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

第77节

my name is red-我的名字叫红-第77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!



country;  he’d  forgotten  these  old  styles;  if  he’d  ever  actually  learned  them。 
Though the value of many miniaturists resides precisely in the splendid models 
of form they’ve mitted to memory; had Velijan truly forgotten them; he’d 
have bee an even greater illustrator。 Still; there were two benefits; of which 
he wasn’t even aware; to harboring the teachings of his mentors in the depths 
of  his  soul  like  a  pair  of  unconfessed  sins:  1。  For  such  a  gifted  miniaturist; 
clinging  to  old  forms  inevitably  stirred  feelings  of  guilt  and  alienation  that 
would  spur  his  talent  to  maturity。  2。  In  a  moment  of  difficulty;  he  could 
always   recall   what   he   claimed   to   have   forgotten;   and   thus;   he   could 
successfully plete any new subject; history or scene by recourse to one of 
the  old  Herat  models。  With  his  keen  eye;  he  knew  how  to  harmonize  what 
he’d  learned  from  the  old  forms  and  Shah  Tahmasp’s  old  masters  in  new 
pictures。 Herat painting and Istanbul ornamentation happily merged in Olive。 
As  with  all  of  my  miniaturists;  I  once  paid  an  unannounced  visit  to  his 
home。 Unlike my work area and that of many other master miniaturists; his 
was  a  filthy  confusion  of  paints;  brushes;  burnishing  shells;  his  folding 
worktable  and  other  objects。  It  was  a  mystery  to  me;  but  he  wasn’t  even 
embarrassed  by  it。  He  took  no  outside  jobs  to  earn  a  few  extra  silver  coins。 
After  I  related  these  facts;  Black  said  it  was  Olive  who  showed  the  most 
enthusiasm  for  and  the  most  ease  with  the  styles  of  the  Frankish  masters 
admired by his late Enishte。 I understood this to be praise from the deceased 
fool’s  point  of  view;  mistaken  though  it  was。  I  can’t  say  whether  Olive  was 
more deeply and secretly bound to the Herat styles—which went back to his 
father’s mentor Siyavush and Siyavush’s mentor Muzaffer; back to the era of 
Bihzad and the old masters—than he appeared to be; but it always made me 
wonder whether Olive harbored other hidden tendencies。 Of my miniaturists 
280 
 
(I  told  myself  spontaneously);  he  was  the  most  quiet  and  sensitive;  but  also 
the most guilty and traitorous; and by far the most devious。 When I thought 
about the mander’s torture chambers; he was the first to e to mind。 
(I both wanted and didn’t want him to be tortured。) He had the eyes of a jinn; 
he noticed and took account of everything; including my own shortings; 
however;  with  the  reserve  of  an  exile  able  to  acmodate  himself  to  any 
situation; he’d rarely open his mouth to point out mistakes。 He was wily; yes; 
but  not  in  my  opinion  a  murderer。  (I  didn’t  tell  Black  this。)  Olive  didn’t 
believe in anything。 He had no faith in money; but he’d nervously squirrel it 
away。  Contrary  to  what  is  monly  believed;  all  murderers  are  men  of 
extreme  faith  rather  than  unbelievers。  Manuscript  illumination  leads  to 
painting;  and  painting;  in  turn;  leads  to—God  forbid—challenging  Allah。 
Everybody  knows  this。  Therefore;  to  judge  by  his  lack  of  faith;  Olive  is  a 
genuine  artist。  Nevertheless;  I  believe  that  his  God…given  gifts  fall  short  of 
Butterfly’s; or even Stork’s。 I would’ve wanted Olive to be my son。 As I said 
this; I wanted to incur Black’s jealousy; but he only responded by opening his 
dark   eyes   and   staring   with   childlike   curiosity。   Then   I   said   Olive   was 
magnificent  when  he  worked  in  black  ink;  when  he  rendered;  for  pasting  in 
albums;  warriors;  hunting  scenes;  Chinese…inspired  landscapes  full  of  storks 
and cranes; pretty boys gathered beneath a tree reciting verse and playing lutes; 
and when he depicted the sorrow of legendary lovers; the wrath of a sword…
bearing; enraged shah; and a hero’s expression of fear as he dodged the attack 
of a dragon。 
“Perhaps  Enishte  wanted  Olive  to  do  the  last  picture  that  would  show  in 
great  detail;  in  the  style  of  the  Europeans;  Our  Sultan’s  face  and  manner  of 
sitting;” Black said。 
Was he trying to confuse me? 
“Supposing  this  were  the  case;  after  Olive  killed  Enishte;  why  would  he 
abscond with a picture he was already familiar with?” I said。 “Or; if you like; 
why would he murder Enishte in order to see that picture?” 
We both pondered these questions for a while。 
“Because  there’s  something  missing  in  that  painting;”  said  Black。  “Or 
because  he  regrets  something  he  did  and  is  scared  by  it。  Or  even…”  he 
thought for a while。 “Or; having killed Enishte; he might’ve taken the painting 
to do further harm; for the sake of having a memento; or even for no reason at 
all。 Olive is; after all; a great illustrator who’d naturally have a lot of respect for 
a beautiful painting。” 
281 
 
“We’ve  already  discussed  in  what  ways  Olive  is  a  great  illustrator;”  I  said; 
growing angry。 “But none of Enishte’s illustrations is beautiful。” 
“We haven’t yet seen the last painting;” Black said boldly。 
 
The Attributes of Butterfly 
 
He is known as Hasan Chelebi from the Gunpowder Factory district; but to me 
he’s always been “Butterfly。” This nickname always reminds me of the beauty 
of  his  boyhood  and  youth:  He  was  so  handsome  that  those  who  saw  him 
didn’t  believe  their  eyes  and  wanted  a  second  look。  I’ve  always  been 
astonished by the miracle of his being as talented as he is handsome。 He’s a 
master  of  color  and  this  is  his  greatest  strength;  he  painted  passionately; 
reeling with the pleasure of applying color。 But I cautioned Black that Butterfly 
was flighty; aimless and indecisive。 Anxious to be just; I added: He’s a genuine 
miniaturist  who  paints  from  the  heart。  If  the  arts  of  ornamentation  are  not 
meant to cater to intelligence; to speak to the animal within us; or to bolster 
the pride of the Sultan; that is; if this art is meant to be only a festival for the 
eyes; then Butterfly is indeed a true miniaturist。 He makes wide; easy; blithe 
curves; as if he’d taken lessons from the masters of Kazvin forty years ago; he 
confidently  applies  his  bright;  pure  colors;  and  there’s  always  a  gentle 
circularity hidden in the arrangement of his paintings; but I’m the one who 
trained him; not those long…dead masters of Kazvin。 Maybe it’s for this reason 
that  I  love  him  like  a  son;  nay;  more  than  a  son—but  I  never  felt  any  awe 
toward him。 As with all of my apprentices; in his boyhood and adolescence; I 
beat him freely with brush handles; rulers and even pieces of wood; but this 
doesn’t mean I don’t respect him。 Though I beat Stork frequently with rulers; I 
respect  him  too。  In  contrast  to  what  the  casual  onlooker  might  assume;  a 
master’s beating doesn’t rid the young apprentice of jinns of talent and the 
Devil;  but  only  suppresses  them  temporarily。  If  it  happens  to  be  a  good 
beating;  and  deserved;  later  on  the  jinns  and  the  Devil  will  rise  up  and 
stimulate  the  developing  miniaturist’s  resolve  to  work。  As  for  the  beatings  I 
administered to Butterfly; they shaped him into a content and obedient artist。 
I at once felt the need to praise him to Black: “Butterfly’s artistry;” I said; 
“is solid proof that the picture of bliss; which the celebrated poet ponders in 
his masnawi; is only possible through a God…given gift for understanding and 
applying color。 When I realized this; I  also realized what Butterfly lacked: He 
hadn’t known that momentary loss of faith that Jami refers to in his poetry as 
282 
 
”the dark night of the soul。“ Like an illustrator painting in the great happiness 
of Heaven; he sets to his work with conviction and contentment; believing that 
he can make a blissful painting; which he does succeed in doing。 Our armies 
besieging  Doppio  castle;  the  Hungarian  ambassador  kissing  the  feet  of  Our 
Sultan; Our Prophet ascending through the seven heavens; these are of course 
all inherently happy scenes; but rendered by Butterfly; they bee flights of 
ecstasy springing from the page。 In an illustration of mine; if the darkness of 
death  or  the  seriousness  of  a  government  session  weighs  heavy;  I’ll  tell 
Butterfly to ”color it as you see fit;“ and thereupon; the outfits; leaves; flags 
and  sea  that  lay  there  muted  as  if  sprinkled  with  dirt  meant  to  fill  a  grave 
begin  to  ripple  in  the  breeze。  There  are  times  when  I  think  Allah  wants  the 
world  to  be  seen  the  way  Butterfly  illustrates  it;  that  He  wants  life  to  be 
jubilation。   Indeed;   this   is   a   realm   where   colors   harmoniously   recite 
magnificent  ghazals  to  each  other;  where  time  stops;  where  the  Devil  never 
appears。” 
However; even Butterfly knows this isn’t enough。 Someone must have quite 
rightly—yes; in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything 
was as joyous as a holiday; but devoid of d

返回目录 上一页 下一页 回到顶部 0 0

你可能喜欢的