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illustrations that I’d seen over the years。 Not to mention the copies that the
chief of the dwarfs； Jafer； in the treasury would make of the best trees；
dragons； birds； hunters and warriors from the pages of volumes locked away；
that is； if you gave him ten gold pieces； the rogue。 My notebook is excellent；
not for those who want to see the actual world in which they live through
pictures and decoration； but for those who want to recall the fables of old。
Flipping through the pages while showing the images to the pageboy； I
selected the best of the horses。 I briskly poked holes over the lines of that
picture with a needle。 Next； I placed a clean sheet of paper under the stencil。 I
gradually sprinkled a liberal amount of coal dust on top； then shook it so the
dust would pass through the holes。 I lifted the stencil。 The coal dust； dot by
dot； had transferred the beautiful horse’s entire shape to the sheet below。 It
was a pleasure to behold。
I grabbed my pen。 With an inspiration that suddenly welled up within me； I
elegantly connected the dots with quick and decisive strokes； such that as I was
drawing the horse’s belly； graceful neck； nose and rump； I lovingly felt the
horse within me。 “There it is；” I said。 “The world’s most beautiful horse。 Not
one of those fools could draw this。”
So the boy from the palace would believe this as well； and so he wouldn’t
explain to Our Sultan how I’d been inspired to draw this picture； I gave him
three more counterfeit coins。 I implied that I would give him even more if I
ended up winning the gold。 Furthermore； he also imagined； I believe； that he
might soon be able to catch sight of my wife once again； whom he’d leered at
open…mouthed。 There are many who believe you can tell a good miniaturist by
the horse he draws； however； to be the best miniaturist； it’s not enough to
make the best horse； you must also convince Our Sultan and His circle of
sycophants that you are indeed the best miniaturist。
When I draw a magnificent horse； I am who I am； nothing more。
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I WILL BE CALLED A MURDERER
Were you able to determine who I am from the way I sketched a horse？
As soon as I heard I was invited to make a horse； I knew this was no
petition： They wanted to catch me through my illustration。 I’m perfectly
aware that the horse sketches I’d drawn on rough paper were found on poor
Elegant Effendi’s body。 But I have no fault or style by which they might
discover me through the horses I’ve made。 Though I was as certain of this as I
could be； I was in a panic while rendering the horse。 Had I done something
incriminating when I made the horse for Enishte？ I had to depict a new horse
this time。 I thought of pletely different things。 I “restrained” myself and
became another。
But who am I？ Am I an artist who would suppress the masterpieces I was
capable of in order to fit the style of the workshop or an artist who would one
day triumphantly depict the horse deep within himself？
Suddenly and with terror； I felt the existence of that triumphant miniaturist
within me。 It was as if I were being watched by another soul； and； in short； I
was ashamed。
I quickly knew that I wouldn’t be able to remain at home； and bolting
outside； I walked briskly down the darkened streets。 As Sheikh Osman Baba
wrote in his Lives of the Saints； in order for a genuine wandering dervish to
escape the devil within； he must roam his entire life without remaining
anywhere too long。 After roaming from city to city for sixty…seven years； he
tired of running and surrendered to the Devil。 This is the age when master
miniaturists attain blindness； or the darkness of Allah； the age when they
involuntarily achieve a style； while freeing themselves of all intimations of
style。
I wandered through the Chicken…Sellers Market in Bayazid； through the
empty square of the slave market； amid the pleasant aromas of soup and
pudding shops； as if searching。 I passed the closed doors of barbershops；
clothes pressers； an old bread baker who was counting his money and looking
at me in surprise； I passed a grocer’s shop smelling of pickles and salted fish；
and since my eyes were taken only by colors； I walked into a herbs and notions
shop where something was being weighed； and in the light of a lamp； stared
passionately； the way one looks at one’s beloved； at the sacks of coffee； ginger；
saffron and cinnamon； the colorful cans of gum mastic； the aniseed whose
scent wafted from the counter； and at mounds of brown and black cumin。
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Sometimes I want to put everything into my mouth； sometimes I want to fill a
page with a picture of all creation。
I walked into the place where I’d filled my stomach twice before in the last
week； which I’d personally named the “soup kitchen of the downtrodden”—
actually； of the “miserable” would’ve been more appropriate。 It was open until
midnight to those who knew about it。 Inside were a few unfortunates dressed
like horse thieves or like men who’d escaped the gallows； a couple of pathetic
characters whose sorrow and hopelessness caused their sights to slip from this
world to distant paradises； as happens with opium addicts； two beggars who
were at pains to follow even basic guild etiquette； and a young gentleman
who’d seated himself in a corner at a distance from this crowd。 I gave the
Aleppan cook a graceful greeting。 Heaping the meat…filled cabbage dolma into
my bowl； I covered it with yogurt and topped it off with handfuls of hot red
pepper flakes before taking a seat beside the young gentleman。
Every night a sorrow overwhelms me； a misery descends upon me。 Oh； my
brothers； my dear brothers； we’re being poisoned； we’re rotting； dying； we’re
exhausting ourselves as we live； we’ve sunk up to our necks in misery…Some
nights； I dream that he emerges from the well and es after me； but I know
we’ve buried him deeply beneath plenty of earth。 He couldn’t possibly rise
from the grave。
The gentleman； who I thought had buried his nose in his soup and
forgotten the whole world； opened the door to a conversation。 Was this a sign
from Allah？ “Yes；” I answered； “they’ve ground the meat to the right
consistency； my stuffed cabbage is quite to my liking。” I asked about him： He’d
recently graduated from a miserable twenty…coin college and been taken into
Arifi Pasha’s patronage as a clerk。 I didn’t ask him why； at this hour of the
night； he wasn’t at the Pasha’s estate； at the mosque or at home in the arms of
his beloved wife； but chose instead to be at this street kitchen teeming with
unmarried thugs。 He asked me where I’d e from and who I was。 I thought
for a moment。
“My name is Bihzad。 I’ve e from Herat and Tabriz。 I’ve painted the
most magnificent pictures； the most incredible masterpieces。 In Persia and
Arabia； in every Muslim book arts workshop where illustrations are made；
they’ve said this about me for hundreds of years： It looks real； just like the
work of Bihzad。”
Of course； this isn’t the issue。 My paintings reveal what the mind； not the
eye； sees。 But painting； as you know quite well； is a feast for the eyes。 If you
305
bine these two thoughts； my world will emerge。 That is：
ALIF：
Painting brings to life what the mind sees； as a feast for the eyes。
LAM： What the eye sees in the world enters the painting to the degree
that it serves the mind。
MIM：
Consequently； beauty is the eye discovering in our world what
the mind already knows。
Did the graduate of the miserable college understand this logic； which I’d
extracted with lightning inspiration from the depths of my soul？ No