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capable of in order to fit the style of the workshop or an artist who would one 
day triumphantly depict the horse deep within himself? 
Suddenly and with terror; I felt the existence of that triumphant miniaturist 
within me。 It was as if I were being watched by another soul; and; in short; I 
was ashamed。 
I  quickly  knew  that  I  wouldn’t  be  able  to  remain  at  home;  and  bolting 
outside;  I  walked  briskly  down  the  darkened  streets。  As  Sheikh  Osman  Baba 
wrote  in  his  Lives  of  the  Saints;  in  order  for  a  genuine  wandering  dervish  to 
escape  the  devil  within;  he  must  roam  his  entire  life  without  remaining 
anywhere  too  long。  After  roaming  from  city  to  city  for  sixty…seven  years;  he 
tired  of  running  and  surrendered  to  the  Devil。  This  is  the  age  when  master 
miniaturists  attain  blindness;  or  the  darkness  of  Allah;  the  age  when  they 
involuntarily  achieve  a  style;  while  freeing  themselves  of  all  intimations  of 
style。 
I  wandered  through  the  Chicken…Sellers  Market  in  Bayazid;  through  the 
empty  square  of  the  slave  market;  amid  the  pleasant  aromas  of  soup  and 
pudding  shops;  as  if  searching。  I  passed  the  closed  doors  of  barbershops; 
clothes pressers; an old bread baker who was counting his money and looking 
at me in surprise; I passed a grocer’s shop smelling of pickles and salted fish; 
and since my eyes were taken only by colors; I walked into a herbs and notions 
shop where something was being weighed; and in the light of a lamp; stared 
passionately; the way one looks at one’s beloved; at the sacks of coffee; ginger; 
saffron  and  cinnamon;  the  colorful  cans  of  gum  mastic;  the  aniseed  whose 
scent  wafted  from  the  counter;  and  at  mounds  of  brown  and  black  cumin。 
304 
 
Sometimes I want to put everything into my mouth; sometimes I want to fill a 
page with a picture of all creation。 
I walked into the place where I’d filled my stomach twice before in the last 
week; which I’d personally named the “soup kitchen of the downtrodden”—
actually; of the “miserable” would’ve been more appropriate。 It was open until 
midnight to those who knew about it。 Inside were a few unfortunates dressed 
like horse thieves or like men who’d escaped the gallows; a couple of pathetic 
characters whose sorrow and hopelessness caused their sights to slip from this 
world to distant paradises; as happens with opium addicts; two beggars who 
were  at  pains  to  follow  even  basic  guild  etiquette;  and  a  young  gentleman 
who’d  seated  himself  in  a  corner  at  a  distance  from  this  crowd。  I  gave  the 
Aleppan cook a graceful greeting。 Heaping the meat…filled cabbage dolma into 
my bowl; I covered it with yogurt and topped it off with handfuls of hot red 
pepper flakes before taking a seat beside the young gentleman。 
Every night a sorrow overwhelms me; a misery descends upon me。 Oh; my 
brothers; my dear brothers; we’re being poisoned; we’re rotting; dying; we’re 
exhausting ourselves as we live; we’ve sunk up to our necks in misery…Some 
nights; I dream that he emerges from the well and es after me; but I know 
we’ve  buried  him  deeply  beneath  plenty  of  earth。  He  couldn’t  possibly  rise 
from the grave。 
The  gentleman;  who  I  thought  had  buried  his  nose  in  his  soup  and 
forgotten the whole world; opened the door to a conversation。 Was this a sign 
from  Allah?  “Yes;”  I  answered;  “they’ve  ground  the  meat  to  the  right 
consistency; my stuffed cabbage is quite to my liking。” I asked about him: He’d 
recently graduated from a miserable twenty…coin college and been taken into 
Arifi  Pasha’s  patronage  as  a  clerk。  I  didn’t  ask  him  why;  at  this  hour  of  the 
night; he wasn’t at the Pasha’s estate; at the mosque or at home in the arms of 
his  beloved  wife;  but  chose  instead  to  be  at  this  street  kitchen  teeming  with 
unmarried thugs。 He asked me where I’d e from and who I was。 I thought 
for a moment。 
“My  name  is  Bihzad。  I’ve  e  from  Herat  and  Tabriz。  I’ve  painted  the 
most  magnificent  pictures;  the  most  incredible  masterpieces。  In  Persia  and 
Arabia;  in  every  Muslim  book  arts  workshop  where  illustrations  are  made; 
they’ve  said  this  about  me  for  hundreds  of  years:  It  looks  real;  just  like  the 
work of Bihzad。” 
Of course; this isn’t the issue。 My paintings reveal what the mind; not the 
eye; sees。 But painting; as you know quite well; is a feast for the eyes。 If you 
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bine    these    two    thoughts;    my    world    will    emerge。    That    is: 
 
ALIF: 
Painting brings to life what the mind sees; as a feast for the eyes。 
LAM:          What the eye sees in the world enters the painting to the degree 
that it serves the mind。 
MIM: 
Consequently; beauty is the eye discovering in our world what 
the mind already knows。 
Did the graduate of the miserable college understand this logic; which I’d 
extracted  with  lightning  inspiration  from  the  depths  of  my  soul?  Not  at  all。 
Why?  Because;  though  you’ve  spent  three  years  seated  at  the  foot  of  a  hoja 
who  gives  lessons  in  an  out…of…the…way  neighborhood  religious  school  for 
twenty silver coins a day—today you can buy twenty loaves of bread with that 
amount—you  still  wouldn’t  know  who  the  hell  Bihzad  was。  It  was  obvious 
that  the  twenty…coin  Hoja  Effendi  didn’t  know  who  Bihzad  was  either。  All 
right then; let me explain。 I said: 
“I’ve painted everything; absolutely everything: Our Prophet at the mosque 
before the green prayer niche seated together with his four caliphs; in another 
book;  the  Apostle  and  Prophet  of  God  ascending  the  seven  heavens  on  the 
night of the Ascension; Alexander on his way to China banging on the drum of 
a seaside temple to scare off a monster stirring up the ocean with storms; a 
masturbating sultan spying on the beauties of his harem swimming naked in 
his  pool  while  listening  to  a  lute;  a  young  wrestler  sure  of  victory  after 
learning  all  his  mentor’s  moves;  only  to  be  defeated  in  the  presence  of  the 
Sultan  at  the  hands  of  his  mentor  who  had  yet  one  last  trick  up  his  sleeve; 
Leyla  and  Mejnun  as  children  kneeling  in  a  schoolroom  with  exquisitely 
decorated walls; falling in love while reciting the Glorious Koran; the inability 
of lovers; from the most embarrassed to the most crass; to look at each other; 
the stone by stone construction of palaces; the punishment by torture of the 
guilty; the flight of eagles; playful rabbits; treacherous tigers; cypress and plane 
trees  that  held  magpies;  Death;  peting  poets;  feasts  to  memorate 
victory; and men like you who see nothing but the soup before them。” 
The reserved clerk was no longer afraid; he even found me entertaining and 
was smiling。 
“Your Hoja Effendi must’ve had you read this; you’ll know it;” I continued。 
“There’s  a  story  I  love  from  Sadi’s  Garden。  You  know  the  one;  King  Darius 
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bees  separated  from  the  crowd  during  a  hunt  and  goes  off  to  roam  the 
hills。 Unexpectedly; a dangerous…looking stranger with a goatee appears before 
him。  The  king  falls  into  a  panic  and  reaches  for  the  bow  on  his  horse; 
whereupon the man begs; ”My king; hold off from shooting your arrow。 How 
is  it  that  you  haven’t  recognized  me?  Am  I  not  the  loyal  groom  to  whom 
you’ve entrusted a hundred horses and foals? How many times have we seen 
each  other?  I  know  each  of  your  hundred  horses  by  temperament  and 
disposition; nay; by color even。 So then; how is it you pay no attention to us; 
the  servants  under  your  mand;  even  those  like  myself  whom  you 
encounter with such frequency?“” 
When I depict this scene; I render the black; chestnut and white horses—so 
tenderly  cared  for  by  the  groom  in  a  heavenly  green  pasture  covered  with 
flowers  of  every  imaginable  color—with  such  happiness  and  calm  that  even 
the dullest of readers would understand the moral of Sadi’s story: The beauty 
and mystery of this world only emerges through affection; attention; interest 
and passion; if you want to live in that paradise where happy mares and 
stallions live; open your eyes wide and actually see this world by attending to 
its colors; details and irony。 
This  progeny  of  the  twenty…coin  hoja  was  at  once  entertained  and 
frightened by me。 He wanted to drop his spoon and flee; but I didn’t give him 
the chance。 
“This is how the master of masters Bihzad depicted the king; his groom and 
the horses in that picture;” I said。 “For a hundred years miniaturists haven’t 
stopped   imitating   those   horses。   Each   horse   rendered   out   of   Bihzad’s 
imagination and heart has bee a model of form。 Hundreds of miniaturists; 
including myself; can draw those horses from memory。 Have you ever seen a 
picture of a horse?” 
“I once saw a winged horse in an enchanting book that a great teache

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