太子爷小说网 > 文学电子书 > my name is red-我的名字叫红 >

第20节

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第20节

小说: my name is red-我的名字叫红 字数: 每页4000字

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页,按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页,按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部!
————未阅读完?加入书签已便下次继续阅读!



eyes and high cheekbones; and this was straightaway perceived as a flaw by the 
Shah and his daughter。 True; this miniaturist hadn’t signed his name; but in 
his  splendid  painting;  he’d  apparently  included  a  masterful  variation  in  the 
horse’s   nostrils   to   distinguish   the   work。   The   Shah;   declaring   that 
“Imperfection is the mother of style;” exiled this illustrator to Byzantium。 Yet 
there  was  one  last  significant  event  according  to  the  weighty  History  by 
Rashiduddin  of  Kazvin;  which  occurred  when  preparations  were  being  made 
for  the  wedding  between  the  Shah’s  daughter  and  the  talented  miniaturist; 
who  painted  exactly  like  the  old  masters  without  any  signature  or  variation: 
For the entire day before the wedding; the Shah’s daughter gazed grief…stricken 
at  the  painting  made  by  the  young  and  handsome  great  master  who  was  to 
73 
 
bee  her  husband  on  the  morrow。  As  darkness  fell  that  evening;  she 
presented herself to her father: “It is true; yes; that the old masters; in their 
exquisite paintings; would depict beautiful maidens as Chinese; and this is an 
unalterable  rule  e  to  us  from  the  East;”  she  said。  “But  when  they  loved 
someone;  the  painters  would  include  an  aspect  of  their  beloved  in  the 
rendering of the beautiful maiden’s brow; eye; lip; hair; smile; or even eyelash。 
This secret variation in their illustrations would be a sign that could be read by 
the lovers and the lovers alone。 I’ve stared at the beautiful maiden mounted 
on her horse for the whole day; my dear father; and there’s no trace of me in 
her! This miniaturist is perhaps a great master; he’s young and handsome; but 
he does not love me。” Thereupon; the Shah canceled the wedding at once; and 
father and daughter lived out the remainder of their lives together。 
 
“Thus;  according  to  this  third  parable;  imperfection  gives  rise  to  what  we 
call ”style;“” said Black quite politely and respectfully。 “And does the fact that 
the  miniaturist  is  in  love  bee  apparent  from  the  hidden  ”sign‘  in  the 
image of the beauty’s face; eye or smile?“ 
“Nay;”  I  said  in  a  manner  that  bespoke  my  confidence  and  pride。  “What 
passes  from  the  maiden;  the  focus  of  the  master  miniaturist’s  love;  to  his 
picture is not ultimately imperfection or flaw but a new artistic rule。 Because; 
after a time and through imitation; everyone will begin to depict the faces of 
maidens just like that particular beautiful maiden’s face。” 
We fell silent。 I saw that Black; who’d listened intently to the three parables 
I  recounted;  had  now  focused  his  attentions  upon  the  sounds  my  attractive 
wife  made  as  she  roamed  the  hallway  and  the  next  room。  I  glared  at  him 
menacingly。 
“The first story established that ”style‘ is imperfection;“ I said。 ”The second 
story  established  that  a  perfect  picture  needs  no  signature;  and  the  third 
marries  the  ideas  of  the  first  and  the  second;  and  thus  demonstrates  that 
“signature’  and  ”style‘  are  but  means  of  being  brazenly  and  stupidly  self…
congratulatory about flawed work。“ 
How  much  did  this  man;  to  whom  I’d  just  given  an  invaluable  lesson; 
understand  of  painting?  I  said:  “Have  you  understood  who  I  am  from  my 
stories?” 
“Certainly;” he said; without conviction。 
74 
 
So  you  don’t  try  to  discern  who  I  am  through  his  eyes  and  perceptions; 
allow me to tell you directly。 I can do anything。 Like the old masters of Kazvin; 
I can draw and color with pleasure and glee。 I say this with a smile: I’m better 
than everybody。 I have nothing whatsoever to do with the reason for Black’s 
visit; which—if perchance my intuition serves me correctly—is the disappear…
ance of Elegant Effendi the Gilder。 
Black asked me about the mixing of marriage and art。 
I  work  a  lot  and  I  enjoy  my  work。  I  recently  married  the  most  beautiful 
maiden  in  the  neighborhood。  When  I’m  not  illuminating;  we  make  love  like 
mad。 Then I set to working again。 That’s not how I answered。 “It’s a serious 
issue;” I said。 “If masterpieces issue from the brush of a miniaturist; when it 
es to issuing it to his wife; he’ll be at a loss to bestir the same joy;” I said。 
“The opposite holds true as well: If a man’s reed satisfies the wife; his reed of 
artistry will pale in parison;” I added。 Like everyone who envies the talent 
of the miniaturist; Black; too; believed these lies and was heartened。 
He said he wanted to see the last pages I’d illustrated。 I seated him at my 
worktable;  among  the  paints;  inkwells;  burnishing  stones;  brushes;  pens  and 
reed…cutting boards。 Black was examining the double…leaf painting I was in the 
process of pleting for the Book of Festivities; which portrayed Our Prince’s 
circumcision  ceremony;  and  I  sat  beside  him  on  the  red  cushion  whose 
warmth  reminded  me  that  my  beautiful  wife  with  her  gorgeous  thighs  had 
been sitting here recently; indeed; I had used my reed pen to draw the sorrow 
of the unfortunate prisoners before Our Sultan; as my intelligent wife clung to 
the reed of my manhood。 
The two…page scene I was painting depicted the deliverance of condemned 
and  imprisoned  debtors  and  their  families  by  the  grace  of  Our  Sultan。  I’d 
situated  the  Sultan  on  the  corner  of  a  carpet  covered  in  bags  full  of  silver 
coins;  as  I’d  personally  witnessed  during  such  ceremonies。  Behind  Him;  I’d 
located  the  Head  Treasurer  holding  and  reading  out  of  the  debt  ledger。  I’d 
portrayed the condemned debtors; chained to each other by the iron shackles 
around their necks; in their misery and pain with knit brows; long faces and 
some with teary eyes。 I’d painted the lute players in shades of red with beatific 
faces  as  they  acpanied  the  joyous  prayers  and  poems  that  followed  the 
Sultan’s  presentation  of  His  benevolent  gift:  sparing  the  condemned  from 
prison。 To emphasize deliverance from the pain and embarrassment of debt—
though  I  had  no  such  plan  at  the  outset—beside  the  last  of  the  miserable 
prisoners; I’d included his wife; wearing a purple dress in the wretchedness of 
destitution;  along  with  his  longhaired daughter;  sorrowful  yet  beautiful;  clad 
75 
 
in a crimson mantle。 So that this man Black; with his furrowed brows; might 
understand  how  illustrating  equaled  love…of…life;  I  was  going  to  explain  why 
the chained gang of debtors was extended across two pages; I was going to tell 
him about the hidden logic of red within the picture; I was going to elucidate 
the things my wife and I had laughingly discussed while admiring the piece; 
such as how I’d lovingly colored—something the old masters never did—the 
dog resting off to the side in precisely the same hue as the Sultan’s caftan of 
atlas silk; but he asked me a very rude; discourteous question: 
Would I; perchance; have any idea where unfortunate Elegant Effendi might 
be? 
What did he mean “unfortunate”! I didn’t say that Elegant Effendi was a 
worthless  plagiarist;  a  fool  who  did  his  gilding  for  money  alone  with  nary  a 
hint of inspiration。 “Nay;” I said; “I do not know。” 
Had  I  ever  considered  that  the  aggressive  and  fanatical  followers  of  the 
preacher from Erzurum might’ve done Elegant Effendi harm? 
I  maintained  my  posure  and  refrained  from  responding  that  Elegant 
Effendi himself was no doubt one of their lot。 “Nay;” I said。 “Why?” 
The poverty; plague; immorality and scandal we are slave to in this city of 
Istanbul  can  only  be  attributed  to  our  having  distanced  ourselves  from  the 
Islam  of  the  time  of  Our  Prophet;  Apostle  of  God;  to  adopting  new  and  vile 
customs  and  to  allowing  Frankish;  European  sensibilities  to  flourish  in  our 
midst。 This is all that the Preacher Erzurumi is saying; but his enemies attempt 
to persuade the Sultan otherwise by claiming that the Erzurumis are attacking 
dervish lodges where music is played; and that they’re defacing the tombs of 
saints。  They  know  I  don’t  share  their  animosity  toward  His  Excellency 
Erzurumi;  so  they’re  making  polite  insinuations:  “Are  you  the  one  who  has 
taken care of our brother Elegant Effendi?” 
It  suddenly  dawned  on  me  that  these  rumors  had  long  been  spreading 
among  the  miniaturists。  That  group  of  uninspired;  untalented  inpetents 
was  gleefully  alleging  that  I  was  nothing  but  a  beastly  murderer。  I  felt  like 
lowering  an  inkpot  onto  the  Circassian  skull  of  this  buffoon  Black  purely 
because he took the slander of this jealous group of miniaturists seriously。 
Black  was  examining  my  workshop;  mitting  everything  he  saw  to 
memory。  He  was  intently  observing  my  long  paper  scissors;  ceramic  bowls 
filled with yellow pigment; bowls of paint; the apple I occasionally nibbled as I 
worked;  the  coff

返回目录 上一页 下一页 回到顶部 0 0

你可能喜欢的