Demons, Ascetics, and the Black Pen

Anyone who grew up with "Where the Wild Things Are" will find something hauntingly familiar in the work of the late Maurice Sendak. The visual DNA of his monsters leads back to a mysterious Turkish artist: Mehmed Siyah Qalam, or "Mehmed of the Black Pen." The resemblance in their figures and physical postures is striking, even if the connection is likely a case of pure artistic coincidence.

We know almost nothing about the painter’s life. Most illustrations attributed to his hand are now kept in the Topkapi Palace Museum in Istanbul, bound in albums known as *Murakka*. These scrapbooks of the soul were prized by collectors across the Islamic world from the 16th century onward, serving as repositories for fine calligraphy and disparate sketches.

Because these albums were assembled from such varied sources, dating and placing the works is a scholar’s nightmare. This is particularly true for Siyah Qalam. While research is divided, current scholarship generally places him in 14th-century Khorasan, though some argue for Tabriz or even as late as the 16th century.

Beyond the timeline, it remains unclear whether these drawings are the work of a single master or a collective of artists sharing a singular, dark vision. Regardless of their origin, I find these illustrations nothing short of spellbinding.

The style is an anomaly—unlike anything produced before or after in the Islamic world. It populates the page with nomads, Sufi ascetics, and my personal favorites: demons.

The paintings are a hybrid of material cultures, blending East Asian stylistic flourishes with motifs born of nomadic Turkish life in Central Asia. This synthesis was a unique byproduct of the Mongol Empire. At its 13th-century peak, this vast dominion catalyzed a cross-cultural exchange so massive its echoes vibrated for centuries after the empire splintered into successor states—perhaps even reaching us today.

Under Mongol rule, disparate peoples, faiths, and technologies collided to create a fascinating cultural alloy. The Siyah Qalam paintings are a perfect specimen of this late-Mongol melting pot.

As a testament to these transcontinental encounters, Siyah Qalam’s demons bear a startling resemblance to the *Dharmapāla* (Dharma protectors) of Mahayana Buddhism, particularly in its Tantric forms. This renewed dialogue between Buddhism and Islam—occurring some five00 years after Buddhism had faded from the Iranian world—would have been impossible if the Mongol cavalry had not trampled the barriers between East and West.

One painting captures this synthesis perfectly: a group of demons, likely filtered through a Buddhist lens, bound in chains. One plays a Persian *kamancheh*, while another holds a Chinese porcelain vessel decorated in cobalt blue. The production of such porcelain, now synonymous with the Ming Dynasty, actually began under the Mongol Yuan period. It was only made possible when Persian artisans, under the aegis of Mongol rulers in Iran and China, transferred the technology for cobalt decoration across the Silk Road.

A Tang Dynasty tomb guardian (*Zhenmushou*) from the 8th century—could this be another ancestor of the style?

The material world depicted in these works—the clothing, fabrics, and metalwork—is distinctly East Asian. Yet, look closer, and you see the fingerprints of Middle Eastern and even Hellenistic influences.

Many of Siyah Qalam’s illustrations evoke a Central Asian worldview that feels largely pre-Islamic. It is a world of wandering storytellers trekking under steel skies, moving between dusty encampments to spin tales where history blurs into myth, and demons walk alongside men.

Despite these ancient roots, some paintings depict the lives of wandering Sufi ascetics who roamed the frontiers between the Eurasian steppe and the settled lands to the south. One of the most prominent orders in Transoxiana and Khorasan was the *Qalandariyya*.

The origins of the Qalandars are misty, but they seem linked to the *Malamatiyya*, a mystical movement that emerged in 9th-century Nishapur. In their early days, these mystics weren't even recognized as Sufis by the Baghdad establishment; they were seen as something else entirely. They represented a Central Asian mystical tradition that absorbed everything in its path—shamanism, Buddhism, and the raw cultural energy of the Mongol era.

Buddhist monks or Sufi dervishes? Siyah Qalam leaves the question open.

A Mongol shaman.

The Malamatiyya path centered on the *nafs*—the lower soul or ego. They believed the ego could actually grow stronger if fed by the respect and social standing that often comes with a "holy" life. Their solution was radical: they sought to crush the ego through *malama*—constant self-blame and public reproach.

The Qalandariyya, flourishing in the 11th century, lived far from the urban centers of Islamic learning. They were the outsiders—unorthodox, decentralized, and welcoming to runaway slaves and social outcasts. Their "anti-orthodox" path embraced music, dance, and even wine as tools for spiritual elevation. These practices were anathema to the religious establishment and to more sober orders like the Naqshbandiyya, who had no patience for the "drunken" Sufism of the Qalandars.

Siyah Qalam’s brush captures these dervishes in moments of music, dance, and profound solitude. He clearly knew their world intimately; he may well have been one of them.

Without surviving texts to guide us, Siyah Qalam’s work remains a beautiful enigma. We are left to guess at the mythology they illustrate. This world of shamans, demons, and wandering mystics—a world of forgotten Turkish epics and the faint sound of ancient strings—remains largely closed to us. One can only hope that a manuscript lies waiting in some dusty library in Istanbul or Isfahan, ready to speak for these silent, ancient ghosts of the steppe.

An echo of Siyah Qalam, perhaps filtered through Indian influence. An illustration for Nizami’s 'Haft Paykar,' Bukhara School, 1648.