[The following excerpt is taken from the eleventh chapter of D H Laven’s monumental work-in-progress ‘The Story of Forgotten Art’. In the introduction to this pioneering work he writes: ‘There is no such thing as forgotten art. There are only forgotten artists. And a hell of a lot of them too’. In this passage he examines art that has not simply been forgotten, but strategically – if not unsurprisingly - ignored by a generation of superstitious academics...]
Artists are forgotten for an assortment of reasons. Though history can be unreliable, we must not ignore the fact that it often performs its task as it should: stalking the ranks of the dead like an impassive murderer, suffocating worthless aesthetics, lopping off the heads of untalented artists and hurling their wretched reputations into the black hole of forgetfulness. I do not doubt for a moment that some artists deserve to be forgotten; history must in these cases be thanked. Nevertheless, though I am by no means inclined to resuscitate corpses simply for the sake of it – I leave such vampiric behaviour to my fellow art historians – it must also be accepted that the system of history has flaws. Things that are forgotten do not always deserve to have been so.
Yet like the traditionally facetious schoolboy, history never arrives without an excuse. ‘I have my reasons’ it tells us, suggesting with a kindly smile that these reasons are reasonable. Let me assure you – they are anything but.
I would like to begin by examining just one of these many excuses, that which idly pronounces: Some artists ask to be forgotten. In this case, history pretends to be supplying a service in respecting the wishes of the deceased. This seems to me to be rather hypocritical. Since when has history ever been interested in respect?
Artists cannot control history, thank god. They cannot barge their way into history; nor should they be able to force their way out of it. And yet, if to be remembered is a reward (which the modern world invariably tells us it is) then why should anyone bother to remember those that have specifically asked to be forgotten? With so many sad individuals hankering over a place in history (most of them artists: a self-obsessed bunch if there ever was one) ought we not to take advantage of those brave creatures who are happy to embrace the void of forgetfulness?
The answer to that is, categorically, no. No one can ask to be forgotten, in the same way that no one can ask to be remembered. The last crumbs of control must be gathered from under the table of the departed entity. The dead are dead. Wishes must not be respected. What would have been the outcome had Max Brod fulfilled the wishes of his late friend Franz Kafka? Three novels would have been burnt; the author’s lasting reputation lessened. I do not for a moment doubt that Brod’s obscene treachery was just.
And lest any readers are of the opinion that Kafka’s novels would have been better off transformed into small heaps of ash (which I do not entirely disagree with, blaming the majority of my crippling paranoia on that miserable Czechoslovakian writer) let me introduce to you another example which may yet turn your undercooked minds toward the heat of understanding. I refer to the great tombs at Khum Tash.
‘Leave us alone!’ reads a set of hieroglyphs at the centre of this ancient Egyptian treasure trove. Mingled elsewhere in this impressive group of murals can be found further threats and pleas, suggesting not only that the artists involved have a desire to be forgotten, but that this desire is so strong that they are prepared to come back from the dead to ensure that their wishes are respected.
Thus far they have got their way. Since unearthing it in 1957, art historians and archaeologists have kept this monumental discovery very quiet. Not one of the surveys of Egyptian art published since that date has mentioned the tombs, even in passing. In fact, some art historians – in a typically pitiable gesture – have taken to pretending that it doesn’t even exist. Surely such behaviour cannot be traced back solely to a question of respect for the wishes of the dead? Of course not. The operative emotion in the case of Khum Tash is not respect, but fear.
This much is certain: beneath their clinically cynical brows, academics are a relatively feckless lot. Indeed, it is a source of endless fascination to me how such intelligent people can be disastrously prone to superstition. And if my refusal to follow in their footsteps may be categorised as bravery, I assure you that it is only bravery by default. I am not by nature an especially brave person. But I am nonetheless dedicated to my profession. And therefore it is perfectly natural that I should rake over graves as willingly as the inhabitant of any horror movie. A historian who wishes to tread carefully is as useful as a sponge tin-opener.
Though geographically situated only a few miles outside Alexandria, Khum Tash is a fairly desolate site. There are two entrances to the underground tomb, both well concealed to the untrained eye. Each entrance leads into a corridor which, in turn, leads into the tomb. Each corridor is about eighty metres in length, three metres in height and covered from floor to ceiling in vivid murals, the content of which has been remarkably well preserved. The murals consist of images and text, the latter a form of hieroglyphics slightly removed from that we are used to encountering: a sort of regional dialect, so to speak. Despite this, a linguist managed to translate them without much difficulty; no difficulty in the prime process of translation that is, though there were several difficulties with other parts of the procedure. In the end, only a line or two was deciphered. And once again, the operative word was fear. The expert ‘choked’, as they say. Having translated the following passage, he refused for some inexplicable reason to go any further:
‘If you mean to replicate these words outside of this tomb, prepare yourself for a death of some substantial pain, in which forty scorpions shall be the handmaidens of….’
Indeed, for many years, these were the only words translated. Later in 1974 the same man returned to the site of the tomb to continue his task, but succeeded only in revealing further snatches of text, never once getting the end of a sentence. In fact it is only through focussing on the accompanying images that art historians and archaeologists have revealed a more comprehensive narrative and even then, they have all seemed determined not to let the public in on the secret, let alone their own kind.
The narrative begins at the end of one corridor and ends at the beginning of the other. Put simply, it follows the fates of eight scribes employed to write the history of a rich nobleman called Tempunphaten (‘Master of the Oil Lamps’). Each of the scribes go about their task in a different manner, yet each of them is considered by the nobleman to have failed; regardless of the relative kindness of their portrayals, he refuses to believe that they have done him any justice. For their efforts, they are thus rewarded with a death that is meant to correspond to the specific nature of their failure, but which tends to be nothing more than a mildly inventive riff on the basic scorpion/fire/venomous snake/sharp stick ritual of torture. The unwritten conclusion of the foregoing appears to be that all historians are worthless idiots, who ought to be brutally slaughtered.
Putting aside this intriguing hypothesis for the moment, it is worth reflecting on the sheer beauty of the artwork.
Now let us return to the hypothesis. We are not unused, of course, to the juxtaposition of the word ‘curse’ and the word ‘Egyptian’. Previous tomb-breakers have also harboured fears of such threats, only to overcome them with time. What is strange about the Khum Tash case is that it seems to have affected everyone – present company excluded – in such a way as to strike them dumb, with no relief in sight. This, I suspect, is due to a particular quality inherent in the Khum Tash murals; i.e. the way that the artists have in the year 2005 B.C managed to foresee what historians might look like around the year 2005 AD. A much simpler way of putting this would be to say that those of the self-indulgent academic persuasion have always looked the same and therefore there was no foresight required; though I must say that even I am surprised by the verisimilitude of the portrayals’ of the eight scribes. The crux of the matter is this: there is not one art historian who has surveyed the tomb at Khum Tash that has not found a likeness of his or herself (especially intriguing when you consider that all the scribes are notionally of the male sex). And in the interests of honesty (which, on occasion, is a tool not unworthy to be used by historians) I might admit that this includes myself. Indeed, I struggle to look at images of the fourth scribe without thinking that it is but a direct representation of me, down to the very smallest gestures. To stare at the penultimate image of this scribe – which, incidentally, depicts the first stage of his torture, in which his testicles are caught in some sort of archaic nutcracker by an impish scorpion-like creature – is not unlike staring in a mirror (except of course, for the presence of the creature, the like of which I have never actually come across in real life, though I have certainly unearthed not dissimilar nutcrackers on archaeological digs). This, I admit, is undoubtedly an unnerving experience. Nevertheless, there is still no need to succumb to these childish taunts, coming as they do from the direction of the dead.
The fact remains: the most remarkable thing about dead people is that they are dead. Indeed, it is the only remarkable thing about dead people. They are dead; therefore they are not – not on this earth, at any rate. In which case any sort of threat issued from a dead person is an empty one, lest said person has on earth relatives or friends itching to do the deed themselves (which in this situation seems unlikely; for even if the ancestors of the Khum Tash artists are living today, one suspects they may have forgotten about their late relations). Sufficed to say, I have nothing more to say on the nature of curses. The question with which we should really be concerning ourselves is not whether the curse works (it clearly doesn’t) but why it exists – i.e. what function is it performing? Is it an earnest or an ironic curse?
In case I have not already made myself clear, let me refresh you with the details. The Khum Tash consists of two corridors leading from two different entrances towards the same chamber or tomb. On the walls of these corridors is painted a narrative concerning the failure of history and the punishment of historians for that failure. Punishment is metered out by the man whose life the historians failed to adequately describe: a man who went by the name of Tempunphaten. From here we would then presume that this is his tomb. However, we would be wrong. In reality, this is no one’s tomb. The grave that lies at the centre of the site is empty. Not empty on account of grave robbers, rather empty with a purpose: intentionally empty.
Why create a tomb and then festoon it with such delicate paintings, only to leave the grave itself empty? Present day historians have struggled to answer this question, though one interpretation looms larger than others. It is widely supposed that the vacant grave is lying in wait for all those who break into the tomb and fail, like the eight scribes, to successfully write it into history (by which they mean to try to write it into history, for trying is invariably failing in this business). In short, it is my grave, your grave, our grave. Thus tombs as opposed to the singular tomb.
Now though I would not entirely write off this interpretation, I feel that the underlying attitude it expresses is unsatisfactory. My own position inserts a modification to this wishy-washy elucidation. In my opinion, this is an early example of conceptual art. The tomb is a tomb is not a tomb. What we have at Khum Tash is not an ancient curse, but the masterpiece of an early renegade band of ironic deconstructionists. This is the earliest example of ‘art for art’s sake’: an elaborate and charming joke designed to thrill future generations that share the sense of humour that may have been lost on contemporary Egyptians.
Unfortunately, it appears that future generations don’t share this same sense of humour. If truth be told, we are more archaic than the ancients. We take everything rather too literally. We retain our faith in long derided concepts and when we stray from this path we fear a retribution that will surely never come. Meanwhile, we are led to ignore many wonders along the way, a prime example of which are the tombs at Khum Tash. ‘Leave us alone!’ shout the makers, albeit with their tongues firmly in their Egyptian cheeks. For surely this highly intelligent gang of artists never really supposed that they would be left alone. They believed in progress and presumed that art historians in the twentieth century would be superior enough to grasp the subtlest ironies with which they coated their artwork. In short, they expected too much. What they got instead were a legion of cowardly quasi-intellectuals who failed to spot the obvious paradox in the entire set-up; that the artists were constructing a narrative through which to tell the story of the ultimate corruption of narratives. What is the sense in creating artwork that asks to be forgotten? There is none. No art is made to be forgotten. Therefore any art that self-consciously asks to be forgotten is created either by a mindless lunatic or by a mordant jester. The humour of the murals at Khum Tash identifies its artists as being firmly of the latter variety. Of course, I do not ultimately care whether or not they wished to be remembered. The fact remains that they should be. Their vision is unique; their work of the highest quality. There are no more inventive images of strangulation, defenestration and obscene toe-torture to be found within the history of world art. This alone is enough to warrant a place on the plush and amply cushioned sofa of art history.
[1] There is one peculiar exception. Khum Tash does make an appearance in the index of Kingsley Richard’s recent study The Dying Tradition – Egypt 3000-2000 B.C, but the page number to which the reader is directed reveals nothing. Suspecting a crude last-minute editorial cover-up, I tried to contact Professor Richards earlier this month to learn the real story, only to find that the professor had died of a heart attack a week before.
