of Sultan Mehmet the Conqueror？”
“The books that Shah Tahmasp sent His Excellency Sultan Selim； Denizen of
Paradise； as a present twenty…five years ago；” said Master Osman。
The dwarf brought us to a large wooden cabi。 Master Osman grew
impatient as he opened the doors and cast his eyes on the volumes before him。
He opened one； read its colophon and leafed through its pages。 Together； we
gazed in astonishment at the carefully drawn illustrations of khans with
slightly slanted eyes。
“”Genghis Khan； Chagatai Khan； Tuluy Khan and Kublai Khan the Ruler of
China；“” read Master Osman before closing the book and taking up another。
We came across an incredibly beautiful illustration depicting the scene in
which Ferhad； empowered by love； carries his beloved Shirin and her horse
away on his shoulder。 To convey the passion and woe of the lovers； the rocks
on the mountain； the clouds and the three noble cypresses witnessing
Ferhad’s act of love were drawn with a trembling grief…stricken hand in such
agony that Master Osman and I were instantly affected by the taste of tears
and sorrow in the falling leaves。 This touching moment had been depicted—as
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the great masters intended—not to signify Ferhad’s muscular strength； but
rather to convey how the pain of his love was felt at once throughout the
entire world。
“A Bihzad imitation made in Tabriz eighty years ago；” Master Osman said
as he replaced the volume and opened another。
This was a picture that showed the forced friendship between the cat and
the mouse from Kelile and Dimne。 Out in the fields； a poor mouse； caught
between the attacks of a marten on the ground and a hawk in the air； finds his
salvation in an unfortunate cat caught in a hunter’s trap。 They e to an
agreement： The cat； pretending to be the mouse’s friend； licks him； thereby
scaring away the marten and the hawk。 In turn； the mouse cautiously frees the
cat from the snare。 Even before I could understand the painter’s sensibility；
the master had stuffed the book back beside the other volumes and had
randomly opened another。
This was a pleasant picture of a mysterious woman and a man： The woman
had elegantly opened one hand while asking a question； holding her knee with
the other over her green cloak； as the man turned to her and listened intently。
I looked at the picture avidly； jealous of the intimacy； love and friendship
between them。
Putting that book down； Master Osman opened to a page from another
book。 The cavalry of Persian and Turanian armies； eternal enemies； had donned
their full panoply of armor； helmets； greaves； bows； quivers and arrows and
had mounted those magnificent； legendary and fully armored horses。 Before
they engaged one another in a battle to the death； they were arrayed in orderly
ranks facing each other on a dusty yellow steppe holding the tips of their
lances upright； bedecked in an array of colors and patiently watching their
manders； who’d rushed to the fore and begun to fight。 I was about to tell
myself that regardless of whether the illustration was made today or a
hundred years ago； whether it’s a depiction of war or love； what the artist of
absolute faith actually paints and conveys is a battle with his will and his love
for painting； I was going to declare further that the miniaturist actually paints
his own patience； when Master Osman said：
“It’s not here either；” and shut the heavy tome。
In the pages of an album we saw high mountains interwoven with curling
clouds in a landscape illustration that seemed to go on forever。 I thought how
painting meant seeing this world yet depicting it as if it were the Otherworld。
Master Osman recounted how this Chinese illustration might’ve traveled from
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Bukhara to Herat； from Herat to Tabriz； and at last； from Tabriz to Our
Sultan’s palace； moving from book to book along the way； bound and
unbound； finally to be rebound with other paintings at the end of the journey
from China to Istanbul。
We saw pictures of war and death； each more frightening and more
expertly done than the next： Rüstem together with Shah Mazenderan； Rüstem
attacking Afrasiyab’s army； and Rüstem； disguised in armor； a mysterious and
unidentified hero warrior…In another album we saw dismembered corpses；
daggers drenched in red blood； sorrowful soldiers in whose eyes the light of
death gleamed and warriors cutting each other down like reeds； as fabled
armies； which we could not name； clashed mercilessly。 Master Osman—for
who knows how many thousandth time—looked upon Hüsrev spying on
Shirin bathing in a lake by moonlight； upon the lovers Leyla and Mejnun
fainting as they beheld each other after an extended separation； and a spirited
picture； all aflutter with birds； trees and flowers； of Salaman and Absal as they
fled the entire world and lived together on an isle of bliss。 Like a true great
master； he couldn’t help drawing my attention to some oddity in a corner of
even the worst painting； perhaps having to do with an oversight on the part of
the illuminator or perhaps with the conversation of colors： As might be
expected； Hüsrev and Shirin are listening to a charming recital by her ladies…in…
waiting； but see there； what kind of sad and spiteful painter had needlessly
perched that ominous owl on a tree branch？； who had included that lovely boy
dressed in woman’s garb among the Egyptian women who cut their fingers
trying to peel tasty oranges while gazing upon the beauty of handsome
Joseph？； could the miniaturist who painted ？sfendiyar’s blinding with an
arrow foresee that later on he； too； would be blinded？
We saw the angels acpanying Our Exalted Prophet during his
Ascension； the dark…skinned； six…armed； long…white…bearded old man
symbolizing Saturn； and baby Rüstem sleeping peacefully in his mother…of…
pearl…inlaid cradle beneath the watchful eyes of his mother and nursemaids。
We saw the way Darius died an agonizing death in Alexander’s arms； how
Behram Gür withdrew to the red room with his Russian princess； how
Siyavush passed through fire mounted on a black horse whose nostrils bore no
peculiarity； and the woeful funeral procession of Hüsrev； murdered by his own
son。 As Master Osman rapidly picked out the volumes and set them aside； he
would at times recognize an artist and show me； or winkle out an illustrator’s
signature humbly hidden among flowers growing in the seclusion of a ruined
building； or hiding in a black well along with a jinn。 By paring signatures
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and colophons； he could determine who’d taken what from whom。 He’d flip
through certain books exhaustively in hope of finding a series of pictures。 Long
silences passed wherein nothing but the faint susurrus of turning pages could
be heard。 Occasionally； Master Osman would cry out “Aha！” but I kept my
peace； unable to understand what had excited him。 At times he would remind
me that we’d already encountered the page position or arrangement of
trees and mounted soldiers of a particular illustration in other books； in
different scenes of pletely different stories； and he’d point out these
pictures again to jog my memory。 He pared a picture in a version of
Nizami’s Quintet from the time of Tamerlane’s son Shah R？za—that is； from
nearly two hundred years ago—with another picture he said was made in
Tabriz seventy or eighty years earlier； and then go on to ask me what we could
learn from the fact that two miniaturists had created the same picture without
having seen each other’s work。 He ansself：
“To paint is to remember。”
Opening and shutting old illuminated manuscripts； Master Osman would
sink his face with sorrow into the wondrous artwork （because nobody could
paint this way anymore） and then bee animated with joy before poorly
executed pieces （for all miniaturists were brethren！）—and he’d show me what
the artist had remembered； that is； old pictures of trees； angels； parasols； tigers；
tents； dragons and melancholy princes； and in the process； what he hinted at
was this： There was a time when Allah looked upon the world in all its
uniqueness； and believing in the beauty of what he saw； bequeathed his
creation to us； his servants。 The duty of illustrators and of those who； loving
art； gaze upon the world； is to remember the magnificence that Allah beheld
and left to us。 The greatest masters in each generation of painters； expending
their lives and toiling until blind； strove with great effort and inspiration to
attain and record the wondrous dream that Allah manded us to see。 Their
work resembled Mankind recalling his own golden memories from the very
beginning。 Unfortunately； even the greatest masters； just like tired old men or
great miniaturists gone blind from their labors； were only vaguely able to
recollect random parts of that magnificent vision。 This was the mysterious
wisdom behind the phenomenon of old masters who miraculously drew a
tree； a bird； the pose of a prince washing himself in the public baths or a sad
young woman at a window in exactly the same way despite never having seen
each other’s work and despite the hundreds of years that separated them。
Long afterward； once the red light of the Treasury had dimmed and it
became evident that the cabi contained none of the gift books that Shah
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Tahmasp had sent to Our Sultan’s grandfather； Master Osman revisited the
same logic：
“At times； a bird’s wing； the way a leaf holds to a tree； the curves of eaves；
the way a cloud floats or the laugh of a woman is preserved for centuries by
passing from master to disciple and being shown； taught and memorized over
generations。 Having learned this detail from his master； the miniaturist
believes it to be a perfect form； and is as convinced of its immutability as he is
of the glorious Koran’s； and just as he memorizes the Koran； he’ll never forget
this detail indelibly painted in his memory。 However； never forgetting does not
mean the master artist will always use this detail。 The customs of the
workshop wherein he extinguishes the light of his eyes； the habits and taste for
color of the ornery master beside him or the whims of his sultan will； at times；
prevent him from painting that detail； and he’ll draw a bird’s wing； or the way
a woman laughs—”
“Or the nostrils of a horse。”
“—or the nostrils of a horse；” said a stone…faced Master Osman； “not the
way it’s been ingrained in the depths of his soul； but accord