Shinsunghwa: The Visualization of Hafez’s Spiritual Energy (2019)
What is ShinsungHwa?
ShinsungHwa is a unique form of spiritual art where drawings emerge through spontaneous, flowing movements. Artists tap into their subject’s energy and let Qi(氣) guide their hands, creating geometric patterns that serve as a universal language.
Understanding Hafez’s ShinsungHwa
When you first see Hafez’s ShinsungHwa, there’s an immediate glow—overwhelming, yet captivating enough to catch you by surprise. The mandorla stretches across eleven distinct layers, dominating the composition with a mix of intensity and solidity. It’s a presence that naturally makes you stop and take notice.
What stands out next is the double-layered ‘path to the spiritual core’ cutting through the piece. Along this path, a blue ‘symbol of light’ seems to gently bloom, quietly unfolding as if something is coming into being.
Quote
دلبر آمد و دل ما به درد آمد
صحبت ما خوش و مِی به دست آمد
“The beloved arrived, and my heart was moved;
Sweet talk and wine were brought to hand.”
هرگز رنگ عشق نو نخواهد شد
چون تو در دل من بودهای از ازل
“The color of new love will never appear,
Because you have lived in my heart since eternity.”
یا رب تویی آنکه بینیاز و ما محتاجیم
تو مدد رسان و گر نه خلق همه دست از ما برگرفتند
“O Lord, You alone are self-sufficient while we are needy.
Help us, for if not, all creatures will turn away from us.”
قطره چون به دریای عشق رسید، چه شود؟
گوهر گردد و به بحر آید، چه شود؟
“When a drop reaches the sea of love, what will happen?
It becomes a jewel and joins the ocean—what a change!”
در ازل پرتو حسنت ز تجلّی دم زد
عشق پیدا شد و آتش به همه عالم زد
“In eternity, the ray of Your beauty sparked manifestation,
Love appeared and set fire to the entire world.”
Hafez: The Story of a Persian Voice
Here’s how it starts: a family in Shiraz on a quiet autumn night. After dinner, they open a slim, cloth-bound book, silently ask a question, and let a page fall open. They trust that the verse waiting there holds an answer—or at least a gentle hint. The book is Hafez’s Divan, and in countless Iranian homes it sits beside the Qur’an, worn at the edges, quietly trusted. This simple ritual captures everything about the poet: his words feel intimate yet mysterious. Who was this man whose couplets still guide, tease, and comfort people nearly seven centuries later?
Born in Shiraz
Scholars place Hafez’s birth around 1315-1317 in the garden city of Shiraz. His full name was Khājeh Shams-od-Dīn Moḥammad Ḥāfeẓ-e Shīrāzī, but history remembers only “Hafez”—”one who has memorized”—because he knew the entire Qur’an by heart as a child. His early years remain hazy; we first encounter him as a young man already praised for his sharp mind and golden voice. That haziness suits him perfectly. From the beginning, facts blur while music endures.
Learning by Heart
Hafez came of age in a city buzzing with merchants, scholars, and wandering musicians. He absorbed it all—Persian calligraphy, the songs of masters like Rumi and Saadi. He worked briefly as a baker’s assistant, hauling flour sacks, but spent evenings at the mosque school where verses filled the air. Scripture mastery earned him teaching work at a religious college, then a coveted position as court poet. In those halls he witnessed splendor alongside intrigue and fear. The contradictions sharpened his wit—gentle, but razor-edged.
A New Kind of Song
Hafez specialized in ghazals—short lyrics of six to fifteen couplets that circle emotions rather than chase conclusions. Love, faith, spring blossoms, and red wine weave through his work, not as separate themes but as keys to the same hidden door. In Sufi tradition, earthly wine symbolizes divine intoxication, and Hafez plays with this until readers can’t tell which cup he’s raising. His conversational Persian abandoned stuffy court flattery; he’d dash off two lines of praise, then dive into what really mattered—friendship, longing, the scent of orange blossoms after rain.
Small Sparks of Rebellion
Sweetness never masked Hafez’s bite. He mocked judges who lectured about virtue while pocketing bribes, laughed at clerics who banned music while humming privately. Shah Shuja reportedly banished him after feeling ridiculed. Strict theologians condemned his tavern talk as sinful and tried censoring public readings. Even today, readers debate whether his wine is literal or symbolic. The truth? Probably both. He knew real taverns and understood how an ordinary sip could signify something transcendent.
An Ordinary Death, an Unusual Life
When Hafez died around 1389, supporters and critics fought over his burial. Legend says they settled it the old way: opening his Divan at random. The chosen verse seemed to bless a peaceful resting place in Shiraz. Today visitors find his tomb beneath cypress trees, often surrounded by schoolchildren reciting his couplets. No grand monument marks the spot—just simple marble and the steady crunch of footsteps on gravel.
Why He Still Matters
A voice in every home: Iranians still practice fal-e Hafez—opening the Divan for guidance during New Year or difficult times.
Living language: Persian speakers quote his phrases like English speakers quote Shakespeare, often unconsciously.
Global bridge: Translators from Gertrude Bell to Henry Wilberforce Clarke have carried his ghazals into dozens of languages, influencing everyone from Goethe to Emerson.
Mirror, not monument: His poems avoid fixed meanings, letting each reader find personal reflections. Some see a mystic; others, a witty realist who loved gardens and good conversation.
Questions That Linger
Was he a devout Sufi or cheerful skeptic? Evidence suggests genuine mystical leanings, but his playful tone defies easy labels.
Did he really leave Shiraz in exile? Reports conflict; no solid records prove the journey.
How many poems are authentic? Editors still debate which texts belong in a reliable Divan—counts range from 486 to 495 ghazals.
Reading Him with Kids in Mind
Ten-year-olds might enjoy Hafez for his vivid imagery alone: roses, nightingales, clinking cups. Try starting with a simple couplet and exploring double meanings. Why does a nightingale sing loudest at dusk? Maybe it misses the sun, maybe it’s showing off. Both answers work. His lines teach readers—young and old—to sit with questions instead of rushing toward answers.
Closing the Book
Visit Shiraz on a mild spring evening and you might hear teenagers humming pop songs near Hafez’s tomb while grandparents trace carved letters with their fingertips. The scene feels ordinary, almost casual, yet carries centuries in its breath. That mix—light on the surface, profound underneath—captures the poet perfectly. He never preached, rarely boasted, often laughed. In return, people kept listening. The final word belongs to you. Open the Divan, see what line appears, and let it walk with you down the quiet road home.
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