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I’ve come here to involve myself in such an affair, you’ve completely

misunderstood the book you’re holding. Would someone with such designs

knock on the gate? Take off his shoes? Come without a knife?

“So, you’ve come,” he said, again like the old man in the fable. But then he

assumed an entirely different tone: “Welcome, my child. Tell me then, what is

it that you want?”

It had grown quite dark by now. Enough light entered through the narrow

beeswax-dipped cloth windowpane—which, when removed in springtime,

revealed a pomegranate and plane tree—to distinguish the outlines of objects

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within the room, enough light to please a humble Chinese illustrator. I could

not fully see Enishte Effendi’s face as he sat, as usual, before a low, folding

reading desk, so that the light fell to his left side. I tried desperately to

recapture the intimacy between us when we’d painted miniatures together,

gently and quietly discussing them all night by candlelight amid these

burnishing stones, reed pens, inkwells and brushes. I’m not sure if it was out

of this sense of alienation or out of embarrassment, but I was ashamed and

held back from openly confessing my misgivings; at that moment, I decided to

explain myself through a story.

Perhaps you’ve also heard of the artist Sheikh Muhammad of Isfahan? There

was no painter who could surpass him in choice of color, in his sense of

symmetry, in depicting human figures, animals and faces, in painting with an

effusiveness bespeaking poetry, and in the application of an arcane logic

reserved for geometry. After achieving the status of master painter at a young

age, this virtuoso with a divine touch spent a full thirty years in pursuit of the

most fearless innovation of subject matter, composition and style. Working in

the Chinese black-ink style—brought to us by the Mongols—with skill and an

elegant sense of symmetry, he was the one who introduced the terrifying

demons, horned jinns, horses with large testicles, half-human monsters and

giants into the devilishly subtle and sensitive Herat style of painting; he was

the first to take an interest in and be influenced by the portraiture that had

come by Western ships from Portugal and Flanders; he reintroduced forgotten

techniques dating back to the time of Genghis Khan and hidden in decaying

old volumes; before anybody else, he dared to paint cock-raising scenes like

Alexander’s peeping at naked beauties swimming on the island of women and

Shirin bathing by moonlight; he depicted Our Glorious Prophet ascending on

the back of his winged steed Burak, shahs scratching themselves, dogs

copulating and sheikhs drunk with wine and made them acceptable to the

entire community of book lovers. He’d done it, at times secretly, at times

openly, drinking large quantities of wine and taking opium, with an

enthusiasm that lasted for thirty years. Later, in his old age, he became the

disciple of a pious sheikh, and within a short time, changed completely.

Coming to the conclusion that every painting he’d made over the previous

thirty years was profane and ungodly, he rejected them all. What’s more, he

devoted the remaining thirty years of his life to going from palace to palace,

from city to city, searching through the libraries and the treasuries of sultans

and kings, in order to find and destroy the manuscripts he’d illuminated. In

whichever shah’s, prince’s or nobleman’s library he found a painting he’d

made in previous years, he’d stop at nothing to destroy it; gaining access by

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flattery or by ruse, and precisely when no one was paying attention, he’d

either tear out the page on which his illustration appeared, or, seizing an

opportunity, he’d spill water on the piece, ruining it. I recounted this tale as

an example of how a miniaturist could suffer great agony for unwittingly

forsaking his faith under the spell of his art. This was why I mentioned how

Sheikh Muhammad had burned down Prince Ismail Mirza’s immense library

containing hundreds of books that the sheikh himself had illustrated; so many

books that he couldn’t cull his own from the others. With great exaggeration,

as if I’d experienced it myself, I told how the painter, in profound sorrow and

regret, had burned to death in that terrible conflagration.

“Are you afraid, my child?” said Enishte Effendi compassionately, “of the

paintings we’ve made?”

The room was black now, I couldn’t see for myself, but I sensed that he’d

said this with a smile.

“Our book is no longer a secret,” I answered. “Perhaps this isn’t important.

But rumors are spreading. They say we’ve underhandedly committed

blasphemy. They say that, here, we’ve made a book—not as Our Sultan had

commissioned and hoped for—but one meant to entertain our own whims;

one that ridicules even Our Prophet and mimics infidel masters. There are

those who believe it even depicts Satan as amiable. They say we’ve committed

an unforgivable sin by daring to draw, from the perspective of a mangy street

dog, a horsefly and a mosque as if they were the same size—with the excuse

that the mosque was in the background—thereby mocking the faithful who

attend prayers. I cannot sleep for thinking about such things.”

“We made the illustrations together,” said Enishte Effendi. “Could we have

even considered such ideas, let alone committed such an offense?”

“Not at all,” I said expansively. “But they’ve heard about it somehow. They

say there’s one final painting in which, according to the gossip, there’s open

defiance of our religion and what we hold sacred.”

“You yourself have seen the final painting.”

“Nay, I made pictures of whatever you requested in various places on a

large sheet, which was to be a double-leaf illustration,” I said with a caution

and precision that I hoped would please Enishte Effendi. “But I never saw the

completed illustration. If I had seen the entire painting, I’d have a clear

conscience about denying all this foul slander.”

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“Why is it that you feel guilty?” he asked. “What’s gnawing at your soul?

Who has caused you to doubt yourself?”

“…to worry that one has attacked what he knows to be sacred, after

spending months merrily illustrating a book…to suffer the torments of Hell

while living…if I could only see that last painting in its entirety.”

“Is this what troubles you?” he said. “Is this why you’ve come?”

Suddenly panic seized me. Could he be thinking something horrendous, like

I was the one who’d killed the ill-fated Elegant Effendi?

“Those who want Our Sultan dethroned and replaced by the prince,” I said,

“are furthering this insidious gossip, saying that He secretly supports the

book.”

“How many really believe that?” he asked wearily. “Every cleric with any

ambition who’s met with some favor and whose head has swollen as a result

will preach that religion is being ignored and disrespected. This is the most

reliable way to ensure one’s living.”

Did he suppose I’d come solely to inform him of a rumor?

“Poor old Elegant Effendi, God rest his soul,” I said, my voice quavering.

“Supposedly, we killed him because he saw the whole of the last painting and

was convinced that it reviled our faith. A division head I know at the palace

workshop told me this. You know how junior and senior apprentices are,

everyone gossips.”

Maintaining this line of reasoning and growing increasingly impassioned, I

went on for quite some time. I didn’t know how much of what I said I myself

had indeed heard, how much I fabricated out of fear after doing away with

that wicked slanderer, or how much I improvised. Having devoted much of the

conversation to flattery, I was anticipating that Enishte Effendi would show

me the two-page illustration and put me at ease. Why didn’t he realize this

was the only way I might overcome my fears about being mired in sin?

Intending to startle him, I defiantly asked, “Might one be capable of

making blasphemous art without being aware of it?”

In place of an answer, he gestured very delicately and elegantly with his

hand—as if to warn me there was a child sleeping in the room—and I fell

completely silent. “It has become very dark,” he said, almost in a whisper,

“let’s light the candle.”

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After lighting the candlestick from the hot coals of the brazier which heated

the room, I noticed in his face an expression of pride, one to which I was

unaccustomed, and this displeased me greatly. Or was it an expression of pity?

Had he figured everything out? Was he thinking that I was some sort of a base

murderer or was he frightened by me? I remember how suddenly my thoughts

spiraled out of control and I was stupidly listening to what I thought as if

somebody else was thinking. The carpet beneath me, for example: There was a

kind of wolflike design in one corner, but why hadn’t I noticed it before?

“The love all khans, shahs and sultans feel for paintings, illustrations and

fine books can be divided into three seasons,” said Enishte Effendi. “At first

they are bold, eager and curious. Rulers want paintings for the sake of respect,

to influence how others see them. During this period, they educate

themselves. During the second phase, they commission books to satisfy their

own tastes. Because they’ve learned sincerely to enjoy paintings, they amass

prestige while at the same time amassing books, which, after their deaths,

ensure the persistence of their renown in this world. However, in the autumn

of a sultan’s life, he no longer concerns himself with the persistence of his

worldly immortality. By ”worldly immortality‘ I mean the desire to be

remembered by future generations, by our grandchildren. Rulers who admire

miniatures and books have already acquired an immortality through the

manuscripts they’ve commissioned from us—upon whose pages they’ve had

their names inserted, and, at times, their histories written. Later, each of them

comes to the conclusion that painting is an obstacle to securing a place in the

Otherworld, naturally something they all desire. This is what bothers and

intimidates me the most. Shah Tahmasp, who was himself a master

miniaturist and spent his youth in his own workshop, closed down his

magnificent atelier as his death approached, chased his divinely inspired

painters from Tabriz, destroyed the books he had produced and suffered

interminable crises of regret. Why did they all believe that painting would bar

them from the gates of Heaven?“

“You know quite well why! Because they remembered Our Prophet’s

warning that on Judgment Day, Allah will punish painters most severely.”

“Not painters,” corrected Enishte Effendi. “Those who make idols. And this

not from the Koran but from Bukhari.”

“On Judgment Day, the idol makers will be asked to bring the images

they’ve created to life,” I said cautiously. “Since they’ll be unable to do so their

lot will be to suffer the torments of Hell. Let it not be forgotten that in the

Glorious Koran, ”creator‘ is one of the attributes of Allah. It is Allah who is

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creative, who brings that which is not into existence, who gives life to the

lifeless. No one ought to compete with Him. The greatest of sins is committed

by painters who presume to do what He does, who claim to be as creative as

He.“

I made my statement firmly, as if I, too, were accusing him. He fixed his

gaze into my eyes.

“Do you think this is what we’ve been doing?”

“Never,” I said with a smile. “However, this is what Elegant Effendi, may he

rest in peace, began to assume when he saw the last painting. He’d been saying

that your use of the science of perspective and the methods of the Venetian

masters was nothing but the temptation of Satan. In the last painting, you’ve

supposedly rendered the face of a mortal using the Frankish techniques, so the

observer has the impression not of a painting but of reality; to such a degree

that this image has the power to entice men to bow down before it, as with

icons in churches. According to him, this is the Devil’s work, not only because

the art of perspective removes the painting from God’s perspective and lowers

it to the level of a street dog, but because your reliance on the methods of the

Venetians as well as your mingling of our own established traditions with that

of the infidels will strip us of our purity and reduce us to being their slaves.”

“Nothing is pure,” said Enishte Effendi. “In the realm of book arts,

whenever a masterpiece is made, whenever a splendid picture makes my eyes

water out of joy and causes a chill to run down my spine, I can be certain of

the following: Two styles heretofore never brought together have come

together to create something new and wondrous. We owe Bihzad and the

splendor of Persian painting to the meeting of an Arabic illustrating sensibility

and Mongol-Chinese painting. Shah Tahmasp’s best paintings marry Persian

style with Turkmen subtleties. Today, if men cannot adequately praise the

book-arts workshops of Akbar Khan in Hindustan, it’s because he urged his

miniaturists to adopt the styles of the Frankish masters. To God belongs the

East and the West. May He protect us from the will of the pure and

unadulterated.”

However soft and bright his face might have appeared by candlelight, his

shadow, cast on the wall, was equally as black and frightening. Despite finding