my name is red-我的名字叫红-第35章
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fiercely he gripped the inkpot。 Would somebody passing down the snowy
street hear his shouting and enter the house？
“How did you kill him？” I asked； more to buy time than out of curiosity。
“How did you chance to meet at the mouth of that well？”
“The night Elegant Effendi left your house； he came to me；” he said； with an
unexpected desire to confess。 “He said he’d seen the final double…leaf painting。
I tried at length to dissuade him from making an issue out of it。 I got him to
walk over to the area ravaged by the fire。 I told him I had money buried near
the well。 When he heard that； he believed me…What better proof that an
illustrator is motivated by greed alone？ That’s another reason I’m not sorry。
He was a talented； but mediocre artist。 The greedy oaf was ready to dig into
the frozen earth with his fingernails。 You see； if I truly had gold pieces buried
beside that well； I wouldn’t have had to do away with him。 Yes； you hired
yourself quite a miserable wretch to do your gilding。 The dearly departed had
finesse； but his choice of color and application was ordinary； and his
illuminations were uninspired。 I didn’t leave a trace…Tell me； then； what is
the essence of ”style‘？ Today； both the Franks and the Chinese talk about the
character of a painter’s talent； what they call “style。” Should style distinguish a
good artist from others or not？“
“Fear not；” I said； “a new style doesn’t spring from a miniaturist’s own
desire。 A prince dies； a shah loses a battle； a seemingly never…ending era ends； a
workshop is closed and its members disband； searching for other homes and
other bibliophiles to bee their patrons。 One day； a passionate sultan
will assemble these exiles； these bewildered but talented refugee miniaturists
and calligraphers； in his own tent or palace and begin to establish his own
book…arts workshop。 Even if these artists； unaccustomed to one another；
continue at first in their respective painting styles； over time； as with children
who gradually bee friends by roughhousing on the street； they’ll quarrel；
bond； struggle and promise。 The birth of a new style is the result of years
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of disagreements； jealousies； rivalries and studies in color and painting。
Generally； it’ll be the most gifted member of the workshop who fathers this
form。 Let’s also call him the most fortunate。 To the rest of the miniaturists
falls the singular duty of perfecting and refining this style through perpetual
imitation。”
Unable to look me straight in the eye； he assumed an unexpected gentle
manner； and begging my passion as much as my honesty； he asked me；
trembling like a maiden：
“Do I have a style of my own？”
I thought tears would flow from my eyes。 With all the gentleness； sympathy
and kindness I could muster； I hastened to tell him what I believed to be the
truth：
“You are the most talented； divinely inspired artist with the most
enchanted touch and eye for detail that I’ve seen in all my sixty years。 If you
put a painting before me which had seen the bined work of a thousand
miniaturists； I’d still be able to recognize instantly the God…given magnificence
of your pen。”
“Agreed； but I know you’re not wise enough to appreciate the mystery of
my skill；” he said。 “You’re lying； now； because you’re afraid of me。 Describe；
once again； the character of my methods。”
“Your pen selects the right line seemingly of its own accord； as if without
your touch。 What your pen draws is neither truthful nor frivolous！ When you
portray a crowded gathering； the tension emerging from the glances between
figures； their positioning on the page and the meaning of the text
metamorphose into an elegant eternal whisper。 I return to your paintings
again and again to hear that whisper； and each time； I realize with a smile that
the meaning has changed； and how shall I put it； I begin to read the painting
anew。 When these layers of meaning are taken together； a depth emerges that
surpasses even the perspectivism of the European masters。”
“Fine and well。 Forget about the European masters。 Start from the
beginning。”
“You have such a truly magnificent and forceful line； that the observer
believes in what you’ve painted rather than in reality itself。 And just as your
talent could create a picture that would force the most devout man to
renounce his faith； it could also bring the most hopeless； unrepentant
unbeliever to Allah’s path。”
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“True； but I’m not sure that amounts to praise。 Try again。”
“There’s no miniaturist who knows the consistency of paint and its secrets
as well as you do。 You always prepare and apply the glossiest； most vibrant；
most genuine colors。”
“Yes； and what else？”
“You know you’re the greatest of painters after Bihzad and Mir Seyyid Ali。”
“Yes； I’m aware of this。 If you are too； why are you making the book with
that model of mediocrity Black Effendi？”
“First； the work he does doesn’t require a miniaturist’s skill；” I said。
“Second； unlike yourself； he’s not a murderer。”
He smiled sweetly under the influence of my joke。 With this； I thought I
might be able to escape this nightmare thanks to a new expression—this word
“style。” Upon my broaching the subject； we began a pleasant discussion
concerning the bronze Mongol inkpot he held； not like father and son； but like
two curious and experienced old men。 The weight of the bronze； the balance of
the inkpot； the depth of its neck； the length of old calligraphy reed pens and
the mysteries of red ink； whose consistency he could feel as he gently swung
the inkpot before me…We agreed that if the Mongols hadn’t brought the
secrets of red paint—which they’d learned from Chinese masters—to
Khorasan； Bukhara and Herat； we in Istanbul couldn’t make these paintings at
all。 As we talked； the consistency of time； like that of the paint； seemed to
change； to flow ever more quickly。 In a corner of my mind I was wondering
why no one had yet returned home。 If only he’d put down that weighty object。
With our customary workaday ease； he asked me； “When your book is
finished； will those who see my work appreciate my skill？”
“If we can； God willing； finish this book without interference； Our Sultan
will look it over； of course； checking first to see whether we used enough gold
leaf in the appropriate places。 Then； as if reading a description of Himself； as
any sultan would； He’ll stare at his own portrait； struck by His own likeness
rather than by our magnificent illustrations； thereafter； if He takes the time to
examine the spectacle we’ve painstakingly and devotedly created at the
expense of the light of our eyes； so much the better。 You know； as well as I； that
barring a miracle； He’ll lock the book away in His treasury without even asking
who made the frame or the gilded illuminations； who painted this man or
that horse—and like all skillful artisans； we’ll go back to painting； ever hopeful
that one day a miracle of acknowledgment will find us。”
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We were silent for a while； as if patiently waiting for something。
“When will that miracle happen？” he asked。 “When will all those paintings
we’ve worked on until we could no longer see straight truly be appreciated？
When will they give me； give us； the respect we deserve？”
“Never！”
“How so？”
“They’ll never give you what you want；” I said。 “In the future； you’ll be even
less appreciated。”
“Books last for centuries；” he said proudly but without confidence。
“Believe me； none of the Veian masters have your poetic sensibility； your
conviction； your sensitivity； the purity and brightness of your colors； yet their
paintings are more pelling because they more closely resemble life itself。
They don’t paint the world as seen from the balcony of a minaret； ignoring
what they call perspective； they depict what’s seen at street level； or from the
inside of a prince’s room； taking in his bed； quilt； desk； mirror； his tiger； his
daughter and his coins。 They include it all； as you know。 I’m not persuaded by
everything they do。 Attempting to imitate the world directly through painting
seems dishonorable to me。 I resent it。 But there’s an undeniable allure to the
paintings they make by those new methods。 They depict what the eye sees just
as the eye sees it。 Indeed； they paint what they see； whereas we paint what we
look at。 Beholding their work； one es to realize that the only way to have
one’s face immortalized is through the Frankish style。 And it’s not only the
inhabitants of Venice who are captured by this notion； but all the tailors；
butchers； soldiers； priests and grocers in all the Frankish lands…They all have
their portraits made this way。 Just a glance at those paintings and you too
would want to see yourself this way； you’d want to believe that you’re
different from all others； a unique； special and particuliar human being。
Painting people； not as they are perceived by the mind； but as they are actually
seen by the naked eye； painting in the new method； allows for this possibility。
One day everyone will paint as they do。 When ”painting‘ is mentioned； the
world will think of their work！ Even a poor foolish tailor who understands
nothing of illustrating will want such a portrait so he might be convinced；
upon seeing the unique curve of his nose； that he’s not an ordinary simpleton；
but an extraordinary man。“
“So？ We can make that portrait； as well；” quipped the witty assassin。
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“We won’t！” I replied。 “Haven’t you learned from your victim； the late
Elegant Effendi； how afraid we are of being labeled imitators of the Franks？
Even if we venture bravely to paint like them； it’ll amount to the same thing。
In the end； our methods will die out； our colors will fade。 No one will care
about our books and our paintings； and those who do express interest will ask
with a sneer； with no understanding whatsoever； why there’s no perspective—
or else they won’t be able to find the manuscripts at all。 Indifference； time and
disaster will destroy our art。 The Arabian glue used in the bindings contains
fish； honey and bone； and the pages are sized and polished with a finish made
from egg white and starch。 Greedy； shameless mice will nibble these pages
away； termites； worms and a thousand varieties of insect will gnaw our
manuscripts out of existence。 Bindings will fall apart and pages will drop out。
Women lighting their stoves； thieves； indifferent servants and children will
thoughtlessly tear out the pages and pictures。 Child princes will scrawl over the
illustrations with toy pens。 They’ll blacken people’s eyes； wipe their runny
noses on the pages； doodle in the margins with black ink。 And religious
censors will blacken out whatever is left。 They’ll tear and cut up our paintings；
perhaps use them to make other pictures or for games and such
entertainment。 While mothers destroy the illustrations they consider obscene；
fathers and older brothers will jack off onto the pictures of women and the
pages will stick together； not only because of this； but also due to being
smeared with mud； water； bad glue； spit and all manner of filth and food。
Stains of mold and dirt will blossom like flowers where the pages have stuck
together。 Rain； leaky roofs； floods and dirt will ruin our books。 Of course；
together with the tattered； faded and unreadable pages； which water；
humidity； bugs and neglect will have reduced to pulp； the one last volume to
emerge intact； like a miracle； from the bottom of a bone…dry chest will also
one day disappear； swallowed up in the flames of a merciless fire。 Is there a
neighborhood in Istanbul that hasn’t been burned to the ground at least once
every twenty years that we might expect such a book to survive？ In this city；
where every three years more books and libraries disappear than those the
Mongols burned and plundered in Baghdad； what painter could possibly
imagine that his masterpiece might last more than a century； or that one day
his pictures might be seen； and he revered like Bihzad？ Not only our own art；
but every single work made in this world over the years will vanish in fires； be
destroyed by worms or be lost out of neglect： Shirin proudly watching Hüsrev
from a window； Hüsrev delightfully spying on Shirin as she bathes by
moonlight； lovers gazing at each other with grace and
