as Nuri turist,    tood t my Enis me o iigate, or er Osman?

        “Is Elegant tead?”

        ts and screams of c faced tyard. Beloarted administering tinado to apprentices ed in ters, seizing an opportunity to mock to to ch.

        “By time tices paint t off as our Master Osman ated,” said Nuri Effendi cautiously, “our brot Effendi, God er, Osman turist, ed Elegant Effendi to color t floor of tly in eac. ure    rendering t square and s in tures,    oto keep    t merriment to the page.”

        I noticed some pictures on a s of paper t an assista in a er. ure for a Book of Victories, tion of a naval fleet o battle, but it    ten, provoked trator to run off and c edly trag identical stern didn’t eveo float in t, tificiality, to do tern ter’s lack of skill. I sa ttern    violently out of an old book ify, perer Osman e a lot.

        o able, Nuri Effendi proudly stated t he finished a gilded royal insignia

        for Our Sultan, y s to e its recipient and ts bei . I kneuous pas ent splendor of tan’s royal insignia.

        ,    masterpieces t Jemal transcribed, pleted a be ily to avoid giving credeo oppos of color and decoration    true art sisted of calligrap decorative illumination was simply a sedary means of adding emphasis.

        Nas 1r te eo repair from a version of tet of Nizami dating baerlane’s sons; ture depicted    a naked Shed.

        A er    sixty years ago er Bizabriz and t t master of legend    time, srembling ation on t as a    to Our Sultahs hence.

        Sly a silenveloped to eigers, students and appreuted tbeating sileimes; a silence imes by a nerve-icism, at times by a feen boy before    er miniaturists of tings tices. But ty-ter caused me to sense somet, tles and turmoil: t everyto an end. Immediately before there would also be such silence.

        Painting is t and t.

        As I kissed Master Osman’s o bid    not only great respeent t plunged my soul into turmoil: pity mixed ioing a saint, a peculiar feeling of guilt. te—ers, openly or secretly, to imitate ters—was his rival.

        I suddenly sensed, as    I er alive for t time, and in ter of ing to please and en ion:

        “My great master, my dear sir, es turist from tor, o sus,    ly in t of fetting her.

        “t    distinguis miniaturist from time. Yet ty    ten our art are of significe. today, in order to determine just er is, I’d ask ions.”

        “And hey be?”

        “o believe, u    as     to ing tecyle? As an illustrator, does    to    distinct from ottempt to prove ters? to determine precisely t ask ion about ”style“ and ”signature.““

        “And tfully.

        “t to learn rator felt about volumes cures being used ians    or pleased by it. trator a question about ”time“—an illustrator’s time and Allaime. Do you follow me, my child?”

        Nay. But t’s not ead, I asked, “And tion?”

        “t master or Osman, ion.

        “ is it about ”blindness“?” I said .

        “Blindness is silence. If you bine    no and tions, ”blindness’ ’s t one    go in illustrating; it is seeing    of Allaside. I desded tairs     I    master’s t questions of Butterfly, Olive and Stork, not only for tion, but to better uand temporaries of mine.

        I did not, o ter illuminators’ ely. I met er at a ne ed vieter in to opped moving, and e; ians of poor neig    themselves amid

        carrots, quinces and small bundles of onions and turnips.

        Suffed tter I gave o s    and mysterious gesture, as if t    Sook e and deliver it straiged t sill e a lot of o do by gesturing toer to Soell S I’d goo pay visits to ter miniaturists.
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