As claimed by Abu ？mer bin Abdülber； the interpretation of this legend
doesn’t mean that the soul will possess a bird or even bee a bird itself； but
as the learned El Jevziyye aptly clarifies； it means that the soul can be found
where birds gather。 The spot from which I was observing things； what the
Veian masters who love perspective would call my “point of view；”
confirmed El Jevziyye’s interpretation。
From where I was； for example； I could both see the threadlike funeral
procession entering the cemetery； and with the pleasure of analyzing a
painting； watch a sailboat gaining speed； its sails gorging on wind as it tacked
toward Palace Point； where the Golden Horn met the Bosphorus。 Looking
down from the height of a minaret； the whole world resembled a magnificent
book whose pages I was examining one by one。
Still； I could see much more than a man who’d simply ascended to such
heights without his soul having left his body； and furthermore； I could see it
all at once： On the other side of the Bosphorus； beyond üsküdar； among
gravestones in an empty yard； children playing leapfrog； the graceful
progression of the Vizier of Diplomatic Affair’s ca？que propelled by seven pairs
of oarsmen twelve years and seven months ago； when we acpanied the
Veian ambassador from his seaside mansion to be received by the Grand
Vizier； Bald Ragip Pasha； a portly woman in the new Langa bazaar holding a
huge head of cabbage like a child she was about to nurse； my elation when the
Divan Herald Ramazan Effendi died； opening the way for my own
advancement； how I stared as a child from my grandmother’s lap at red shirts
while my mother hung the laundry to dry in the courtyard； how I ran to
distant neighborhoods in search of the midwife when Shekure’s mother； may
she rest in peace； had gone into labor； the location of the red belt I’d lost over
forty years ago （I know now that Vasfi stole it）； the splendid garden in the
distance that I’d dreamed about once twenty…one years ago； which I pray Allah
will one day confirm is Heaven； the severed heads； noses； and ears sent to
253
Istanbul by Ali Bey； the Governor…General of Georgia； who suppressed the
rebels in the fortress of Gori； and my beautiful； dear Shekure； who separated
herself from the neighborhood women mourning over me in the house and
stared into the flames of the brick stove in our courtyard。
As is recorded in books and confirmed by scholars； the soul dwells in four
realms： 1。 the womb； 2。 the terrestrial world； 3。 Berzah； or divine limbo； where
I now await Judgment Day； and 4。 Heaven or Hell； where I will arrive after the
Judgment。
From the intermediate state of Berzah； past and present time appear at
once； and as long as the soul remains within its memories； limitations of place
do not obtain。 Only when one escapes the dungeons of time and space does it
bees evident that life is a straitjacket。 However blissful it is being a soul
without a body in the realm of the dead； so too is being a body without a soul
among the living； what a pity nobody realizes this before dying。 Therefore；
during my lovely funeral； as I grievously watched my dear Shekure wear herself
out weeping in vain； I begged of Exalted Allah to grant us souls…without…bodies
in Heaven and bodies…without…souls in life。
254
IT IS I； MASTER OSMAN
You know about those ornery old men who’ve charitably devoted their lives to
art。 They’ll attack anyone who gets in their way。 They’re usually gaunt； bony
and tall。 They’ll want the dwindling number of days before them to be just like
the long period they’ve left behind。 They’re short…tempered； and they
plain about everything。 They’ll try to grab the reins in all situations；
causing everyone around them to throw up their hands in frustration； they
don’t like anyone or anything。 I know； because I’m one of them。
The master of masters Nurullah Selim Chelebi； with whom I had the honor
of making illustrations knee to knee in the same workshop； was this way in his
eighties； when I was but a sixteen…year…old apprentice （though he wasn’t as
peevish as I am now）。 Blond Ali； the last of the great masters； laid to rest thirty
years ago； was also this way （though he wasn’t as thin and tall as I am）。 Since
the arrows of criticism aimed at these legendary masters； who directed the
workshops of their day noe in the back； I want you to
know that the hackneyed accusations leveled at us are entirely unfounded。
These are the facts：
1。 The reason we don’t like anything innovative is that there is truly nothing
new worth liking。
2。 We treat most men like morons because； indeed； most men are morons；
not because we’re poisoned by anger； unhappiness or some other flaw in
character。 （Granted； treating these people better would be more refined and
sensible。）
3。 The reason I forget and confuse so many names and faces—except those
of the miniaturists I’ve loved and trained since their apprenticeships—is not
senility； but because these names and faces are so lackluster and colorless as to
be hardly worth remembering。
During the funeral of Enishte； whose soul was prematurely taken by God
because of his own foolishness； I tried to forget that the deceased had at one
time caused me unmentionable agony by forcing me to imitate the European
masters。 On the way back； I had the following thoughts： blindness and death；
those gifts bestowed by God； are not so far from me now。 Of course； I will be
remembered only so long as my illustrations and manuscripts cause your eyes
255
to prance and flowers of bliss to bloom in your hearts。 But after my death let
it be known that in my old age； at the very end of my life； there was still plenty
that made me smile。 For instance：
1。 Children—They represent what is vital in the world。
2。 Sweet memories of handsome boys； beautiful women； painting well and
friendships。
3。 Seeing the masterpieces of the old masters of Herat—this cannot be
explained to the uninitiated。
The simple meaning of all of this： In Our Sultan’s workshop； which I direct；
magnificent works of art can no longer be made as they once were—and the
situation will only get worse； everything will dwindle and disappear。 I am
painfully aware that we quite rarely reach the sublime level of the old masters
of Herat； despite having lovingly sacrificed our entire lives to this work。
Humbly accepting this truth makes life easier。 Indeed； it is precisely because it
makes life easier that modesty is such a highly prized virtue in our part of the
world。
With an air of such modesty I was touching up an illustration in the Book of
Festivities； which described the circumcision ceremonies of our prince； wherein
was depicted the Egyptian Governor…General’s presentation of the following
gifts： a gold…chased sword decorated with rubies； emeralds； and turquoise on a
swatch of red velvet and one of the Governor…General’s proud； lightning fast
and spirited Arabian horses with a white blaze on its nose and a silvery；
gleaming coat； fully appointed with a gold bit and reins； stirrups of pearl and
greenish…yellow chrysoberyl； and a red velvet saddle embellished with silver
thread and ruby rosettes。 With a flick of my brush； here and there； I was
touching up the illustration； whose position I had arranged while
delegating the rendering of the horse； the sword； the prince and the spectator…
ambassadors to various apprentices。 I applied purple to some of the leaves of
the plane tree in the Hippodrome。 I dabbed yellow upon the caftan…buttons of
the Tatar Khan’s ambassador。 As I was brushing a sparse amount of gold wash
onto the horse’s reins； somebody knocked at the door。 I quit what I was doing。
It was an imperial pageboy。 The Head Treasurer had summoned me to the
palace。 My eyes ached ever so mildly。 I placed my magnifying lens in my
pocket； and left with the boy。
256
Oh； how nice it is to walk through the streets after having worked without
a break for so long！ At such times； the whole world strikes one as original and
stunning； as if Allah had created it all the day before。
I noticed a dog； more meaningful than all the pictures of dogs I’d ever seen。
I saw a horse； a lesser creation than what my master miniaturists might make。
I spied a plane tree in the Hippodrome； the same tree whose leaves I’d just
now accented with tones of purple。
Strolling through the Hippodrome； whose parades I’d illustrated over the
last two years； was like stepping into my own painting。 Let’s say we were to
turn down a street： In a Frankish painting； this would result in our stepping
outside both the frame and the painting； in a painting made following the
example of the great masters of Herat； it’d bring us to the place from which
Allah looks upon us； in a Chinese painting； we’d be trapped； because Chinese
illustrations are infinite。
The pageboy； I discovered； wasn’t taking me to the Divan Chamber where I
often met with the Head Treasurer to discuss one of the following： the
manuscripts and ornamented ostrich eggs or other gifts my miniaturists were
preparing for Our Sultan； the health of the illustrators or the Head Treasurer’s
own constitution and peace of mind； the acquisition of paint； gold leaf or
other materials； the usual plaints and requests； the desires； delights；
demands and disposition of the Refuge of the World； Our Sultan； my eyesight；
my looking glasses or my lumbago； or the Head Treasurer’s good…for…nothing
son…in…law or the health of his tabby cat。 Silently； we entered the Sultan’s
Private Garden。 As if mitting a crime； but with great delicacy； we serenely
descended toward the sea through the trees。 “We’re nearing the Sea…Side
Kiosk；” I thought； “this means I will see the Sultan。 His Excellency must be
here。” But we turned off the path。 We walked ahead a few steps through the
arched doorway of a stone building behind the rowboat and ca？que sheds。 I
could smell the scent of baking bread wafting from the guard’s bakery before
catching sight of the Imperial Guard themselves in their red uniforms。
The Head Treasurer and the mander of the Imperial Guard were
together in one room： Angel and Devil！
The mander； who performed executions in the name of Our Sultan on
the palace grounds—who tortured； interrogated； beat； blinded and
administered the bastinado—smiled sweetly at me。 It was as if some piddling
lodger； with whom I was forced to share a caravansary cell； were going to
recount a heart…warming story。