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ostrich eggs; cut…paper work; single…leaf pictures; amusing albums; playing
cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking;
long…suffering; elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little?
They’d never sequester themselves at home and jealously hide their methods
from others; dreading that their moonlighting would be found out; but would
e to the workshop every day without fail。 Where were the old miniaturists
who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle
walls; cypress leaves whose uniqueness was discernible only after close scrutiny
and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces? Where were the
uninspired masters who never grew jealous; having accepted the wisdom and
justice inherent in God’s bestowal of talent and ability upon some artists and
patience and pious resignation upon others? We recalled these fatherly
masters; some of whom were hunched and perpetually smiling; others dreamy
and drunk and still others intent upon foisting off a spinster daughter; and as
we recollected; we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the
workshop as it had been during our apprentice and early mastership years。
Do you remember the limner who stuck his tongue into his cheek when he
ruled pages—to the left side if the line he drew headed right; and to the right
side if the line went left; the small; thin artist who laughed to himself;
chortling and mumbling “patience; patience; patience” when he dribbled
paint; the septuagenarian master gilder who spent hour upon hour talking to
the binder’s apprentices downstairs and claimed that red ink applied to the
forehead stopped aging; the ornery master who relied on an unsuspecting
apprentice or even randomly stopped anyone passing by to test the
consistency of paint upon their fingernails after his own nails were pletely
filled; and the portly artist who made us laugh as he caressed his beard with
the furry rabbit’s foot used to collect the excess flecks of gold dust used in
gilding? Where were they all?
Where were the burnishing boards which were used so much they became a
part of the apprentices’ bodies and then just tossed aside; and the long paper
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scissors that the apprentices dulled by playing “swordsman”? Where were the
writing boards inscribed with the names of the great masters so they wouldn’t
get mixed up; the aroma of China ink and the faint rattle of coffeepots aboil in
the silence? Where were the various brushes we made of hairs from the necks
and inner ears of kittens born to our tabby cats each summer; and the great
sheaves of Indian paper given to us so; in idle moments; we could practice our
artistry the way calligraphers did? Where was the ugly steel…handled penknife
ission from the Head Illuminator; thus providing a
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