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第18节

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第18节

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green; saffron yellow or the color of goose shit。 Whosoever beholds the picture 
will  realize  in  the  first  rendering  this  is  a  dirt  square  and  should  be  earth…
colored; but in the second and third pictures; he’ll want other colors to keep 
himself amused。 Embellishing ought to bring merriment to the page。” 
I noticed some pictures on a sheet of paper that an assistant left in a corner。 
He was working on a single…leaf picture for a Book of Victories; the depiction of 
a naval fleet heading off to battle; but it was obvious that the screams of his 
friends whose soles were being severely beaten; provoked the illustrator to run 
off and watch。 The fleet he made by repeatedly tracing identical ships with a 
block pattern didn’t even seem to float in the sea; yet; this artificiality; the lack 
of  wind  in  the  sails;  had  less  to  do  with  the  block  pattern  than  the  young 
painter’s  lack  of  skill。  I  saw  with  sorrow  that  the  pattern  had  been  cut 
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: 
67 
 
“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。 
68 
 
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。 
 
 
   
69 
 
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

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