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Scenes of bat or fucking are quite mon。 The price for a bustling battle
has fallen to three hundred silver coins； and there are hardly any interested
clients。 To sell pieces on the cheap and to better lure a buyer； some simply
draw in black ink on nonsized； unfinished paper with nary a brushstroke of
color。”
“There was a gilder of mine who was content as content could be and
talented as talent would allow；” said Master Osman。 “He saw to his work with
such elegance that we referred to him as ”Elegant Effendi。“ But he has
abandoned us。 It’s been six days； and he’s not to be found anywhere。 He’s
plain disappeared。”
“How could anyone quit such a workshop as this； such a joyous hearth？” I
said。
“Butterfly； Olive； Stork and Elegant； the four young masters whom I’ve
trained since they were apprentices； now work at home at Our Sultan’s
behest；” said Master Osman。
This apparently came about so they could work more fortably on the
Book of Festivities with which the entire workshop was involved。 This time； the
Sultan hadn’t arranged for a special workspace for His master miniaturists in
the palace courtyard； rather； He decreed that they work on this special book at
home。 When it occurred to me that this order was probably issued for the sake
of my Enishte’s book； I fell silent。 To what degree was Master Osman making
insinuations？
“Nuri Effendi；” he called to a pale and hunched painter； “present Our
Master Black with a ”survey‘ of the workshop！“
The “survey” was a regular ritual of Our Sultan’s bimonthly visits to the
miniaturists’ atelier during that exciting time when His Excellency had intently
followed what transpired at the workshop。 Under the auspices of Haz？m； the
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Head Treasurer； Lokman； the Head Poetic Chronicler and Master Osman； the
Head Illuminator； Our Sultan would be apprised of which pages in which
books the masters were working on at any given moment： who did which
gilding； who colored which picture； and one by one； how the colorists； the
page rulers； the gilders and the master miniaturists； whose talent allowed
them to acplish miracles； were engaged。 It saddened me that they were
holding a fake ceremony in place of the one that was no longer performed
because age and ill health bound the Head Poetic Chronicler Lokman Effendi；
who wrote most of the books which were illustrated； to his home； because
Master Osman often disappeared in a cloud of indignation and wrath； because
the four masters known as Butterfly； Olive； Stork and Elegant worked at home；
and because Our Sultan no longer waxed enthusiastic like a child in the
workshop。 As happened to many miniaturists； Nuri Effendi had grown old in
vain； without having fully experienced life or bee a master of his art。 Not
in vain； however； did he spend those years over his worktable being
hunchbacked： He always paid close attention to what happened in the
workshop； to who made which exquisite page。
And so I eagerly beheld for the first time the legendary pages of the Book of
Festivities； which recounted the circumcision ceremonies of Our Sultan’s
prince。 When I was still in Persia； I heard stories about this fifty…two…day
circumcision ceremony wherein people from all occupations and all guilds； all
of Istanbul； had participated； indeed at a time when the book that
memorialized the great event was yet being prepared。
In the first picture placed before me； fixed in the royal enclosure of late
Ibrahim Pasha’s palace； Our Sultan； the Refuge of the World； gazed upon the
festivities in the Hippodrome below with a look that bespoke His satisfaction。
His face； even though not so detailed as to permit one to distinguish Him from
others by features alone； was drawn adeptly and with reverence。 As for the
right side of the double…leaf picture showing Our Sultan on the left； there were
viziers； pashas； Persian； Tatar； Frankish and Veian ambassadors standing in
the arched colonnades and windows。 Because they were not sultans； their eyes
were drawn hastily and carelessly and focused on nothing in particular besides
the general motion in the square。 Later； I noticed in other pictures that the
same arrangement and page position repeated—even though the wall
ornamentation； the trees and terra…cotta shingles were depicted in different
styles and colors。 Once the text was written out by scribes； the illustrations
pleted and the book bound； the reader； turning pages； would each time
see pletely different activities in pletely different colors in the
Hippodrome which remained under the same watchful gazes of the Sultan and
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His crowd of guests—who always stood identically； forever gazing at the same
area below。
There before me I saw people scrambling for hundreds of bowls of pilaf that
were placed in the Hippodrome； I saw the live rabbits and birds emerge out of
the roast ox and startle the crowd that had descended upon it。 I saw the
master coppersmiths’ guild riding in a wheeled cart before Our Sultan； its
members hammering away at copper but never striking the one among them
lying in the cart with the anvil balanced on his bare chest。 I saw glaziers
embellishing glass with carnations and cypresses as they paraded before Our
Sultan in a wagon； confectioners reciting sweet poems as they drove camels
laden with sacks of sugar and displayed cages holding sugar…parrots； and aged
locksmiths who showed off a variety of hanging locks； padlocks； dead bolts
and gearlocks as they plained of the evils of new times and new doors。
Butterfly； Stork and Olive had worked on the picture that depicted the
magicians： One of them was causing eggs to march down a pole without
dropping them—as if on a broad slab of marble—to the beat of a tambourine
played by another。 In one wagon I saw precisely how Sea…Captain K？l？？ Ali
Pasha had forced the infidels he’d captured at sea to make an “infidels’
mountain” out of clay； he’d then loaded all the slaves into the cart； and when
he was right before the Sultan； he exploded the powder within the
“mountain” to demonstrate how he’d made infidel lands wail and moan with
cannon fire。 I saw clean…shaven butchers wielding cleavers； wearing rose… and
purple…colored uniforms and smiling at the pink carcasses of skinned sheep
hanging from hooks。 The spectators applauded lion tamers who’d brought a
chained lion before Our Sultan； provoking and enraging it until its eyes shone
bloodred with rage； and on the next page； I saw the lion； representing Islam；
chase away a gray…and…pink pig； symbolizing the cunning Christian infidel。 I
indulged my eyes at length on a picture of a barber suspended upside down
from the ceiling of a shop built onto a cart； as he shaved a customer while his
assistant； dressed in red； held a mirror and a silver bowl containing fragrant
soap； waiting for baksheesh； I inquired after the identity of the magnificent
miniaturist responsible for the piece。
“It is indeed important that a painting； through its beauty； summon us
toward life’s abundance； toward passion； toward respect for the colors of
the realm which God created； and toward reflection and faith。 The identity of
the miniaturist is not important。”
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Was Nuri the Miniaturist； who was much more subtle in thought than I’d
assumed； being reserved because he understood that my Enishte sent me here
to investigate； or was he merely parroting Head Illuminator Master Osman？
“Is Elegant the one responsible for all this gilding work？” I asked。 “Who’s
doing the gilding now； in his stead？”
The shouts and screams of children could now be heard through the open
door that faced the inner courtyard。 Below； one of the division heads had
started administering the bastinado to apprentices who’d most likely been
caught with red ink powder in their pockets or gold leaf hidden away in a fold
of paper； probably the two whom I’d seen trembling as they waited in the
cold。 Young painters； seizing an opportunity to mock them； ran to the door to
watch。
“By the time the apprentices paint the ground of the Hippodrome here a
rose color； finishing it off as our Master Osman has dictated；” said Nuri
Effendi cautiously； “our brother Elegant Effendi； God willing； will have
returned from wherever he’s gone and will plete the gilding on these two
pages。 Our master； Osman the Miniaturist； wanted Elegant Effendi to color
the dirt floor of the Hippodrome differently in each scene。 Rose pink； Indian
green； saffron yellow or the color of goose shit。 Whosoever beholds the picture
will realize in the first rendering this is a dirt square and should be earth…
colored； but in the second and third pictures； he’ll want other colors to keep
himself amused。 Embellishing ought to bring merriment to the page。”
I noticed some pictures on a sheet of paper that an assistant left in a corner。
He was working on a single…leaf picture for a Book of Victories； the depiction of
a naval fleet heading off to battle； but it was obvious that the screams of his
friends whose soles were being severely beaten； provoked the illustrator to run
off and watch。 The fleet he made by repeatedly tracing identical ships with a
block pattern didn’t even seem to float in the sea； yet； this artificiality； the lack
of wind in the sails； had less to do with the block pattern than the young
painter’s lack of skill。 I saw with sorrow that the pattern had been cut
violently out of an old book which I couldn’t identify； perhaps a collage album。
Obviously； Master Osman was overlooking quite a lot。
When we came to his own worktable； Nuri Effendi proudly stated that he
finished a gilded royal insignia for Our Sultan； which he’d been working on for
three weeks。 I respectfully admired Nuri Effendi’s gold inlay and the insignia；
which had been made on an empty sheet to ensure that its recipient and the
reason for its being sent would remain secret。 I knew well enough that many
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impetuous pashas in the East had refrained from rebellion upon seeing the
noble and potent splendor of the Sultan’s royal insignia。
Next； we saw the last masterpieces that Jemal the Calligrapher had
transcribed； pleted and left behind； but we passed over them hastily to
avoid giving credence to opponents of color and decoration who maintained
that true art consisted of calligraphy alone and that decorative illumination
was simply a secondary means of adding emphasis。
Nas？r the Limner was making a mess of a plate he intended to repair from a
version of the Quintet of Nizami dating back to the era of Tamerlane’s sons；
the picture depicted Hüsrev looking at a naked Shirin as she bathed。
A niy…two…year…old former master who was half blind and had nothing
to say besides claiming that sixty years ago he kissed Master Bizhad’s hand in
Tabriz and that the great master of legend was blind and drunk at the time；
showed us with trembling hands the ornamentation on the pen box he would
present as a holiday gift to Our Sultan when it was pleted three months
hence。
Shortly a silence enveloped the whole workshop where close to eighty
painters； students and apprentices worked in the small cells which constituted
the lower floor。 This was a postbeating silence； the likes of which I’d
experienced many times； a silence which would be broken at times by a nerve…
wracking chuckle or a witticism； at times by a few sobs or the suppressed
mo