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 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.”
“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.”
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?”