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had a style;” said Black。 “He taught me how the hidden fault of ”style‘ isn’t
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something the artist selects of his own volition; but is determined by the
artist’s past and his forgotten memories。 He also showed me how these secret
faults; weaknesses and defects; at one time such a source of shame they were
concealed so we wouldn’t be estranged from the old masters; will henceforth
emerge to be praised as “personal characteristics’ or ”style;“ because the
European masters have spread them over the world。 Henceforth; thanks to
fools who take pride in their own shortings; the world will be a more
colorful and more stupid and; of course; a much more imperfect place。”
The fact that Black confidently believed in what he said proved that he was
one of the new breed of fools。
“Was Master Osman able to explain why; for years; I drew hundreds of
horses with regular nostrils in Our Sultan’s books?” I asked。
“It was due to the love and beatings he gave all of you in your childhood。
Because he was both father and beloved to you all; he doesn’t see that he
associates all of you with himself and each of you with the others。 He didn’t
want you each to have a style of your own; he wanted the royal atelier as a
whole to have a style。 Because of the awesome shadow he cast over all of you;
you forgot what came from within; the imperfections; the elements and
differences that fell outside the confines of standard forms。 Only when you
painted for other books and other pages; which Master Osman’s eyes would
never see; did you draw the horse that had lain within you all those years。”
“My mother; may she rest in peace; was more intelligent than my father;” I
said。 “One night I was at home; in tears; determined never again to return to
the workshop because I was daunted not only by Master Osman’s beatings;
but by those of the other harsh and irritable masters and by those of the
division head who always intimidated us with a ruler。 In consolation; my
dearly departed mother advised me that there were two types of people in the
world: those who were cowed and crushed by their childhood beatings; forever
downtrodden; she said; because the beatings had the desired effect of killing
the inner devils; and those fortunate ones for whom the beatings frightened
and tamed the devil within without killing him off。 Though the latter group
would never forget these painful childhood memories—she’d warned me not
to tell this to anybody—the beatings would in time enable them to develop
cunning; to fathom the unknown; to make friends; to identify enemies; to
sense plots being hatched behind their backs and; let me hasten to add; to
paint better than anyone else。 Because I wasn’t able to draw the branches of a
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