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ground?” I said apologetically。
“As Jemalettin of Kazvin wrote in his The Illustration of Horses; one can
properly plete a picture of a horse beginning from its hoof only if he
carries the entire horse in his memory。 Obviously; to render a horse through
291
excessive thought and recollection; or even more ridiculous; by repeatedly
looking at a real horse; one would have to move from head to neck and then
neck to body。 I hear there are certain Veian illustrators who are happy to
sell tailors and butchers such pictures of your average street packhorse drawn
indecisively by trial and error。 Such an illustration has nothing whatsoever to
do with the meaning of the world or with the beauty of God’s creation。 But
I’m convinced that even mediocre artists must know a genuine illustration
isn’t drawn according to what the eye sees at any particular moment; but
according to what the hand remembers and is accustomed to。 The painter is
always alone before the page。 Solely for this reason he’s always dependent on
memory。 Now; there’s nothing left for us to do but use the ”courtesan
method‘ to uncover the hidden signature borne by our horse; which has been
drawn from memory through the quick and skillful movement of the hand。
Take a careful look here。“
He was ever so slowly moving the magnifying lens over the spectacular
horse as if he were trying to discover the location of a treasure on an old map
meticulously rendered on calfskin。
“Yes;” I said; like a disciple overe by the pressure to make a quick and
brilliant discovery that would impress his master。 “We could pare the
colors and embroidery of the saddle blanket to those in the other pictures。”
“My master miniaturists wouldn’t even deign to lower a brush to these
designs。 Apprentices draw the clothes; carpets and blankets in the pictures。
Perhaps the late Elegant Effendi might’ve done them。 Forget them。”
“What about the ears?” I said in a fluster。 “The ears of the horses…”
“No。 These ears haven’t changed form since the time of Tamerlane; they’re
just like the leaves of reeds; which we well know。”
I was about to say; “What about the braiding of the mane and the
depiction of every strand of its hair;” but I fell silent; not at all amused by this
master…apprentice game。 If I’m the apprentice; I ought to know my place。
“Take a look here;” said Master Osman with the distressed yet attentive air
of a doctor pointing out a plague pustule to a colleague。 “Do you see it?”
He’d moved the magnifying lens over the horse’s head and was slowly
pulling it away from the surface of the picture。 I lowered my head to better see
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