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continue at first in their respective painting styles； over time； as with children
who gradually bee friends by roughhousing on the street； they’ll quarrel；
bond； struggle and promise。 The birth of a new style is the result of years
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of disagreements； jealousies； rivalries and studies in color and painting。
Generally； it’ll be the most gifted member of the workshop who fathers this
form。 Let’s also call him the most fortunate。 To the rest of the miniaturists
falls the singular duty of perfecting and refining this style through perpetual
imitation。”
Unable to look me straight in the eye； he assumed an unexpected gentle
manner； and begging my passion as much as my honesty； he asked me；
trembling like a maiden：
“Do I have a style of my own？”
I thought tears would flow from my eyes。 With all the gentleness； sympathy
and kindness I could muster； I hastened to tell him what I believed to be the
truth：
“You are the most talented； divinely inspired artist with the most
enchanted touch and eye for detail that I’ve seen in all my sixty years。 If you
put a painting before me which had seen the bined work of a thousand
miniaturists； I’d still be able to recognize instantly the God…given magnificence
of your pen。”
“Agreed； but I know you’re not wise enough to appreciate the mystery of
my skill；” he said。 “You’re lying； now； because you’re afraid of me。 Describe；
once again； the character of my methods。”
“Your pen selects the right line seemingly of its own accord； as if without
your touch。 What your pen draws is neither truthful nor frivolous！ When you
portray a crowded gathering； the tension emerging from the glances between
figures； their positioning on the page and the meaning of the text
metamorphose into an elegant eternal whisper。 I return to your paintings
again and again to hear that whisper； and each time； I realize with a smile that
the meaning has changed； and how shall I put it； I begin to read the painting
anew。 When these layers of meaning are taken together； a depth emerges that
surpasses even the perspectivism of the European masters。”
“Fine and well。 Forget about the European masters。 Start from the
beginning。”
“You have such a truly magnificent and forceful line； that the observer
believes in what you’ve painted rather than in reality itself。 And just as your
talent could create a picture that would force the most devout man to
renounce his faith； it could also bring the most hopeless； unrepentant
unbeliever to Allah’s path。”
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“True； but I’m not sure that amounts to praise。 Try again。”
“There’s no miniaturist who knows the consistency of paint and its secrets
as well as you do。 You always prepare and apply the glossiest； most vibrant；
most genuine colors。”
“Yes； and what else？”
“You know you’re the greatest of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali。”
“Yes； I’m aware of this。 If you are too； why are you making the book with
that model of mediocrity Black Effendi？”
“First； the work he does doesn’t require a miniaturist’s skill；” I said。
“Second； unlike yourself； he’s not a murderer。”
He smiled sweetly under the influence of my joke。 With this； I thought I
might be able to escape this nightmare thanks to a new expression—this word
“style。” Upon my broaching the subject； we began a pleasant discussion
concerning the bronze Mongol inkpot he held； not like father and son； but like
two curious and experienced old men。 The weight of the bronze； the balance of
the inkpot； the depth of its neck； the length of old calligraphy reed pens and
the mysteries of red ink； whose consistency he could feel as he gently swung
the inkpot before me…We agreed that if the Mongols hadn’t brought the
secrets of red paint—which they’d learned from Chinese masters—to
Khorasan； Bukhara and Herat； we in Istanbul couldn’t make these paintings at
all。 As we talked； the consistency of time； like that of the paint； seemed to
change； to flow ever more quickly。 In a corner of my mind I was wondering
why no one had yet returned home。 If only he’d put down that weighty object。
With our customary workaday ease； he asked me； “When your book is
finished； will those who see my work appreciate my skill？”
“If we can； God willing； finish this book without interference； Our Sultan
will look it over； of course； checking first to see whether we used enough gold
leaf in the appropriate places。 Then； as if reading a description of Himself； as
any sultan would； He’ll stare at his own portrait； struck by His own likeness
rather than by our magnificent illustrations； thereafter； if He takes the time to
examine the spectacle we’ve painstakingly and devotedly created at the
expense of the light of our eyes； so much the better。 You know； as well as I； that
barring a miracle； He’ll lock the book away in His treasury without even asking
who made the frame or the gilded illuminations； who painted this man or
that horse—and like all skillful artisans； we’ll go back to painting； ever hopeful
that one day a miracle of acknowledgment will find us。”
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We were silent for a while； as if patiently waiting for something。
“When will that miracle happen？” he asked。 “When will all those paintings
we’ve worked on until we could no longer see straight truly be appreciated？
When will they give me； give us； the respect we deserve？”
“Never！”
“How so？”
“They’ll never give you what you want；” I said。 “In the future； you’ll be even
less appreciated。”
“Books last for centuries；” he said proudly but without confidence。
“Believe me； none of the Veian masters have your poetic sensibility； your
conviction； your sensitivity； the purity and brightness of your colors； yet their
paintings are more pelling because they more closely resemble life itself。
They don’t