The midday prayers had yet to be called. A knock at the door: I ope to find Black Effendi, who was among us for a while during our apprenticeships. We embraced and kissed on the cheeks. I was w whether he』d brought some word from his Enishte, when he said that he wao look at the pages I』d been illustrating and at my paintings, that he』d called in friendship, and was going to direct a question to me in the name of Our Sultan. 「Very well,」 I said, 「what』s the question I』m to answer?」
He told me. Very well, then!
Style and Signature「As long as the number of worthless artists motivated by money and fame instead of the pleasure of seeing and a belief in their craft increases,」 I said, 「we will tio witness much more vulgarity and greed akin to this preoccupation with 」style「 and 」signature.「」 I made this introdu because this was the way it is done, not because I believed what I said. True ability and talent couldn』t be corrupted even by the love of gold or fame. Furthermore, if truth be told, money and fame are the inalienable rights of the talented, as in my case, and only inspire us to greater feats. But if I were to say this openly, the mediocre illustrators in the miniaturists』 division, rabid with envy, would pounce upon me, so, to prove that I love this work more thahemselves do, I』ll paint the picture of a tree on a grain of rice. I』m well aware that this lust for 「style,」 「signature『 and 」character「 has e to us all the way from the East by way of certain unfortunate ese masters who』ve been led astray uhe influence of the Europeans, by pictures brought there from the West by Jesuit priests. heless, let me tell you three parables that prise a recital on this topic.」
Three Parables on Style and SignatureALIFOnce upon a time, to the North of Herat, in a mountain castle, there lived a young Khan who was fasated with illuminating and painting. This Khan loved only one of the women in his harem, and this striking Tatar woman, whom he loved madly, loved him iurn. They engaged in such bouts of lovemaking, sweating until m, and lived in such ecstasy that their only wish was to live eternally.
They soon discovered the best way to realize their wish was by opening books and gazing, for hours and hours and days on end, upoounding and flawless pictures of the old masters. As they stared at these perfect renderings, unfalteringly reproduced, they felt as though time would stop and their own felicity would mih the bliss of the golden age revealed iories. In the royal bookmaker』s workshop, there was a miniaturist, a master of masters, who made the same flawless pieces over and over for the same pages of the same books. As was his , the master depicted the anguish of Ferhad』s love for Shirin, or the loving and desirous glances between Leyla and Mejnun, or the duplicitous, suggestive looks Hüsrev and Shirin exged in that fabled heavenly garden—with one slight alteration however: In place of these legendary lovers, the artist would paint the Khan and his Tatar beauty. Beholding these pages, the Khan and his beloved were thhly vihat their rapture would never end, and they showered the master miniaturist with praises and gold. Eventually, however, this adulation caused the miniaturist to stray from good sense; incited by the Devil, he dismissed the fact that he was beholden to the old masters for the perfe of his pictures, and haughtily assumed that a touch of his own genius would make his work even more appealing. The Khan and