as Nuri turist,  tood t my Enis me o investigate, 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  to bring merriment to the page.”

    I noticed some pictures on a s of paper t an assistant left in a corner. ure for a Book of Victories, tion of a naval fleet o battle, but it  ten, provoked trator to run off and c edly tracing identical stern didn’t even seem to 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 ensure t its recipient and ts being sent . I kneuous pas ent splendor of tan’s royal insignia.

    Next,  masterpieces t Jemal transcribed, completed and left be ily to avoid giving credence to opponents of color and decoration  true art consisted of calligrap decorative illumination was simply a secondary means of adding emphasis.

    Nas 1r te ended to repair from a version of tet of Nizami dating back to tamerlane’s sons; ture depicted  a naked Shed.

    A ninety-ter  sixty years ago er Bizabriz and t t master of legend  time, srembling ation on t as a  to Our Sultan ed ths hence.

    Sly a silence enveloped to eigers, students and apprentices ituted tbeating silence, times; 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 respect toiment t plunged my soul into turmoil: pity mixed ion befitting 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 sucions,  ly in t of forgetting her.

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

    “And hey be?”

    “o believe, under t custom 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 in oter tans  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 combine  no and tions, ”blindness’ ’s t one can go in illustrating; it is seeing  of Allaside. I descended tairs   I  master’s t questions of Butterfly, Olive and Stork, not only for tion, but to better understand temporaries of mine.

    I did not, o ter illuminators’ ely. I met er at a ne ed vieter in to opped moving, and co me; indeed, tans 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 gone to pay visits to ter miniaturists.