cradling the dying Darius from Firdusi’s Book of Kings… the account of the
teacher who falls in love with his handsome student from Sadi’s Rosegarden
…the contest of doctors from Nizami’s Treasury of Secrets…” The other
miniaturists； vexed by their elderly and blind colleague； said； “We could’ve
told you that as well。 These are the best…known scenes from the most famous
stories。” In turn； the aged and blind miniaturist placed the most difficult
illustrations before the child and again listened intently。 “Hürmüz poisoning
the calligraphers one by one from Firdusi’s Book of Kings；” he said； again facing
the sky。 “A cheap rendition of the terrible account of the cuckold who catches
his wife and her lover in a pear tree； from Rumi’s Masnawi；” he said。 In this
fashion； relying on the boy’s descriptions； he identified all of the pictures；
none of which he could see； and thereby succeeded in having the books
properly bound together again。 When Ulu？ Bey entered Herat with his army；
he asked the old miniaturist by what secret he； a blind man； could identify
those stories that other master illustrators couldn’t determine even by looking
at them。 “It isn’t； as one might assume； that my memory pensates for my
blindness；” replied the old illustrator。 “I have never forgotten that stories are
recollected not only through images； but through words as well。” Ulu？ Bey
responded that his own miniaturists knew those words and stories； but still
couldn’t order the pictures。 “Because；” said the old miniaturist； “they think
quite well when it es to painting； which is their skill or their art； but they
don’t prehend that the old masters made these pictures out of the
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memories of Allah Himself。” Ulu？ Bey asked how a child could know such
things。 “The child doesn’t know；” said the old miniaturist。 “But I； an elderly
and blind miniaturist； know that Allah created this worldly realm the way an
intelligent seven…year…old boy would want to see it； what’s more； Allah created
this earthly realm so that； above all； it might be seen。 Afterward； He provided
us with words so we might share and discuss with one another what we’ve
seen。 We mistakenly assumed that these stories arose out of words and that
illustrations were painted in service of these stories。 Quite to the contrary；
painting is the act of seeking out Allah’s memories and seeing the world as He
sees the world。”
DJIM
Two hundred fifty years ago； Arab miniaturists were in the custom of staring
at the western horizon at daybreak to alleviate the understandable and eternal
anxieties about going blind shared by all miniaturists； likewise； a century later
in Shiraz； many illustrators would eat walnuts mashed with rose petals on an
empty stomach in the mornings。 Again； in the same era； the elder miniaturists
of Isfahan who believed sunlight was responsible for the blindness to which
they succumbed one by one； as if to the plague； would work in a half…dark
corner of the room； and most often by candlelight； to prevent direct sunlight
from striking their worktables。 At day’s end； in the workshops of the Uzbek
artists of Bukhara； master miniaturists would wash their eyes with water
blessed by sheikhs。 But of all of these precautions； the purest approach to
blindness was discovered in Herat by the miniaturist Seyyit Mirek； mentor to
the great master Bihzad。 According to master miniaturist Mirek； blindness
wasn’t a scourge； but rather the crowning reward bestowed by Allah upon the
illuminator who had devoted an entire life to His glories； for illustrating was
the miniaturist’s search for Allah’s vision of the earthly realm； and this unique
perspective could only be attained through recollection after blindness
descended； only after a lifetime of hard work and only after the miniaturist’s
eyes tired and he had expended himself。 Thus； Allah’s vision of His world only
bees manifest through the memory of blind miniaturists。 When this
image es to the aging miniaturist； that is； when he sees the world as Allah
sees it through the darkness of memory and blindness； the illustrator will have
spent his lifetime training his hand so it might transfer this splendid revelation
to the page。 According to the historian Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat； who
wrote extensively about the legends of Herat miniaturists； the master Seyyit
Mirek； in his explication of the aforementioned notion of painting； used the
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example of the illustrator who wanted to draw a horse。 He reasoned that even
the most untalented painter—one whose head is empty like those of today’s
Veian painters—who draws the picture of a horse while looking at a horse
will still make the image from memory； because； you see； it is impossible； at
one and the same time； to look at the horse and at the page upon which the
horse’s image appears。 First； the illustrator looks at the horse； then he quickly
transfers whatever rests in his mind to the page。 In the interim； even if only a
wink in time； what the artist represents on the page is not the horse he sees；
but the memory of the horse he has just seen。 Proof that for even the most
miserable illustrator； a picture is possible only through memory。 The logical
extension of this concept； which regards the active worklife of a miniaturist as
but preparation for both the resulting bliss of blindness and blind memory； is
that the masters of Herat regarded the illustrations they made for bibliophile
shahs and princes as training for the hand—as an exercise。 They accepted the
work； the endless drawing and staring at pages by candlelight for days without
break； as the pleasurable labor that delivered the miniaturist to blindness。
Throughout his whole life； the master miniaturist Mirek constantly sought out
the most appropriate moment for this most glorious of approaching
eventualities； either by purposely hurrying blindness through the painstaking
depiction of trees and all their leaves on fingernails； grains of rice and even on
strands of hair； or by cautiously delaying the imminent darkness by the
effortless drawing of pleasant； sun…filled gardens。 When he was seventy； in
order to reward this great master； Sultan Hüseyin Baykara allowed him to
enter the treasury containing thousands of manuscript plates that the Sultan
had collected and secured under lock and key。 There； in the treasury that also
contained weapons； gold and bolt upon bolt of silk and velvet cloth； by the
candlelight of golden candelabra； Master Mirek stared at the magnificent
leaves of those books； each a legend in its own right； made by the old masters
of Herat。 And after three days and nights of continuous scrutiny； the great
master went blind。 He accepted his condition with maturity and resignation；
the way one might greet the Angels of Allah； and he never spoke or painted
again。 Mirza Muhammet Haydar Duglat； the author of the History of Rashid；
ascribed this turn of events as follows： “A miniaturist united with the vision
and landscape of Allah’s immortal time can never return to the manuscript
pages meant for ordinary mortals”； and he adds； “Wherever the blind
miniaturist’s memories reach Allah there reigns an absolute silence； a blessed
darkness and the infinity of a blank page。”
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Certainly it was less out of desire to hear my answer to Master Osman’s
question on blindness and memory than to put himself at ease that Black
asked me the question while he pored over my possessions； my room and my
pictures。 Yet again； I was pleased to see that the stories I recounted affected
him。 “Blindness is a realm of bliss from which the Devil and guilt are barred；” I
said to him。
“In Tabriz；” said Black； “under Master Mirek’s influence； some of the
miniaturists of the old style still look upon blindness as the greatest virtue of
Allah’s grace； and they’re embarrassed about growing old but not blind。 Even
today； fearing that others will consider this proof of a lack of talent and skill；
they pretend to be blind。 As a result of this moral conviction which bears the
influence of Jemalettin of Kazvin； some of them sit for weeks in the darkness
amid mirrors； in the dim light of an oil lamp； without eating or drinking and
stare at illustrated pages painted by the old masters of Herat in order to learn
how to perceive the world like a blind man despite not truly being blind。”
Somebody knocked。 I opened the door to find a handsome apprentice from
the workshop whose lovely almond eyes were opened wide。 He said that the
body of our brother； the gilder Elegant Effendi； had been discovered in an
abandoned well and that his funeral procession would mence at the
Mihrimah Mosque during the afternoon prayer。 He then ran off to deliver the
news to others。 Allah； may you protect us all。
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I AM ESTHER
Tell me then； does love make one a fool or do only fools fall in love？ I’ve been a
clothes peddler and matchmaker for years； and I don’t have the slightest clue。
How it’d thrill me to bee acquainted with men—or couples—who grew
more intelligent and became more cunning and devious as they fell deeper in
love。 I do know this much though： If a man resorts to wiles； guile and petty
deceptions； it means he’s nowhere near being in love。 As for Black Effendi； it’s
obvious that he’s already lost his posure—when he even talks about
Shekure he loses all self…control。
At the bazaar； I fed him by rote all the well…rehearsed refrains that I tell
everyone： Shekure is always thinking of him； she asked me about his response
to her letter； I’d never seen her like this and so on。 He gave me such a look that
I pitied him。 He told me to take the letter to Shekure straightaway。 Every idiot
assumes there’s a pressing circumstance about his love that necessitates
particular haste； and thereby lays bare the intensity of his love； unwittingly
putting a weapon into the hands of his beloved。 If his lover is smart； she’ll
postpone the answer。 The moral： Haste delays the fruits of love。
Had lovesick Black known that I first took a detour while carrying the letter
he’d charged me to deliver “posthaste；” he’d thank me。 In the market square； I
nearly froze to death waiting for him。 After he left； I thought I’d visit one of
my “daughters” to warm up。 I call the maidens whose letters I’ve delivered；
the ones I’ve married off through the sweat of my brow； my “daughters。” This
ugly maiden of mine was so thankful and beholden to me that at my every
visit； beyond wa