for centuries by hundreds of master miniaturists； as a figure with his index
finger inserted into the circle of his mouth； but made the whole painting
embody surprise。 This； I acplished by inviting the Sovereign to rise to His
feet。”
I was intrigued and bothered by how he scrutinized my possessions and
illustrating tools； nay my whole life； looking for a clue； and then； I began to see
my own house through his eyes。
You know those palace； hamam and castle pictures that were made in Tabriz
and Shiraz for a time； so that the picture might replicate the piercing gaze of
Exalted Allah； who sees and understands all； the miniaturist would depict the
palace in cross…section as though having cut it in half with a huge； magical
straight razor； and he’d paint all the interior details—which could otherwise
never be seen from outside—down to the pots and pans； drinking glasses； wall
ornamentation； curtains； caged parrots； the most private corners； and the
pillows on which reclined a lovely maiden such as had never seen the light of
day。 Like a curious awestruck reader； Black was examining my paints； my
papers； my books； my lovely assistant； the pages of a Book of Costumes and the
collage album that I’d made for a Frankish traveler； scenes of fucking and other
indecent pages I’d secretly dashed off for a pasha； my inkpots of variously
colored glass； bronze and ceramic； my ivory penknives； my gold…stemmed
brushes； and yes； the glances of my handsome apprentice。
“Unlike the old masters； I’ve seen a lot of battle； a lot；” I said to fill the
silence with my presence。 “War machines； cannonballs； armies； corpses； it was
I who embellished the ceilings of the tents of Our Sultan and our generals。
After a military campaign； upon returning to Istanbul； it was I who recorded
in pictures the scenes of battle that everyone would otherwise have forgotten；
corpses sliced in two； the clash of opposing armies； the soldiers of the
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miserable infidels quaking before our cannon； the troops defending the
crenellated towers of besieged castles； rebels being decapitated and the fury of
horses attacking at full gallop。 I mit everything I behold to memory： a new
coffee grinder； a style of window grating that I’ve never seen before； a cannon；
the trigger of a new style of Frankish rifle； who wore what color robe during a
feast； who ate what； who placed his hand where and how…”
“What are the morals of the three stories you’ve told？” asked Black in a
manner that summed everything up and ever so slightly called me to account。
“Alif；” I said。 “The first story with the minaret demonstrates that no matter
how talented a miniaturist might be； it is time that makes a picture ”perfect。“
”Ba；“ the second story with the harem and the library； reveals that the only
way to escape time is through skill and illustrating。 As for the third story； you
proceed to tell me； then。”
“Djim！” said Black confidently； “the third story about the one…hundred…
and…nieen…year…old miniaturist unites ”Alif‘ and “Ba’ to reveal how time
ends for the one who forsakes the perfect life and perfect illuminating； leaving
nothing but death。 Indeed； this is what it demonstrates。”
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I AM CALLED “OLIVE”
After the midday prayers； I was ever so swiftly yet pleasurably drawing the
darling faces of boys when I heard a knock at the door。 My hand jerked in
surprise。 I put down my brush。 I carefully placed the work…board that was on
my knees off to the side。 Rushing like the wind； I said a prayer before opening
the door。 I won’t withhold anything from you； because you； who can hear me
from within this book； are much nearer to Allah than we in this filthy and
miserable world of ours。 Akbar Khan； the Emperor of Hindustan and the
world’s richest shah； is preparing what will one day bee a legendary book。
To plete his project； he sent word to the four corners of Islamdom inviting
the world’s greatest artists to join him。 The men he’d sent to Istanbul visited
me yesterday； inviting me to Hindustan。 This time； I opened the door to find；
in their place； my childhood acquaintance Black； about whom I’d forgotten
entirely。 Back then he wasn’t able to keep our pany； he was jealous of us。
“Yes？”
He said he’d e to converse； to pay a friendly visit； to have a look at my
illustrations。 I weled him so he might see it all。 I learned he’d just today
visited Head Illuminator Master Osman and kissed his hand。 The great master；
he explained； had given him wise words to ponder： “A painter’s quality
bees evident in his discussions of blindness and memory；” he’d said。 So let
it be evident：
Blindness and Memory
Before the art of illumination there was blackness and afterward there will also
be blackness。 Through our colors； paints； art and love； we remember that Allah
had manded us to “See”！ To know is to remember that you’ve seen。 To see
is to know without remembering。 Thus； painting is remembering the
blackness。 The great masters； who shared a love of painting and perceived that
color and sight arose from darkness； longed to return to Allah’s blackness by
means of color。 Artists without memory neither remember Allah nor his
blackness。 All great masters； in their work； seek that profound void within
color and outside time。 Let me explain to you what it means to remember this
darkness； which was revealed in Herat by the great masters of old。
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Three Stories on Blindness and Memory
ALIF
In Lami’i Chelebi’s Turkish translation of the Persian poet Jami’s Gifts of
Intimacy； which addresses the stories of the saints； it is written that in the
bookmaker’s workshop of Jihan Shah； the ruler of the Blacksheep nation； the
renowned master Sheikh Ali Tabrizi had illustrated a magnificent version of
Hüsrev and Shirin。 According to what I’ve heard； in this legendary manuscript；
which took eleven years to plete； the master of master miniaturists；
Sheikh Ali； displayed such talent and skill and painted such wonderful pictures
that only the greatest of the old masters； Bihzad； could have matched him。
Even before the illuminated manuscript was half finished； Jihan Shah knew
that he would soon possess a spectacular book without equal in all the world。
He thus lived in fear and jealousy of young Tall Hasan； the ruler of the
Whitesheep nation； and declared him his archenemy。 Moreover； Jihan Shah
quickly sensed that though his prestige would grow immensely after the book
was pleted； an even better version of the manuscript could be made for
Tall Hasan。 Being one of those truly jealous men who poisoned his own
contentment with the thought “What if others e to know such bl