violently out of an old book which I couldn’t identify； perhaps a collage album。
Obviously； Master Osman was overlooking quite a lot。
When we came to his own worktable； Nuri Effendi proudly stated that he
finished a gilded royal insignia for Our Sultan； which he’d been working on for
three weeks。 I respectfully admired Nuri Effendi’s gold inlay and the insignia；
which had been made on an empty sheet to ensure that its recipient and the
reason for its being sent would remain secret。 I knew well enough that many
66
impetuous pashas in the East had refrained from rebellion upon seeing the
noble and potent splendor of the Sultan’s royal insignia。
Next； we saw the last masterpieces that Jemal the Calligrapher had
transcribed； pleted and left behind； but we passed over them hastily to
avoid giving credence to opponents of color and decoration who maintained
that true art consisted of calligraphy alone and that decorative illumination
was simply a secondary means of adding emphasis。
Nas？r the Limner was making a mess of a plate he intended to repair from a
version of the Quintet of Nizami dating back to the era of Tamerlane’s sons；
the picture depicted Hüsrev looking at a naked Shirin as she bathed。
A niy…two…year…old former master who was half blind and had nothing
to say besides claiming that sixty years ago he kissed Master Bizhad’s hand in
Tabriz and that the great master of legend was blind and drunk at the time；
showed us with trembling hands the ornamentation on the pen box he would
present as a holiday gift to Our Sultan when it was pleted three months
hence。
Shortly a silence enveloped the whole workshop where close to eighty
painters； students and apprentices worked in the small cells which constituted
the lower floor。 This was a postbeating silence； the likes of which I’d
experienced many times； a silence which would be broken at times by a nerve…
wracking chuckle or a witticism； at times by a few sobs or the suppressed
moan of the beaten boy before his crying fit would remind the master
miniaturists of the beatings they themselves received as apprentices。 But the
half…blind niy…two…year…old master caused me to sense something deeper
for a moment； here； far from all the battles and turmoil： the feeling that
everything was ing to an end。 Immediately before the end of the world；
there would also be such silence。
Painting is the silence of thought and the music of sight。
As I kissed Master Osman’s hand to bid him farewell； I felt not only great
respect toward him； but a sentiment that plunged my soul into turmoil： pity
mixed with the adoration befitting a saint； a peculiar feeling of guilt。 This；
perhaps； because my Enishte—who wanted painters； openly or secretly； to
imitate the methods of the Frankish masters—was his rival。
I suddenly sensed； as well； that I was perhaps seeing the great master alive
for the last time； and in the fluster of wanting to please and hearten him； I
asked a question：
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“My great master； my dear sir； what separates the genuine miniaturist from
the ordinary？” I assumed the Head Illuminator； who was accustomed to such
fawning questions； would give me a dismissive response； and that he was
presently in the midst of forgetting who I was altogether。
“There is no single measure that can distinguish the great miniaturist from
the unskilled and faithless one；” he said in all seriousness。 “This changes with
time。 Yet the skills and morality with which he would face the evils that
threaten our art are of significance。 Today； in order to determine just how
genuine a young painter is； I’d ask him three questions。”
“And what would they be？”
“Has he e to believe； under the sway of recent custom as well as the
influence of the Chinese and the European Franks； that he ought to have an
individual painting technique； his own style？ As an illustrator； does he want to
have a manner； an aspect distinct from others； and does he attempt to prove
this by signing his name somewhere in his work like the Frankish masters？ To
determine precisely these things； I’d first ask him a question about ”style‘ and
“signature。”“
“And then？” I asked respectfully。
“Then； I’d want to learn how this illustrator felt about volumes changing
hands； being unbound； and our pictures being used in other books and in
other eras after the shahs and sultans who’d missioned them have died。
This is a subtle issue demanding a response beyond one’s being simply upset
or pleased by it。 Thus； I’d ask the illustrator a question about ”time‘—an
illustrator’s time and Allah’s time。 Do you follow me； my child？“
Nay。 But that’s not what I said。 Instead； I asked； “And the third question？”
“The third would be ”blindness‘！“ said the great master Head Illuminator
Osman； who then fell silent as if this required no explication。
“What is it about ”blindness‘？“ I said with embarrassment。
“Blindness is silence。 If you bine what I’ve just now said； the first and
the second questions； ”blindness’ will emerge。 It’s the farthest one can go in
illustrating； it is seeing what appears out of Allah’s own blackness。“
I said no more。 I walked outside。 I descended the icy stairs without
hurrying。 I knew that I would ask the great master’s three great questions of
Butterfly； Olive and Stork； not only for the sake of conversation； but to better
understand these living legends who were contemporaries of mine。
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I did not； however； go to the master illuminators’ houses immediately。 I
met with Esther near the Jewish quarter at a new bazaar that had an elevated
view of the confluence of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus。 Esther was all
atwitter in the pink dress she was forced to wear as a Jew； with her large and
lively body； her mouth which never stopped moving； and her eyebrows and
eyes which twitched madly and signaled to me； indeed； this is how she was
among the shopping slave women； the women wearing the faded and loose
caftans of poor neighborhoods and among the crowds that had lost
themselves amid carrots； quinces and small bundles of onions and turnips。
She stuffed the letter I gave her into her shalwar pants with an adept and
mysterious gesture； as if the whole market were spying upon us。 She told me
that Shekure was thinking of me。 She took her baksheesh and when I said；
“Please； make haste and deliver it straightaway；” she indicated that she still
had quite a lot of work to do by gesturing toward her bundle and said that she
only could deliver the letter to Shekure toward midday。 I asked her to tell
Shekure that I’d gone to pay visits to the three young and renowned master
miniaturists。
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I AM CALLED “BUTTERFLY”
The midday prayers had yet to be called。 A knock at the door： I opened it to
find Black Effendi； who was among us for a while during our apprenticeships。
We embraced and kissed on the cheeks。 I was wondering whether he’d
brought some word from his Enishte； when he said that he wanted to look at
the pages I’d been illustrating and at my paintings； that he’d called in
friendship； and was going to direct a question to me in the name of Our
Sultan。 “Very well；” I said； “ to answer？”
He told me。 Very well； then！
Style and Signature
“As long as the number of worthless artists motivated by money and fame
instead of the pleasure of seeing and a belief in their craft increases；” I said；
“we will continue to witness much more vulgarity and greed akin to this
preoccupation with ”style‘ and “signature。”“ I made this introduction because
this was the way it is done； not because I believed what I said。 True ability and
talent couldn’t be corrupted even by the love of gold or fame。 Furthermore； if
truth be told； money and fame are the inalienable rights of the talented； as in
my case； and only inspire us to greater feats。 But if I were to say this openly；
the mediocre illustrators in the miniaturists’ division； rabid with envy； would
pounce upon me； so； to prove that I love this work more than they themselves
do； I’ll paint the picture of a tree on a grain of rice。 I’m well aware that this
lust for ”style；“ ”signature’ and “character‘ has e to us all the way from
the East by way of certain unfortunate Chinese masters who’ve been led astray
under the influence of the Europeans； by pictures brought there from the West
by Jesuit priests。 Nevertheless； let me tell you three parables that prise a
recital on this topic。”
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Three Parables on Style and Signature
ALIF
Once upon a time； to the North of Herat； in a mountain castle； there lived a
young Khan who was fascinated with illuminating and painting。 This Khan
loved only one of the women in his harem； and this striking Tatar woman；
whom he loved madly； loved him in return。 They engaged in such bouts of
lovemaking； sweating until morning； and lived in such ecstasy that their only
wish was to live eternally。 They soon discovered the best way to realize their
wish was by opening books and gazing； for hours and hours and days on end；
upon the astounding and flawless pictures of the old masters。 As they stared at
these perfect renderings； unfalteringly reproduced； they felt as though time
would stop and their own felicity would mingle with the bliss of the golden
age revealed in the stories。 In the royal bookmaker’s workshop； there was a
miniaturist； a master of masters； who made the same flawless pieces over and
over for the same pages of the same books。 As was his custom； the master
depicted the anguish of Ferhad’s love for Shirin； or the loving and desirous
glances between Leyla and Mejnun； or the duplicitous； suggestive looks Hüsrev
and Shirin exchanged in that fabled heavenly garden—with one slight
alteration however： In place of these legendary lovers； the artist would paint
the Khan and his Tatar beauty。 Beholding these pages； the Khan and his
beloved were thoroughly convinced that their rapture would never end； and
they showered the master miniaturist with praises and gold。 Eventually；
however； this adulation caused the miniaturist to stray from good sense；
incited by the Devil； he dismissed the fact that he was beholden to the old
masters for the perfection of his pictures； and haughtily assumed that a touch
of his own genius would make his work even more appealing。 The Khan and
his beloved； considering these innovations—the personal stylistic touches of
the master miniaturist—nothing but imperfections； were deeply disturbed by
them。