It takes guts to open a bookstore in Oxford. The competition has devout fanbases, long histories, and eye-watering budgets. The university libraries have staggering architecture and mounds of mildewed books. Oxfam basements charm with their rare finds and scratchy marginalia. Blackwell’s spans a whopping four floors. Its basement room is as wide as the hole it burns in students’ pockets. In a city like this, literature can’t be confined to the bookshelves. It courses beneath tourists’ feet, in long underground passages linking libraries. It swarms pub chalkboards, where pubs list their famous patrons with more pride than they do their wines. Tolkien drank here, boasts the Turf Tavern, and so did CS Lewis. Everywhere you look, tote bags hang heavy, tourists waddle with stacks of books, and whispers of the city’s great authors drift through the air. Oxford is a readerly city: the station of bookseller is sacred and demanding.

The same is true of the city’s cafes. Oxford’s chain cafes, the bland claret of Prets and Costas, are to be found on every corner. Yet it is also home to cozier spots that fit the city’s gothic, rain-soaked mood. These are the spots visitors pride themselves on having discovered. The city’s paradoxical pace, at once dreamily unhurried and maniacal, makes coffee a lynchpin for essay-assailed students and city breakers alike. Oxfordians love to watch their city go by,listening in on snippets of conversation in its arabica-infused dives. They also love to churn out essays at blistering pace, scalding fingers on keys and tongues on americanos. To make a mark here, coffee shops have to cater to both modes of thought. They have to give the tourist their idealized, mythical vision of Oxford, while offering students a cheap, warm corner with sturdy desks and ample sockets.

Oxford has no short supply of bookstores and coffee shops. It’s not easy to make a splash in either market. Gulp Fiction, a newcomer in Oxford’s Covered Market, has set its sights on both.

At first glance, it’s hard to tell how Gulp Fiction plans to stand out. Its mishmash décor is charming, its shelves unpretentious and homely. The books on display are well-curated if a little sparse, more geared to trendy “BookTok” fiction than the dusty classics. The shop is a welcome break in the Covered Market, which is otherwise dominated by jewelry merchants and food stalls. Still, it doesn’t floor you. Aside from its initial warmth, so crucial to a bookstore’s appeal, there is little to suggest it merits devotion. Coffee shops in bookstores are nothing new, even if the IPAs on the menu are a welcome addition. Soon, though, you see what the fuss is all about. A small table is stacked with books, their jackets glossy and bright. Beneath them is a promising placard: free coffee with any book from this table.

It’s a delightful, dangerous offer. When I was a student, I found millions of justifications for splashing out on books: they’re educational; they improve my craft; they’re cheap; I get a student discount; I don’t do it that often. I can quit when I want. The same went for coffee, although it was hard to call the third expresso a bracing intellectual exercise. I could now get both for one price. How could I resist?

Visiting Gulp Fiction means witnessing the gradual collapse of my willpower. Like the cocaine-addled mouse in a twisted laboratory experiment, impulses tug at me with their dread gravity, until I twitchily concede to temptation. Even with a backpack full of more hardbacks than I can deadlift, and a jackrabbit heart-rate, I still buy an extra book from the table. Bookstores may be intellectual havens, but any true bookworm can tell you that book-shopping is a primal, degrading act. Any notions of free will fall away as blurbs absorb, covers catch the eye, and bank balances careen towards zero.

If it wasn’t tempting enough already, the books on the table are good ones. They seem to cycle from zeitgeist fiction like Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation (an odd accompaniment to a flat white) to top-shelf scientific works. On my first visit, I got a book on American witch trials, an americano, and a respectable IPA in one visit (I’m told I was among the first to complete the holy trinity in one order). I sat at one of the pew-like benches on the ground floor, reading my new acquisition in the soft yellow light. Waiting for my drink, I felt the guilt subside. Though I’d again strayed past my spending limit, I at least had a reason to slow down and take in my surroundings. The jazz-funk, folk and R&B on the stereo makes the wait a nice one, a far cry from the clatter and hiss of Blackwell’s built-in Café Nero.

With large bay windows and a confined interior, it’s clear that Gulp Fiction is built on a retail lot. There should be mannequins in these windows rather than hip students. As I sit in the chair and sip at my beer, I consider the effect this has had on the space. It limits the amount of seating inside, driving many to the Covered Market’s communal benches in front of the shop. It also means that only one wall has room for books. This limits the offering but heightens that sense of personal curation, and ramps up the dopamine hit of finding a rarer book. The space feels neither like the larger bookstores on Broad Street nor the coffee shops in the rest of the market. It is a strange hybrid, but it works. The shop feels small, creating the sense that you are interacting with something local, rather than a global conglomerate. The coffee, when it arrived, seemed an affirmation of that: a little bit of warmth on a Sunday in March.

The arrival of a wine menu only makes things warmer. House wine is served in three sizes, for students looking to bring out their inner Hemingway. Wine and literature are an even more natural pairing, one that I’ll fail to resist. Wine, beer, coffee and a book sounds like my kind of study session. Still, Gulp Fiction’s license limits meant I was unable to take beer to the outdoor tables last time I went. Wine drinkers, beware: you may face the same problem.

Either because of the welcoming staff or (more likely) because of the coffee-plus-book meal-deal, I’ve found myself circling back to Gulp Fiction. As I become something of a regular, the books I pick grow ever stranger. The works sold as part of the deal are often ones I wouldn’t go for, but I end up taking them just for the coffee. Coffee, an indelible part of my routine and survival, has become a means of broadening my horizons. Books I wouldn’t have touched with a tentpole seem all the more appealing as a side dish, a literary Biscoff wedged against the china. The table is positioned with devilish strategy, right next to the till. This is every bit as cruel as the bright chewing gum, ELF bars and porno mags at a newsagent’s desk. The queue slows to a crawl. The table is right in front of me. You already have three books. A cover catches my eye. A title. You already have three books. Didn’t Mark recommend that? Look. It’s up for the Booker Prize! You already have three books. You already have three books. My heart pounds. My palms sweat. I visualize my bank balance, my stacked shelves, the coffee already in my system. You already have—it’s futile. I grab a book on mushroom mycelia and ask, as penance, for a chamomile tea. As usual, I take my seat. I flip through. And just like that, I’m hooked on mycelia.

The deal has reached cyberspace, too. Gulp Fiction’s website lists books that can be bought online and delivered to your home address. If you pick the books on the offer, you’ll be provided a bookmark to trade in for a free coffee. Though I despair at this news, it could be very convenient for day-trippers.

Gulp Fiction is the kind of bookstore whose reputation grows in a crystalline manner, egged on by word-of-mouth. The sense that it is a rare find, bound to collapse as influencers traipse through Oxford and the owners push their TikTok, means that I am compelled to tell every friend who will listen. Though a new arrival, it is steadily growing its crowd of devotees. From what I have spotted, most are students in their college puffers. Gulp Fiction is a place where, on the pretext of study, they can find something marginally warmer than libraries and student rooms. Its owners understand that as an independent bookstore in Oxford, you can’t offer a more extensive collection than Blackwell’s or the Bodleian. Instead, you offer something smaller, and therefore more prized.

A pinch of Jazz doesn’t hurt, either. Gulp Fiction’s ace in the hole is its weekly Sunday concerts. Local bands, students and professors play cozy gigs inside. These attract a reasonable crowd: large enough to fill the collection bucket, but small enough to keep things intimate. The music is good, too. The classically educated musicians avoid too cerebral a concert, keeping their riffs groovy and light. There’s no lulling to sleep here, no need to order your expresso double. With bands varying from week to week, it’s yet another reason to drop in and spend an hour and a tenner. Oxford has lost some of its most valuable indie music venues in recent years: I only hope Gulp Fiction’s jazz afternoons hail a revival, even if the snug vibe is a far cry from the sweat-and-smoke raves of yesteryear.

The events also bring a touch of liveliness to the venue. Though we value quiet and calm in our bookstores, these are overabundant qualities in Oxford. Oxford’s calm is its blessing and its curse, synonymous both with its achievements and its stubborn, glacial attitude to change. It is easy to sleepwalk through the city, treading its sacred stones, restating the same anecdotes, dreaming, as its students do, of leaving a mark. A weekly gig might be a welcome break from the contemplative silence that elsewhere reigns supreme.

If its atmosphere gets full marks, Gulp Fiction’s selection of books has room for improvement. Wider Travel and Art sections would be welcome, not least in such a wayfaring and culturally-minded city. It’s surprising to see the History & Biography sections shrink, too, given the abundance of humanities students in the area. Parents won’t find a lot for young children, either. Still, none of these qualms offset the charm of Gulp Fiction. Besides, there are benefits to its slim selection. No Jeremy Clarkson, no Prince Harry, no Boris Johnson…some absences are more welcome than others.

Any bookworm owes themselves a pilgrimage to Blackwell’s and the university libraries, as well as a walk to and stumble from Tolkien’s favourite pubs. However, Gulp Fiction may be the best option off the beaten track. Not yet swarmed by students and tourists, it has the gentle calm of all the best bookstores. Its jazz sessions admirably uphold Oxford’s longstanding musical tradition, putting local talent on centre stage. If nothing else, the coffee-and-book deal compounds two indulgences into one. It encourages you to slow down and take in the city’s atmosphere, palpable even under the Covered Market’s roof. That alone is something you won’t quite get in Blackwell’s Café Nero, and reason enough to splash out on that bird-watching book.

There is one tantalising question at the heart of the Ashmolean’s latest exhibition: what if the labyrinth was real? It’s a question that haunted and tempted academics, map-makers and, perhaps most crucially, archaeologists. It’s a question followed like the mythical thread, unravelled through time and across oceans in search of the myth’s roots, the real places and ruins that were in turn exaggerated, expanded and made grand. It’s a question that led Arthur Evans to Knossos, and one that led me to the Ashmolean.

Knossos is the Cretan village thought to be the inspiration for Minos. Minos was the mythical city home to the Labyrinth, the elaborate maze imprisoning the minotaur. Half-man, half-bull, the minotaur is slain by Theseus—who uses a spool of thread to chart his progress and find his way home.

Vaulted ceilings, vast, empty corridors, serpentine knots littered with bones: what kind of place could inspire a story like this? As the archaeologists dug, they found, at least in their eyes, their answer. They uncovered vast chambers and burial sites, the material remains of a vast palace. They began a process of reconstruction, recreating first ancient Knossos and then, by association, mapping it onto the myths it had inspired. They sought to piece together a story from the fragments of a forgotten world.

On display until 30^th July at the Ashmolean, Labyrinth: Knossos, Myth& Reality charts this process. Its second room presents the uncertainty preceding these discoveries. Before the digs at Knossos, the notion of a ‘real labyrinth’ was the source of conjecture and academic bickering, laced in optimism and ideology. Some insisted it was real; others deemed this a fantasy. Mapmakers assigned the Labyrinth various locations in Crete, giving the maze undue athleticism as it leapt across the page, across Cretan soil, and into new theoretical confines. It has the texture of a mirage, hovering on the line between reality and fiction. It was a primordial maybe, either a trove of (career-making) revelations to be uncovered or a schoolboy fantasy. Entry into the exhibition places us on the same threshold as Theseus, at the moment of uncertainty preceding all journeys. It is the same uncertainty those archaeologists faced.

Heading further into the exhibition, the fog clears. The Cretan sand yields stone. A team of archaeologists, led by Sir Arthur Evans, discover an expansive palace near Knossos. The palace ticks all the boxes. It has hundreds of rooms and a twisting floorplan. It has ample bull iconography, easily paired with Theseus’ mythology: As well as slaying the Minotaur, Theseus also captured the Marathonian Bull. Emboldened by these parallels, Evans and his team posit that this site was the basis of the Labyrinth myth. Labyrinth, Evans proposes, translates as a reference to a double-headed axe, which is one of the palace’s key icons.

This is a rare phenomenon, a process I had thought one-way. I could picture concrete facts becoming myth: time, embellished accounts, agendas, that human need for things to be truer-than-true (an instinct you’ll see alive and well at your local pub), all of these could comfortably have palace walls jutting higher than the sky, could turn prisoners’ groans into a braying minotaur. But to see the reverse, whereby elusive myths became ‘real’ as Knossos was found, was a strange kind of alchemy.  Columns of smoke condense into brickwork: the beast dies again, a death far more definitive than that pathos-laced mercy-kill. There is a quiet sense of tragedy as the mythological Labyrinth is grounded, its phantasmic weightlessness anchored by real spaces. We wonder how it will survive when it is both real and imagined, dig-site and dream.

Though Evans’ discovery is monumental, his work to reconstruct Knossos is tinged by overconfidence. He continues the tradition of the ancient storytellers, who were very loose in their interpretation of Knossos’ ruins. They greatly exaggerated to form their Labyrinth: they weaved shards and fragments into vast narratives of heroism. Likewise, the same fervency seems to possess Evans and his team, as though the stone of Knossos has a hallucinogenic quality. Their archaeological study sees them reconstruct large frescoes and artworks from the few remaining pieces. They combine the pieces like a jigsaw puzzle and paint the rest themselves. This is a fraught business, yet the researchers are as brash as a bull in a China shop.

The exhibition highlights the pitfalls of such an approach in one memorable example. The researchers found a set of shards from wall art in Knossos. Placing them together, they piece together a purple, slender arm. They add extra pieces, meshing them together: Are those petals at the ends of the fingers? The team’s resident artist fills in the blanks and completes the missing fresco. The arms, he reasons, must belong to a child: he draws a child picking flowers. Later, however, further shards were found…the arms actually belonged to a monkey! Archaeology is miles more objective than mythological recreation, yet Evans and his team are often led astray. Dead ends, solid walls, long periods of backtracking.

The Ashmolean seems keen to point out these ironies, quietly suggesting that much of Knossos remains to be discovered. More fundamentally, they cast doubt onto the process of reconstruction, highlighting that it is susceptible to personal biases, rash conclusions, and misinterpretation.

This notion of reconstruction underpins the exhibition, and haunts Knossos itself. Knossosis reconstructed twice. Firstly, archaeologists try and recreate the site itself. They focus on the culture that developed it, drawing conclusions from its material remains. Secondly, they extrapolate how this site, a historical reality, inspired a mythical labyrinth. They wonder which parts of it became the hallmarks of the Labyrinth myth. Once Knossos is reconstructed, they must imagine how it was imagined. This entails strange, treacherous forays into the minds of long-gone creators and narrators: while the Labyrinth’s walls are the ridges of their thumbprint, their exact relationship with Knossos remains elusive.

For example, researchers unearthed a human sacrifice chamber. This allows them to reconstruct the site and its practices: they learn more about Knossos. Simultaneously, academics study the Labyrinth myth and point out that, in the story, human sacrifices were made to the Minotaur. They then imagine a link between the real sacrifice chambers, and the human sacrifice mentioned in the story. Then come reinterpretations of the myth: did it express the trauma of such practices? Why does the myth express the ache of an entire settlement in thrall to a monstrous influence? This dance of material and mythical reconstruction is enticing, and the Ashmolean lays it bare.

As I studied the relics on display, I was drawn to copy such efforts. The temptation to insert artefacts into the Minotaur myth was overwhelming. Many vases depicted octopi with their matted, inky tentacles splaying across terracotta. These vases grew more abstract over time: anatomical accuracy gave way to loose, simple forms. Ariadne’s thread, lacing through the Labyrinth, guiding Theseus home…a Greek poet discovering a shard in the dark, thumbing the twine-like tendrils on its surface, converting them into the silk of a lover…

The metaphor of the thread runs through the vaulted halls of this exhibition. Theseus followed it homeward: it led him from the maze to the light of day. We picture him standing over the slain Minotaur, in symbolic victory over (depending on who you ask) the bestial, the repressed, the uncivilised. The thread is the physical manifestation of intellect, ingenuity as a means of overcoming the incomprehensible Labyrinth. It allows him to retrace his path and survive. The metaphor must entrance every archaeologist at Knossos: following history’s thread backwards, navigating its looping, uncharted halls by the material guides left by our predecessors. The exhibit’s structure, leading us from initial uncertainty to the find, before pointing to the future of study at Knossos, presents a linear, methodical descent into history—a descent that will somehow lead us forward, allowing us to emerge from it.

With such an easy metaphor in hand, I picture a continuity between archaeologist and mythmaker. The question, then, is how directly does the thread run? Both archaeologist and storyteller delve into Knossos’ raw materials to weave a human narrative. Both extrapolate and interpret, despite modern aspirations to objectivity. Yet it seems difficult to equate archaeological study with mythological retelling. How can we reconcile the primitive energies of mythmaking with the scientific aspects of archaeological study?

I return to the beginning of the exhibition. Though it is mostly chronological, the exhibition begins with a set of contemporary artworks. We see a Picasso self-portrait, in which he depicts himself as a minotaur. He exploits the minotaur’s association with sexual shame, or unchecked desire. I think Picasso wrestles with the minotaur to consider the consequences of his urges, the ways in which they make him ugly or compelling, the unchecked musk of his infamous romantic appetite. There’s a measure of ego in it, sure, a sexual boastfulness…and he’s definitely making a myth (and a mess) of himself. For Picasso it’s all about the beast; the maze is nowhere to be seen, at least not in the work on display here.

There is also a marble sculpture of the minotaur, whose human proportions make the beast seem more pitiful than monstrous. The white marble is candle-flame yellow every time the adjacent animation loops. It retells the tale of the Labyrinth, a primer for unfamiliar audiences. Ayrton’s Minotaur is a tortured, contorted beast, glancing at its hand in what reads as a moment of dreadful sentience. Mark Wallinger’s artworks, created for London’s tube system, make the Labyrinth as abstract as those late-era Cretan octopi: we picture a writhing, complex maze beneath London’s high-rises. These works, ranging from the ancient to the modern, testify to the myth’s versatility and endurance. It is compelling to see the same figures reinvented time and again, since each artist finds new nooks of originality within the confines of an established myth.

These works highlight the myth’s persistence in the collective imagination. It continues to inspire works of art, literature and film. Even as Knossos is unveiled, it is the Labyrinth which continues to inspire reinvention: new myths, new works, new media. Archaeology has no monopoly on the maze.

These works testify to how art is, itself, a means of preservation. Would archaeologists have sought the ruins if not for the Minotaur myth’s enduring cultural prevalence? Myths function as the first mode of conservation, passing down the fictitious heritage that eventually led us to Knossos’ physical reality. Before the luxuries of modern archaeological technology, storytelling is one of our only ways to keep things alive. It is a precursor to archaeology and history: without it, the halls of that palace may have been lost for good.

Artistic methods of preservation bleed over into archaeology. Evans’ team leaned on sketches, portraits, and jigsaw-like mosaics of pottery shards. They were painters and assemblers, interpreters and narrators. Knowledge of this reminds us of the other narrator presiding over these artefacts—the museum itself. An exhibition is a narrative. It is sequential even as we explore it in non-linear fashion. It creates harmonies and contrasts, places emphases, and filters our perceptions with context and omissions. The storyteller is no longer a face over a fire but an amorphous web of placards, plexiglass and projections. The thread is continuous: myths preserve sites, guiding archaeologists to them, and then museums frame that archaeological inquiry in new narrative terms. In time, artists (including, perhaps, your humble reviewer) sift through the material—physical and mythical—for whatever suits their whims and kinks. I leave the exhibition finding no clashes between the ancient storytellers and the modern curator or archaeologist.

Enticing as the tale of Knossos is, the exhibition makes a few missteps. It should linger longer on its critique of Evans, especially when it comes to the heartbreaking tale of Minos Kalokairinos. Kalokairinos, a local, amateur archaeologist, pioneered the research in Knossos; yet he was shouldered out, and it was Evans who led the digs. This controversy is touched on far too fleetingly. As we interrogate the legacy of colonialism, stories like that of Evans and Kalokairinos deserve proper attention. The Ashmolean is perfectly positioned to study Sir Arthur Evans’ legacy: he was a former director of the museum. Sadly, the curators’ efforts to reckon with this legacy are more apparent in their tours of the press circuit than in the exhibition’s structure. In the exhibition itself, Kalokairinos fades after the second room, restaging his historic marginalisation.

Kalokairinos is described in the exhibition’s official catalogue as the first to find Knossos. He openly showed his findings to English visitors, including Evans, but was ultimately excluded from subsequent excavations. One wonders whether the conclusions reached by Kalokairinos and his fellow Cretans would be the same as those reached by Evans and his company. Knossos’ reconstruction was coloured by political and economic factors that may warp our understanding of the site itself. Unfortunately, those interested in these injustices will learn more from the exhibition catalogue than the displays at the Ashmolean.

The 16-minute projection at the end of the exhibition claims to study the role of curators critically, through a post-colonial lens, but its attacks are mainly levelled against the perceived sterility of exhibitions in general. It argues for tactile, sonorous reclamation of the artefacts, bringing them sonic force: pottery bursts on screen as an electronic voice reads a ghostly prose-poem. This is joyful, but does little to overtly criticise the colonial nature of England’s museum hordes. On my viewing, I struggled to see what the projection offered—beyond an amusing enough aesthetic exercise. The projection was not produced specifically for the Knossos exhibition, and doesn’t mesh organically with the rest of the displays.

I was also unconvinced by the inclusion of Assassin’s Creed Odyssey, in a short video loop depicting the game’s version of the Labyrinth. Perhaps a bid to entice younger visitors, the clip is not interactive and therefore loses much of its value. Unable to explore the virtual maze, we are left with what amounts to a teaser trailer on repeat. This felt strangely advertorial, as though Ubisoft slipped the curators a wad of cash or a few Neolithic arrowheads. While it again testifies to the myth’s endurance, there’s scant insight into how the developers recreated the Labyrinth nor how they handle the myth. The developers’ passion is channelled more into faithful, meticulous reproduction of Knossos’ iconography and architecture than it is into thematic innovation. There’s no reinvention of the minotaur’s symbolic role as we see in the first gallery. Whether this matters to you or not depends on how you value their faithful reproductions, which are, for what it’s worth, completely commendable.

When the German poet Rilke saw a sculpture of Apollo, he wrote the line “you must change your life.”[1]Something in the sculpture is magnetic, arousing in Rilke the desire for transformation. Perhaps the great work lays his life, as it currently is, bare: some level of mundanity, tolerated until this juncture, is suddenly seen for what it is. It is no longer adequate to live like this. Apollo, the God of Music, has made a simple command. You must change your life.

Rilke heeds this call in poetry. The aforementioned line comes at the end of ‘Archaic Torso of Apollo,’ a poem written in response to the titular sculpture. Art begets art, as the poem tries to extend and recapture the living force of the sculpture. In the poem, Rilke recreates the bust’s missing head. He senses its smile in the torso’s brilliance. He completes the sculpture, reversing the effects of time. The viewer is, in turn, the sculptor: art is not final, and it implicates Rilke in its creation. That final line, ‘you must change your life,’ now addresses his audience: the cycle continues as we are invited to extend the poem, the sculpture, and the creative act. We’re ushered into Apollo’s chorus.

Rilke is hardly the only poet to write in this manner. His poem is an example of ekphrasis, a written tribute to a visual work of art.  Many poets have dabbled in ekphrasis, perhaps prompted by experiences like Rilke’s. Moved by an artwork’s power, they attempt to reproduce its emotive power through language. Yet the relationship is not a one-way street; what happens when visual arts speak back? One answer lies inDia al-Azzawi’s dafatir.

Al-Azzawi’s dafatir hybridise book and canvas. The word ‘dafatir’ comes from the Arabic for canvas. Dafatir, therefore, resemble notebooks: they are composed of bound sheets, with several A4 canvases linked together into a ‘book’ of connected canvases. Like the adjacent images of a triptych, each canvas contrasts or echoes its neighbours. Some maintain the structure of books, while others spread out like accordions; others still are housed in cigar cases. The dafter on display reject the singular nature of the canvas. Instead, they present a set of connected images. These images are complemented by calligraphed lines from Arabic poems, etched onto the canvases themselves.

Al-Azzawi produced a range of dafatir inspired by poets. These are central to the Ashmolean’s Dia al-Azzawi: Painting Poetry, which explores the dialogue between Al-Azzawi and his poetic peers. The exhibition showcases an array of dafatir, many of which are direct responses to Arabic poems. These dafatir transcribe linguistic feats into meshes of colour, shape, texture and space. The resulting works often extend the context of the original, recapturing its essence while adding unexpected new hues.

[1]Ahead of All Parting: Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke, transl.  Stephen Mitchell, Modern Library. © 1995 Stephen Mitchell.

The poems quoted in the dafatir can be deemed the starting point of the work. Al-Azzawi’s illustrations respond to the words of a given poem, a process he describes as ‘free and emotive responses’ to the poet’s language. Al-Azzawi reproduces both the images of the poem, and the personal, subjective responses they conjure in him. There is a dance between the components of the poem and the observer, Al-Azzawi, whose replies are often just as mysterious.

Al-Azzawi has praised the ‘allusive quality’ of poetic imagery. For him, poetry’s references are evocative and indirect. Al-Azzawi works in a visual medium, and so must improvise to reproduce this elusive quality. To do this, he frequently leans on outlines of figures, abstract shapes, vibrant patches of colour, and fragments of text. We sense that Al-Azzawi sees poetry as liberating, inviting him to paint more loosely, unhindered by precepts of photorealism or ‘accuracy’. Poetry grants him licence to reject rigid notions of artistic merit. Painting is no longer about representing his subjects with visual accuracy; instead, it is about mapping moods and states, which, by definition, have no solid forms.

If a poem’s mysteries lie in the implicit relationships between images, the dafatir reproduce this in the link between their divided pages. These links are often just as elusive: one page’s muted greens and blues give way to passionate reds and yellows. Sometimes the pages spread like accordions, whereas at other times they look like traditional books. These differences, too, loosen or tighten the metaphorical ‘bonds’ between each canvas.

The dafatir are refreshingly intimate. Viewing them carries the voyeuristic intrigue of studying a painter’s diaries, even as we know they are performative works whose so-called ‘intimacy’ is created with the public in mind. The dafatir’s charming informality hinges on the typical role of a ‘notebook’, that is, a place for private reflection and practice sketches. They are steeped in a childlike playfulness at home in poetry and art alike. I feel the urge to reach through the glass and touch them. I want to thumb through their pages and feel their texture, to trace the calligraphed grooves…the dafatir are tactile, and I want to treat them as I would an family photo album. The prohibitive, look-but-don’t touch confine of a gallery space is all the more apparent here, with works that beg to be explored by hand.

Though they evoke play and privacy, the dafatir have a darker side. Their popularity among artists is in part pragmatic: they are easy to transport and quick to produce. This accounts for their prevalence in areas affected by war, where material scarcity drives artists to such economical forms.

War, soon enough, becomes the exhibition’s primary theme. Al-Azzawi is particularly moved by conflict in Iraq, his birth nation. Once a patron and curator of the Mosul Museum, Al-Azzawi laments its televised destruction by Daesh. Al-Azzawi’s work achieves a simultaneous mourning of innocent life and historical heritage, twin victims of contemporary conflict. The destruction of the Mosul Museum brings the two together and, as such, becomes a key focal point for Al-Azzawi. The dafatir are transmuted into means of decrying violence. Al-Azzawi becomes a voice of protest against the waste of life, innocence, and art.

At the centre of the exhibition is Mosul: Panorama of Destruction 2017/22. A sweeping ten-metre tapestry, the work depicts the chaos of war in the city of Mosul. Its scale contrasts sharply with the dafatir. Poetry’s brevity informed the dafatir’s intimacy, but war is maximalist, expansive, and indulgent. The tapestry form (this is not the only one of Al-Azzawi’s tapestries to broach war) is appropriate both in terms of historical precedent, and in terms of its sheer size. The Panorama dominates the small exhibition space, which metaphorically reflects Daesh’s intrusion into cultural spaces: invited or not, conflict takes centre stage.

The immediate temptation is to compare the Panorama to Picasso’s Guernica. Both are stark, black- and- white testimonies to war’s pandemonium. However, Al-Azzawi disavows us of this temptation. For one thing, the techniques differ considerably. Guernica haunts with its emotive faces; Al-Azzawi’s human figures, meanwhile, are mostly faceless. Their blankness, deprived of any features, floods the work with silence. They are dehumanised spectres: without Guernica’s facial expressions, the victims in Mosul have no means of communicating their suffering. Their pain remains is invisible and unheard. Perpetrators and victims operate beneath a fog of anonymity, without voice, without identity. Only political banners, weaponry, and facial hair (with its religious and political connotations) demarcate figures’ status and role. Curiously, destroyed statues have more detailed faces than the living human subjects.

Guernica’s shadow looms over the Panorama, even when the works differ considerably. If nothing else, this reminds us of Al-Azzawi’s presence in a long cultural tradition. He is yet another artist tasked with encoding war’s chaotic horror, producing works that lament, condemn, and warn against conflict. This is the artist-as-witness, a figure whose constancy across styles and generations reminds us only of war’s perennial presence. Is this one of the longest artistic traditions in history? When we see the Panorama’s surface-level resemblance to Guernica, we wonder what Guernica resembled, and what those predecessors resembled, until we imagine a long chronology of corresponding war canvases, poems, songs and novels. As that awful heritage becomes clear to us, our view of war becomes more panoramic.

Standing before the Panorama, we imagine the next artist to continue the chain. We imagine the next voice after Picasso, Al-Azzawi, and the others. How long before another artist vows to extend these cubic shadows, these lightless visages—how long before the easel stands lamb-legged before the latest wasteland?

Like Picasso and others, Al-Azzawi witnesses conflict from a distance. Picasso painted Guernica in Paris, far from the Basque town as it was bombed. Likewise, Al-Azzawi moved to London in the 1970s, leaving Iraq after the rise of Saddam Hussein. He was not in the conflict zone itself and witnessed Mosul’s destruction from London.

I mention this to consider a critique levied at such ‘witnesses’. Detractors may accuse such witnesses of appropriating trauma that is not their own. They ask if you can truly understand conflict without direct experience of it. Whatever your ties to a nation affected by conflict, your understanding will not match that of those who endure its conditions directly. The first, obvious tension is that war is not meant to leave witnesses. We rely on second-hand witnesses because the ‘direct’ witness is far less likely to survive. Nonetheless, critics wonder how satisfied we should be with ‘war artists’ who are not immersed in the conflict itself. Distance means survival, but it also complicates the legitimacy of the painter’s response.

In light of these questions, I wondered why Al-Azzawi chose the format of a ‘panorama’. The sweeping scale of the work is at odds with its emotive force. The distance evokes landscape works, yet the sheer power of its disparate images are more like tortured portraits. Its dimensions feel contradictory, so that we are at once removed and placed in its centre. Al-Azzawi seems to study the very notion of ‘distance’ from conflict in the panorama itself, conflating panorama’s literal distance with emotional proximity to the suffering at hand.

For Western viewers, arguably the primary target audience of this exhibition, this Panorama may evoke our own distance from conflict. Drone footage, aerial shots, cameras that pan over bombarded cities: in England, our views of war are panoramic. We are placed at literal and critical distance: our wide view comes at the cost of close experience. Conflict in the Middle East is so readily distilled into political and economic terms that the suffering of individuals is overlooked. Indeed, this dynamic is essential to war: the disconnect between its ideological terms and its visceral realities.

The Panorama seems to encapsulate both of these poles and, in doing so, breaks down whatever distance we feel from conflict. It brings suffering closer to us. The Panorama works as an attack on the distance created by spectatorship, drawing attention to the ways we make war digestible, logical, and permissible. We remember how often war is, to the lucky among us, a slew of sound-bites, graphs, and dispassionate shots of blasted high-rises. Al-Azzawi’s distance from Mosul perfectly positions him to interrogate the role of ‘distance’ in obfuscating war’s nature. And his personal closeness with Mosul’s victims is never in doubt.

In a video interview showing at the exhibition, Al-Azzawi claims he had to ‘abandon poetry’ in the face of war. Though a lucid speaker on his creative processes, this claim seems too absolute. It is hardly reflected in the dafatir on display at the exhibition, even when they are divided into subsections of ‘poetic’ and ‘war’ dafatir. When we look at Al-Azzawi’s treatment of conflict, we see many techniques similar to his treatment of poetic texts. Even in Mosul, seemingly so different from the dafatir, these techniques endure. We notice the logic of partial allusion, where fragments allude to a larger whole. The ways in which bodies blend, jostle, and blur recalls that ‘allusive’ quality that Al-Azzawi admired in poetry. Where it once invited him to capture poetry’s nebulous evocations, it now becomes a way to depict violent chaos.

Disembodied limbs in the dafatir Four Children Playing Football are exemplary of this. Their disconnected fragments tease at a narrative just out of view. Initially, the ambiguity of this fragmentation is total. Is this an innocent childhood scene, or a web of dismemberments? This duality is but one of the many effects Al-Azzawi achieves by bringing poetry’s lessons to the frontline. Indeed, poets have also been witnesses, from Ancient Greece to occupied France. War has its own poetic tradition.

Four Children Playing Football is composed of two images set in a wooden box, far more economical than the other dafatir. One image is sketched in pencil, while the other utilises sculpted clay. Both represent legs and arms, with two heads in their centre. The pencil sketch is riddled with holes. A band of red runs horizontally across them both, connecting them.

Like the figures in the Mosul tapestry, the work’s figures are faceless and shady. At first glance, the wooden frame compounds the work’s ambiguity. It makes the work appear a treasured item, a prized heirloom brought out for special occasions. It also induces claustrophobia, with the titular children entrapped in its narrow space. Before I learned the context of the work, it sat between opposites: between innocence and slaughter. A placard tells me that it was inspired by children killed while playing football. They were struck by an Israeli shell in 2014, during the Israel-Gaza conflict. The ambiguity continues even in light of this. Has Al-Azzawi trapped that moment of innocent play in amber, moments before tragedy, or has he frozen atrocity in full view? Or has he, somehow, done both?

Whatever the case, Four Children  highlights how war infects the most innocent aspects of humanity. This work is indicative of how conflict changes the poetic logic of Al-Azzawi’s dafatir. Though they maintain their indirect allusions, they become smaller, darker works. Their text is muted, their figures anonymous. Dafatir  were previously indulgent and joyful. Now they are lightless and stark. Colour drains away. What colour remains is invariably the red of blood, not of passion. These dafatir are microcosms of the destruction of the museum, testaments to what war makes of us.

Still, something of Al-Azzawi’s playfulness persists. Even as conflict’s shadow spreads over the exhibition, experimentation stands firm. In one instance, Al-Azzawi uses a friend’s cigar case as the ‘frame’ for a dafatir. The friend visited Al-Azzawi by chance and allowed him to use the case. Al-Azzawi seems willing to entrust his creativity to a higher influence, or to sheer luck, much like poets of past and present. The Muse clearly isn’t averse to the odd Havana. It is touching to see Al-Azzawi innovate and play even as war demands a singular, solemn attention. These fragments of joy become testimonies to a greater endurance.

The Ashmolean is a fitting venue for two reasons. The first is that the exhibition is free. The second is that it houses various artefacts from the Arab world, as well as from Persia. Both are sources of influence for Al-Azzawi. Some reside on the museum’s first floor, while others have been placed directly in the Painting Poetryexhibition on floor -1. The latter offer the most fruitful insights. For example, one display features a 15^thCentury copy of Nizami’s Khamsa (Quintet). This book includes an account of the Bedouin love story of Layla and Majnun. Visitors can study the work’s traditional illustration on an open display page. Beside it, we see one of Al-Azzawi’s dafatir responding to the same love story.

The 15^th Century book demonstrates a conventional relationship between text and image. The text is the primary component, while the image is added to supplement the text. The dafatir modifies this relationship. Though it begins with the same story, its imagery is indirect and evocative. It contains fragmented human and animal forms, knotting black lines, and red backgrounds which suggest passion and danger. By comparing Al-Azzawi’s version of Layla and Majnun to older depictions, we see how he draws on and reinvents tradition. A tale of averted, forbidden desire, its fragmented forms remind us of stolen glances and furtive, repressed longings.

In other places, traditional context is far subtler. Take, for example, Al-Azzawi’s use of the phrase ‘Land of Darkness’. The term was originally used to describe Mesopotamia’s rich, dark soil. It suggests fertility and potential, presenting an idyllic image of the land. Al-Azzawi applies this moniker to his work Iraqi Book of Darkness, 2020.

I found myself most drawn to this dafatir’s exterior, the jacket where we’d usually find a book’s front and back cover.  The front page is black, while the back is white. The white side bears trickles of red and a bloody handprint. The human figures are also monochrome. Their bodies are characterised by jumbled lines, barren patches of emptiness, and anonymity—there are no faces, depriving us of an easy emotional core. Inside the Book of Darkness, we glimpse gloomy figures and shadows. Blood trails from page to page, reminding us of violence’s extended legacy. Its stains pass on to ‘separate’ times and places, just as shapes and shades recur across the dafatir’s divided pages.

The ‘darkness’, once describing Mesopotamia’s promise, now denotes torment. The binary split down the middle of the dafatir could speak to a contemporary crossroads, as the region faces ‘darkness’ of past, present and future. Can an Edenic, fallow Mesopotamia be returned to—and should it? The split could just as easily evoke conflict: simplistic binaries linger in the background, framing and menacing the fragile human forms at the centre. Whatever the case, Al-Azzawi demonstrates a firm belief that the past, distant as it may seem, can elucidate the present—even when that present literally erodes the past’s relics. The bitter humour of reclaiming the name ‘land of darkness’ permeates this work.

The same applies to Al-Azzawi’s interest in Persia. Iraq was once a key part of the Persian Empire. As such, Al-Azzawi’s study of Persian tradition allows him to interrogate contemporary Iraq. We’re reminded that empires are impermanent things, whose collapse, definitive as it may seem, in fact leaves a stubborn cloud of dust and a maze of debris. Al-Azzawi, like so many others, trawls through the rubble, with a fervent faith that there is something worth salvaging. He seeks traditions which can enrich modern aims, be they artistic or social. Other parties, meanwhile, seem more interested in laying further waste.

The Panorama of Destruction includes destroyed artefacts and statues, which, according to the exhibition’s placards, are from Assyria and Hatra. By including them, Al-Azzawi tries to preserve what has been destroyed. He creates in his work a place where fragile legacies might survive, if only long enough that we can sift through them, changing and being changed by them. As we see Daesh soldiers mingle with the dust of prehistory, we should be reminded that geographical demarcations, for which so many have been asked to die, are always in flux.

The Ashmolean’s collection allows us to study Al-Azzawi’s works alongside the traditions he draws upon. This is invaluable to newcomers. It is the ideal set of conditions for any dialogue between two art forms. It is like reading Rilke beside that godly torso. We are freest to evaluate these works when we can study the art they respond to. With Al-Azzawi, this means sweeping leaps between different historical alcoves, from Mesopotamia to Persia. You almost feel that ‘you must change your life’ has been whispered again and again over the years, across collapsing empires and against winds of repression.

The opportunity to study dafatirs alongside their inspirations is a powerful one. However, it is not as expansive as it could be. We can see plenty of the history that Al-Azzawi draws on, but what about the poets? The Ashmolean commendably translates the exhibition’s plaques into Arabic. However, it does not translate the poems quoted on the dafatir into English. This is a baffling omission. The exhibition is devoted to the interplay between poets and artists, yet many of the poems, including quotes etched on the dafatir themselves, are unavailable in English.

It would be delightful to untangle the links between Al-Azzawi’s imagery and that of the poems, but the exhibition does not facilitate this. This is even more shameful since the poets in question are some of the Arabic world’s most esteemed contemporary voices: Mahmoud Darwish, Saadi Youssef, Adonis. The latter Syrian poet, Adonis, has been dubbed the Arab world’s greatest living poet, an accolade to match the exhibition’s claim that Al-Azzawi is ‘the Arab world’s most influential living artist’…this hardly means that the average visitor will know Adonis’ verses, let alone in their original language. The exhibition could bring light to these poetic voices as well as to Al-Azzawi’s work, yet its focus is primarily on the latter. Ironically, this lessens our appreciation of both.

I was told by Ashmolean staff that there was a conscious decision to forgo translations of the poems. Some people would argue that the point of recreating artworks in a new form is to create something that can speak for itself. If the visual form has truly captured the poem’s evocations, shouldn’t we understand them without the poem? This is all well and good, in theory; but the dafatir do not conform with this view. They quote fragments of the poems directly. The way the text is set beside, within, or against images and colours is part of their overall effect. Sure, the beauty of the calligraphy is evident, and it’s romantic to think of language reduced to pure form (which is easy if you don’t read the language), but the relationship between dafatir and poem is left unclear. My inability to read the text, a product of my humble trilingualism, means my experience of the works is partial. I don’t think this is the fragmentation that al-Azzawi is interested in; it is simply an oversight that hamstrings an otherwise compelling exhibition.

The Ashmolean does offer a series of free tours around Painting Poetry, the last of which takes place on June 9^th. The tours are led by the exhibition’s curator, Dr Francesca Leoni, in collaboration with Oxford University students who study Arabic literature. These tours greatly elaborate on Al-Azzawi’s poetic inspirations and offer readings, close analysis, and an overview of contemporary Arabic poetry. Visitors interested in Arabic poetry should seek these tours urgently, and the Ashmolean should offer more of them.

Adonis and Darwish are published by reputed publishing houses: Yale University Press and Copper Canyon Press, respectively. They enjoy the kind of acclaim that garners Poetry Foundation pages and Guardianprofiles. I would encourage visitors to spend some time with their work before visiting the exhibition. You may start to understand what Al-Azzawi relates to in their poetry, especially if, like me, you find Al-Azzawi’s description of poetry somewhat surprising. His reference to the ‘allusive quality’ of poetry didn’t ring true for me at first: it didn’t conform with the poets I’d studied, let alone my own works. I knew that poetry could flit and evade, but I wondered how Al-Azzawi could distil poetic logic into any one principle. The vast variation of poetic ideals made it hard to picture a single quality, extractable for a painter’s use. Reading the same poets as Al-Azzawi, though, I could see what he meant. I also sensed affinities between painter and poet on political and social questions, as well as on aesthetic fronts. Discovering these affinities makes the colours of the dafter that little bit bolder.

For example, consider the Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish. Darwish shares Al-Azzawi’s concern with ancestral lands, with history’s erasure and displacement. It is easy to imagine the two in agreement, even if their ‘versions’ of Darwish’s poetry—the original and then Al-Azzawi’s visual response—differ greatly. Reading Darwish is a good introduction into the ‘allusive’ poetic logic, especially where his verse is as fragmented as Al-Azzawi’s visual language.

The exhibition features only one traditional canvas. This is A Wolf Howls: Memories of a Poet, produced in 1968. It preces the dafatir, which Al-Azzawi produced from the 1970s onwards. As a forerunner of sorts, it offers an insight into how Al-Azzawi’s interest in poetry developed and, perhaps, his only attempt to render poetry in conventional visual formats.

Where the dafatir relate to specific verses, A Wolf Howls depicts a generalised ideal of the poet. Its forms are more clearly defined than those of the dafatir, with less fragmentation of the human body and an atypically intact wolf. Its colour scheme is more muted than the bright hues of the other poetic dafatir. Its background is a deep black, resembling the war dafatir’s muted colour scheme. A Wolf Howls seems to balance aspects of Al-Azzawi’s war dafatir and poetic dafatir. The narrative is difficult to pin down: its emotional stakes are apparent but its precise contexts are elusive.

According to the exhibition’s placards, A Wolf Howls is ‘is based on an unpublished poem by the Communist poet Muzaffar Al Nawab that narrates the story of a mother who lost her son during the aftermath of the Ba’ath coup.’[1] In light of this context, it is all the more surprising that  Al-Azzawi talks of ‘abandoning poetry’ to face war. It would be hard to ask for further proof that poetry and war are intertwined.

The wolf, meanwhile, is an older poetic motif. Nocturnal encounters between the poet and a hungry wolf can be found, for example, in poems by Al-Buhturi and Al-Farazdaq. In their poems, a starved wolf approaches the poet and a tense friendship forms. These are mystical encounters between man and beast, at the interface between humanity and nature at large. Such an encounter appears to be depicted in A Wolf Howls, yet it is conflated with the violent aftermath of the coup. Once again, ancient tradition clashes with recent history, placing artist and poet at a strange intersection—wolf and man meeting on the dune.

On my third visit I talked with two students leading a tour. They elaborated on the role of the wolf in Arabic literature. Sometimes it did occupy the aforementioned role: a wild force that was momentarily tamed. In other places it was a thing to be slain or fought against, a measure, therefore, of heroic prowess. Later, wolves, or predatory animals more broadly, are used as shorthand for dictators and autocrats—both with metaphorical aims and simply to avoid censorship or repression. It is enriching to consider how the wolf’s varied symbolic meanings apply to A Wolf Howls, and to the maternal grief it expresses.

Once again, such contexts weren’t immediately available. When I first viewed A Wolf Howls, I saw a figure in the throes of sleep paralysis. They lay with hands in the air as a wolf trod over their legs. In front of them, a feminine figure gazed out at the viewer. I imagined night terrors, as though the poet was haunted by the titular ‘memories’. Had their memories manifested as a wolf, conjured up where the poet’s imagination clashes with his emotional turmoil? Even as the foundation of Azzawi’s subsequent obsessions, A Wolf Howls remained fittingly cryptic. It seemed to depict the dark side of the poet’s sensitivity, the torment to which an attuned individual must be exposed. If this was Al-Azzawi’s idealised poet, then the poet was somebody who felt things more deeply, whose imagery was an overblown map of their internal territories. Even as I invented my own contexts, I sensed the fundamental unease at the work’s core. I was further convinced that Al-Azzawi’s poetic sensibilities were perfectly suited to depict conflict, just as the poet may hear a distant wolf’s howl and dream its teeth over his face, alpine, marble, chalk to write with.

This, of course, is the temptation of writing about a painter who paints poems: you want to write poems in response, in a spiralling mise en abyme. I will rein in this temptation to underline the location of A Wolf Howls in the exhibition. It sits at the beginning of the gallery. A display of statues from Iraq, dating as far back as 2500 BCE, occupies the adjacent wall. Their eyes, in particular, help us understand the blank, round eyes we see in A Wolf Howls. Al-Azzawi praises the statue’s rejection of ‘rigidity and imitation’. They nurture his interest in visual arts which aren’t simply about direct representation.

More fundamentally, they mirror A Wolf Howls in that they are precursors, early forms that paved the way for the future. They are cultural foundations that were later imitated, sanctified, and defied. A Wolf Howls is the same. It is something early, something whose echoes we trace in the subsequent dafatir. The exhibition sets Al-Azzawi beside both ancient history, and his own personal prehistory. A Wolf Howls too is the dark soil from which the rest has bloomed. A trip upstairs to Gallery 31, meanwhile, shows how a new generation has taken up dafatir.

Painting Poetry occupies a small exhibition space, on the subterranean floor of the Ashmolean. Al-Azzawi’s first solo show in the UK, it is nonetheless an unceremonious display. It was quiet on both my visits, somewhere between reverence and emptiness. Ultimately, there’s something appropriate about the exhibition’s humble scale. The intimacy of the space echoes that of the dafatir. Mosul: Panorama of Destruction better lives up to its title in a modest space like this. Its contrast with the dafatir is all the starker. Though the work deserves its podium and plinth, I was glad for the relative tranquillity of the exhibition. Of course, even a quiet exhibition is home to the odd clash between audiences: on my first visit I saw selfie-stick users chastised for posing with Mosul. An older gentleman interrogated them, asking them if they knew what they were duck-facing beside. Even testaments to horror become aesthetic commodities, props, and risk being implemented into the Spectacle of war. I like to think Al-Azzawi would laugh at such a sight. On my guided visit, I’m assured that he is not one to protect his work from Instagrammers…and the Ashmolean are certainly eager for a pinch of virality.

Al-Azzawi may take some comfort in seeing his work housed in the Ashmolean, having mourned the destruction of similar spaces. Al-Azzawi’s story grants me new appreciation as I tour the rest of the museum. Even as I sense the parallels between the Ashmolean’s colonial legacy and the brutality Al-Azzawi decries, I also appreciate the fragility of the artefacts on display. The relics could be destroyed so easily, and swathes of history would be lost. In light of this fragility, they seem more engaging: the urge to write in response to them grows stronger. Al-Azzawi renews our interest in tradition, both as a source of identity and a route to new creation. If I am to ‘change my life’ in response to Al-Azzawi, I will do so by seeing these relics as alive—both in their fertility for creative inspiration, and in their mortal vulnerability.

Though Al-Azzawi’s work speaks for itself, translation of textual elements should be a priority for future exhibitions. The Ashmolean’s display is well worth seeing, both for the potency of the work and for the artefacts alongside them. However, this is fundamentally an exhibition about ‘painting poetry’ which fails to make the poetic texts accessible. This leaves Painting Poetry’s exploration of the relationship between two art forms incomplete.

Regrettably, the art press has done very little to cover Painting Poetry. National papers appear disinterested in reviewing it. It has received some attention in Oxford, as well as coverage from papers which focus on the Middle East, such as The National News. As Al-Azzawi’s first solo exhibition in the UK, it is lamentable that it has fallen by the wayside. Far more attention has been given to the Ashmolean’s Knossos exhibition, which focuses on Crete and the myth of the Minotaur. I wonder if this reflects enduring biases in favour of classical antiquity, and against Middle Eastern art. These biases may be shared by The Al Thani Collection Foundation and His Highness Sheikh Hamad bin Abdullah Al Thani,, who are billed as top sponsors of the Knossos exhibition but not the Al-Azzawi display (unless they are Painting Poetry’s anonymous sponsors).

Whatever the case, it is bleak to see Al-Azzawi’s work confined to a small corner of the Ashmolean, even where this enhances the dafatir’s  intimacy. The first solo exhibition of a prolific, bracing artist should be far more ceremonious. Painting Poetry is well worth the visit, but it leaves you with a hunger for Al-Azzawi’s work, one that it cannot quite satisfy. It is a fitting introduction to a bold, mournful, poetic voice. I only wish that there was more to see and more of us seeing it.

[1]See also https://www.barjeelartfoundation.org/collection/wolf-howls-memories-poet-dia-azzawi/, accessed 11/05/2023.

Acknowledgements:

The museum’s original texts were instrumental in contextualising Al-Azzawi’s works. The Barjeel Art Foundation’s website, as well as Al-Azzawi’s own, provided valuable background information. The tour led by Fatima el-Faki, Nadia Roeske, and Dr Francesca Leoni offered a greater exploration of Arabic poetic tradition, contemporary and ancient, than I can summate here.