personal struggles, aligning with the tales and moral lessons from ancient history.
Although he had been painting for many years, he was recognised on the national stage for the first time during the Battle Exhibition in May 1968, a politically-charged event which included 28 painters and 5 sculptors including Ismail al-Cheikhli, Nouri al-Rawi, Dia al-Azzawi and many other prominent names.[5]
His work took on greater depths, exploring complex expressions of political consciousness, humanitarianism and social concerns. Interestingly, writer Jassim Al-Assi considers this perhaps as an natural trait in al-Attar’s moral and ethical view of the world, connecting with his training and interest in law and social justice.[6] As part of this, he also interrogated class and identity politics, as well as the role of women and their suffering.
“We are living wearing death’s shroud under the wing of alleged freedom. We appear free in a very big prison cell. Fear permeates us day and night and we are always at the mercy of the visitor of death - forgive me - the dawn visitor. And from the set-backs of this kind of life, my work was born. It is important not to deceive people with smoke screens, but to shock them face on in order to stir them into action, to make them revolt against their oppressive reality.” Hamid al-Attar, 1998[7]
Both of al-Attar’s artworks in the Dalloul Collection – Untitled (1974) and Road to Palestine (1982) – are created with mixed media on board, with the range of textures, patterns and colours creating a harmonious but also chaotic vision into his creative mind. Untitled appears as a cinematic and energetic scene involving a woman being mounted by an animal or mythical beast, with her hair, limbs and fingers intertwining with the twirling, moving lines in the wind. Like much of his work, this is thought to be a scene from the epic of Gilgamesh, in which the beast may be Enkidu, the beloved friend of Gilgamesh who sometimes took the form of a bull-man. In the tale, Enkidu mated with Shamhat, a sacred temple prostitute, for many days before she then civilised and tamed him. The painted scene by al-Attar may be his interpretation of this phase of the epic story. Road to Palestine, one of al-Attar’s more political works, is an abstract exploration of the ongoing regional conflict, and possibly painted after the Sabra and Shatila massacre of Palestinians in Lebanon during that same year. Figures standing above ground appear frozen and almost stoic, whilst numerous heads and bodies stand below the ground, possibly representing the dead: imprisoned, lifeless and laced with silent sadness. It is unclear if the two figures above are Palestinians, Israelis, Lebanese or from anywhere in particular, but they stand suspended in time, upright and front-facing, just like many Sumerian statues which al-Attar undoubtedly encountered over years of exploring ancient art and mythology. As suggested by al-Assi, al-Attar’s use of colour represents what he sees in reality, expressed dynamically through the tonal subtleties and intensity of his thoughts and imagination.[8]
Al-Attar continued to exhibit inside and outside of Iraq and produced work throughout the 1980s and 1990s. In 2003, following the invasion of Iraq and the subsequent violence, one of al-Attar’s paintings was stolen from the Saddam Arts Centre along with many other artworks. Years later, it was miraculously found and delivered by artist Saadi al-Kaabi, who then handed it over to officials[9]
Following this and other initiatives to locate stolen material, the government emphasized the need for respecting the country’s heritage and restoring looted goods.
After moving to London many years before, al-Attar passed away at his home in December 2016, surrounded by his artwork. He had suffered depression for some time, and had stopped painting for roughly the last ten years of his life, having thrown himself into his work previously.[10]
Throughout his life, al-Attar’s work had a complex relationship with humanity, past and present. Whilst he used his imagination and his paintbrush as weapons to defend and speak up for others on canvas, these paintings also became almost like self-portraits, reflecting the struggles he faced himself.[11]
Notes
Sources
