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was deserving of his talents； until he ended up in the workshop of an
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inconsequential chieftain who ruled over nothing but bare mountaintops。
Claiming that ”the khan’s dominions might be small but he knows painting；“
he spent the remaining twenty…five years of his life there。 Whether he ever
knew that this inconsequential lord was blind remains； even today； a subject of
conjecture and a source of humor。”
“Do you see this page？” I said well into the night； and this time they both
rushed to my side； candlesticks aloft。 “From the time of Tamerlane’s
grandchildren to the present； this volume has seen ten owners on its way here
from Herat over a span of one hundred fifty years。” Using my magnifying lens；
the three of us read the signatures； dedications； historical information and
names of sultans—who’d strangled one another—filling every corner of the
colophon page； pinched together； between and on top of each other： “This
volume was pleted in Herat； with the help of God； by the hand of
Calligrapher Sultan Veli； son of Muzaffer of Herat； in the year of the Hegira
849 for Ismet…üd Dünya； the wife of Muhammad Juki the victorious brother of
the Ruler of the World； Baysungur。” Later still； we read that the book had
passed into the possession of the Whitesheep Sultan Halil； thence to his son
Yakup Bey； and thence to the Uzbek sultans in the North； each of whom
happily amused himself with the book for a time； removing or adding one or
two pictures； beginning with the first owner； they added the faces of their
beautiful wives to the illustrations and appended their names proudly to the
colophon page； afterward； it passed to Sam Mirza who’d conquered Herat；
and he made a present of it； with a separate dedication； for his elder brother；
Shah Ismail； who in turn brought it to Tabriz and had it prepared as a gift with
yet another dedication。 When the denizen of paradise Sultan Selim the Grim
defeated Shah Ismail at Chaldiran and plundered the Seven Heavens Palace in
Tabriz； the book ended up here in this Treasury in Istanbul； after traveling
across deserts； mountains and rivers along with the victorious sultan’s
soldiers。
How much of an aging master’s interest and excitement did Black and the
dwarf share？ As I opened new volumes and turned their pages； I sensed the
profound sorrow of thousands of illustrators from hundreds of cities large and
small； each with a distinctive temperament； each painting under the patronage
of a different cruel shah； khan or chieftain； each displaying his talent and
succumbing to blindness。 I felt the pain of the beatings we all received during
our long apprenticeships； the blows inflicted with rulers； until our cheeks
turned bright red； or with marble polishing stones upon our shaven heads； as I
flipped—with humiliation—through the pages of a primitive book that
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displayed methods and implements of torture。 I had no idea what this
miserable book was doing in the Ottoman Treasury： Instead of seeing torture
as a necessary practice administered before the supervision of a judge to
ensure Allah’s justice in the world； infidel travelers would convince their
coreligionists of our cruelty and evil…heartedness by having dishonorable
miniaturists abase themselves and dash off these pictures in exchange for a few
gold pieces。 I was embarrassed at the obvious depraved pleasure with which
this miniaturist had drawn pictures of bastinados； beatings； crucifixions；
hangings by the neck or the feet； hookings； impalings； firings from cannon；
nailings； stranglings； the cutting of throats； feedings to hungry dogs；
whippings； baggings； pressings； soakings in cold water； the plucking of hair； the
breaking of fingers； the delicate flayings； the cutting off of noses and the
removal of eyes。 Only true artists like us who’d suffered throughout our
apprenticeships merciless bastinados； random pummelings and fists so that
the irritable master who drew a line incorrectly might feel better—not to
mention hours of blows from sticks and rulers so that the devil within us
would perish to be reborn as the jinn of inspiration—only we could feel such
extreme joy by depicting bastinados and tortures； only we could color these
implements with the gaiety of coloring a child’s kite。
Hundreds of years hence； men looking at our world through the
illustrations we’ve made won’t understand anything。 Desiring to take a closer
look； yet lacking the patience； they might feel the embarrassment； the joy； the
deep pain and pleasure of observation I now feel as I examine pictures in this
freezing Treasury—but they’ll never truly know。 As I turned the pages with my
old fingers numbed from the cold； my trusty mother…of…pearl…handled
magnifying lens and my left eye passed over the pictures like an old stork
traversing the earth； little surprised by the view below； yet still astonished to
see new things。 From these pages withheld from us for years； some of them
legendary； I came to know which artist had learned what from whom； in
which workshop under which shah’s patronage the thing we now call “style”
first took shape； which fabled master had worked for whom； and how； for
example； the curling Chinese clouds I knew had spread throughout Persia from
Herat under Chinese influence were also used in Kazvin。 I would occasionally
allow myself an exhausted “Aha！”； but an agony lurked deeper within me； a
melancholy and regret I can scarcely share with you for the belittled；
tormented； pretty； moon…faced； gazelle…eyed； sapling…thin painters—battered
by masters—who suffered for their art； yet remained full of excitement and
hope； enjoying the affection that developed between them and their masters
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and their shared love of painting； before succumbing to anonymity and
blindness after long years of toil。
It was with such melancholy and regret that I entered this world of fine and
delicate feelings； the possibility of whose depiction my soul had quietly
forgotten over years of rendering wars and celebrations for Our Sultan。 In an
album of collected pictures I saw a red…lipped； thin…waisted Persian boy
holding a book on his lap exactly as I was holding one at that moment； and it
reminded me of what shahs with a weakness for gold and power always forget：
The world’s beauty belongs to Allah。 On the page of another album drawn by
a young master from Isfahan； with tears in my eyes； I beheld two marvelous
youths in love with each other； and was reminded of the love my own
handsome apprentices nourished for painting。 A tiny…footed； transparent…
skinned； weak and girlish youth had bared a delicate forearm； which aroused
in one the desire to kiss it and die； while a cherry…lipped； almond…eyed；
sapling…thin； button…nosed beauty of a maiden gazed with wonder—as though
viewing three lovely flowers—upon the three small； deep marks of passion the
youth had burned onto the inside of that adorable arm to demonstrate the
strength of his love and his attachment to her。
Oddly； my heart began to quicken and pound。 As had happened sixty years
ago in my early apprenticeship； while I was looking at some rather indecent
illustrations of handsome marble…skinned boys and slim small…breasted
maidens drawn in the black…ink style of Tabriz； beads of sweat accumulated on
my forehead。 I recalled the passion for painting I felt and the depth of thought
I experienced when； a few years after I’d married and taken my first steps
toward master status； I saw a lovely ang