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
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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 coffeepot resting on the edge of the stove in the back； my
diminutive coffee cups； the cushions； the light filtering through the half…
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opened window； the mirror I used to check the position of a page； my
shirts and； over there； my wife’s red sash caught like a sin in the corner where
she’d dropped it as she quickly quit the room upon hearing Black’s knock at
the front door。
Despite the fact that I’ve concealed my thoughts from him； I’ve surrendered
the paintings I’ve made and this room I live in to his bold and aggressive gaze。
I sense this hubris of mine will be a shock to you all； but I am the one who
earns the most money； and therefore； I am the best of all miniaturists！ Yes；
God must’ve wanted the art of illumination to be ecstasy so He could
demonstrate how the world itself is ecstasy to those who truly see。
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I AM CALLED “STORK”
At about the time of midday prayer I heard a knock at the door。 It was Black
from long ago； from our childhood。 We embraced。 He was chill and I invited
him inside。 I didn’t even ask how he’d found his way to the house。 His Enishte
must have sent him to question me about Elegant Effendi’s absence and his
whereabouts。 Not only that； he also brought word from Master Osman。
“Allow me to ask you a question；” he said。 “According to Master Osman；
”time‘ separates a true miniaturist from others： The time of the illustration。“
What were my thoughts？ Listen closely。
Painting and Time
Long ago； as is mon knowledge； the illustrators of our Islamic realm；
including； for example； the old Arab masters； perceiving the world the way
Frankish infidels do today； would regard everything and depict it from the
level of a vagabond； mutt or clerk at work in his shop。 Unaware of today’s
perspectival techniques； of which the Frankish masters haughtily boast； their
world remained dull and limited； restricted to the simple perspective of the
mutt or the shop clerk。 Then a great event came to pass and our entire world
of illustration changed。 Let me begin here。
Three Stories on Painting and Time
ALIF
Three hundred fifty years ago； when Baghdad fell to the Mongols and was
mercilessly plundered on a cold day in the month of Safar； Ibn Shakir was the
most renowned and proficient calligrapher and scribe not only of the whole
Arab world but of all Islamdom； despite his youth； he had transcribed twenty…
two volumes； most of which were Korans and could be found in the world…
famous libraries of Baghdad。 Ibn Shakir believed these books would last until
the end of the world； and； therefore； lived with a deep and infinite notion of
time。 He’d toiled heroically all through the night by flickering candlelight on
the last of those legendary books； which are unknown to us today because in
the span of a few days； they were one by one torn up； shredded； burned and
tossed into the Tigris River by the soldiers of the Mongol Khan Hulagu。 Just as
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the master Arab calligraphers； mited to the notion of the endless
persistence of tradition and books； had for five centuries been in the habit of
resting their eyes as a precaution against blindness by turning their backs to
the rising sun and looking toward the western horizon； Ibn Shakir ascended
the minaret of the Caliphet Mosque in the coolness of morning； and from the
balcony where the muezzin called the faithful to prayer； witnessed all that
would end a five…centuries…long tradition of scribal art。 First； he saw Hulagu’s
pitiless soldiers enter Baghdad； and yet he remained where he was atop the
minaret。 He watched the plunder and destruction of the entire city； the
slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people； the killing of the last of the
Caliphs of Islam who’d ruled Baghdad for half a millennium； the rape of
women； the burning of libraries and the destruction of tens of thousands of
volumes as they were thrown into the Tigris。 Two days later； amid the stench
of corpses and cries of death； he watched the flowing waters of the Tigris；
turned red from the ink bleeding out of the books； and he thought about how
all those volumes he’d transcribed in beautiful script； those books that were
now gone； hadn’t in the least served to stop this horrifying massacre and
devastation； and in turn； he swore never to write again。 Furthermore； he was
struck with the desire to express his pain and the disaster he’d witnessed
through painting； which until that day； he’d belittled and deemed an affront
to Allah； and so； making use of the paper he always carried with him； he
depicted what he saw from the top of the minaret。 We owe the happy miracle
of the three…hundred…year renaissance in Islamic illustration following the
Mongol invasion to that element which distinguished it from the artistry of
pagans and Christians； that is； to the truly agonizing depiction of the world
from an elevated Godlike position attained by drawing none other than a
horizon line。 We owe this renaissance to the horizon line； and also to Ibn
Shakir’s going north after the massacre he witnessed—in the direction the
Mongol armies had e from—carrying with him his paintings and the
ambition for illustration in his heart； in brief； we owe much to his learning the
painting techniques of the Chinese masters。 Thereby； it is evident that the
notion of endless time that had rested in the hearts of Arab calligrapher…
scribes for five hundred years would finally manifest itself not in writing； but
in painting。 The proof of this resides in the fact that the illustrations in
manuscripts and volumes that had been torn apart and vanished have passed
into other books and other volumes to survive forever in their revelation of
Allah’s worldly realm。
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BA
Once upon a time； not so very long ago yet not so recently； everything
imitated everything else； and thus； if not for aging and death； man would’ve
never been the wiser about the passage of time。 Yes； when the worldly realm
was repeatedly presented through the same stories and pictures； as if time did
not flow； Fahir Shah’s small army routed Selahattin Khan’s soldiers—as Salim
of Samarkand’s concise History attests。 After the victorous Fahir Shah captured
Selahattin Khan and tortured him to death； his first task in asserting his
sovereignty； according to custom； was to visit the library and the harem of the
vanquished khan。 In the library； the late Selahattin Khan’s experienced binder
pulled apart the dead shah’s books； and rearranging the pages； began to
assemble new volumes。 His ca