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 re