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my name is red-我的名字叫红-第100章

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rightly—yes; in good measure—whispered to him that in his work everything 
was as joyous as a holiday; but devoid of depth。 Child princes and senile old 
harem women on the verge of death enjoy his paintings; not men of the world 
forced to struggle with evil。 Because Butterfly is well aware of these criticisms; 
poor man; he at times grows jealous of average miniaturists who though much 
less talented than he are possessed of demons and jinns。 What he mistakenly 
believes  to  be  devilry  and  the  work  of  jinns  is  more  often  than  not 
straightforward evil and envy。 
He aggravates me because when he paints; he doesn’t lose himself in that 
wondrous  world;  surrendering  to  its  ecstasy;  but  only  reaches  that  height 
when  he  imagines  his  work  will  please  others。  He  aggravates  me  because  he 
thinks about the money he’ll earn。 It’s another of life’s ironies: There are many 
artists  with  much  less  talent  yet  more  able  than  Butterfly  to  surrender 
themselves to their art。 
In his need to make up for his shortings; Butterfly is preoccupied with 
proving   that   he   has   sacrificed   himself   to   art。   Like   those   birdbrained 
miniaturists  who  paint  on  fingernails  and  pieces  of  rice;  pictures  almost 
invisible   to   the   naked   eye;   he’s   engrossed   with   minute   and   delicate 
craftsmanship。  I’d  once  asked  him  whether  he  gave  himself  over  to  this 
ambition; which has blinded many illustrators at an early age; because he was 
ashamed of the excessive talent Allah had granted him。 Only inept miniaturists 
283 
 
paint each leaf of a tree they’ve drawn on a grain of rice to make an easy name 
for themselves and to gain importance in the eyes of dense patrons。 
Butterfly’s  inclination  to  design  and  illustrate  for  other  people’s  pleasure 
rather than for his own; his uncontrollable need to please others; made him; 
more  than  any  of  the  others;  a  slave  to  praise。  And  so  it  follows  that  an 
uncertain   Butterfly   wants   to   ensure   his   standing   by   being   Head 
Illuminator。 It was Black who had raised this subject。 
“Yes;” I said; “I know he’s been scheming to succeed me after I die。” 
“Do you think this would drive him to murder his miniaturist brethren?” 
“It might。 He’s a great master; but he’s not aware of this; and he can’t leave 
the world behind when he paints。” 
I  said  this;  whereupon  I  grasped  that  in  truth  I;  too;  wanted  Butterfly  to 
assume leadership of the workshop after me。 I couldn’t trust Olive; and in the 
end  Stork  would  unwittingly  bee  slave  to  the  Veian  style。  Butterfly’s 
need  to  be  admired—I  was  upset  at  the  thought  that  he  could  take  a  life—
would be vital in handling both the workshop and the Sultan。 Only Butterfly’s 
sensitivity and faith in his own palette could resist the Veian artistry that 
duped   the   viewer   by   trying   to   depict   reality   itself   rather   than   its 
representation;  in  all  its  detail:  pictures;  shadows  included;  of  cardinals; 
bridges;  rowboats;  candlesticks;  churches  and  stables;  oxen  and  carriage 
wheels; as if all of them were of the same importance to Allah。 
“Was there ever a time when you visited him unannounced as you had with 
the others?” 
“Whosoever  looks  upon  Butterfly’s  work  will  quickly  sense  that  he 
understands  the  value  of  love  as  well  as  the  meaning  of  heartfelt  joy  and 
sorrow。 But as with all lovers of color; he gets carried away with his emotions 
and  is  fickle。  Because  I  was  so  enamored  of  his  God…given  and  miraculous 
talent; of his sensitivity to color; I paid close attention to him in his youth and 
know everything there is to know about him。 Of course; in such situations; the 
other miniaturists quickly bee jealous and the master…disciple relationship 
bees  strained  and  damaged。  There  were  many  moments  of  love  during 
which Butterfly did not fear what others might say。 Recently; since he married 
the neighborhood fruit seller’s pretty daughter; I’ve neither felt the desire to 
go see him; nor have I had the chance。” 
“Rumor  has  it  that  he’s  in  league  with  the  followers  of  the  Hoja  from 
Erzurum;” Black said。 “They say he stands to gain a lot if the Hoja and his men 
284 
 
declare  certain  works  inpatible  with  religion;  and  thereby;  outlaw  our 
books—which depict battles; weapons; bloody scenes and routine ceremonies; 
not to mention parades including everyone from chefs to magicians; dervishes 
to  boy  dancers;  and  kebab  makers  to  locksmiths—and  confine  us  to  the 
subjects and forms of the old Persian masters。” 
“Even if we returned skillfully and victoriously to those wondrous paintings 
of  Tamerlane’s  time;  even  if  we  returned  to  that  life  and  vocation  in  all  its 
minutia—as  bright  Stork  would  best  be  able  to  do  after  me—in  the  final 
analysis;  all  of  it’ll  be  forgotten;”  I  said  mercilessly;  “because  everybody  will 
want to paint like the Europeans。” 
Did I actually believe these words of damnation? 
“My Enishte believed the same;” Black confessed meekly; “yet it filled him 
with hope。” 
 
The Attributes of Stork 
 
I’ve seen him sign his name as the Sinning Painter Mustafa Chelebi。 Without 
paying any mind to whether he had or ought to have a style; whether it should 
be identified with a signature or; like the old masters; remain anonymous; or 
whether  or  not  a  humble  bearing  required  one  to  do  so;  he’d  just  sign  his 
name with a smile and a victorious flourish。 
He  continued  bravely  down  the  path  I’d  set  him  on  and  mitted  to 
paper  what  none  before  him  had  been  able  to。  Like  myself;  he  too  would 
watch  master  glassblowers  turning  their  rods  and  blowing  glass  melted  in 
ovens to make blue pitchers and green bottles; he saw the leather; needles and 
wooden molds of the shoemakers who bent with rapt attention over the shoes 
and  boots  they  made;  a  horse  swing  tracing  a  graceful  arc  during  a  holiday 
festival;  a  press  squeezing  oil  from  seeds;  the  firing  of  our  cannon  at  the 
enemy; and the screws and the barrels of our guns。 He saw these things and 
painted them without objecting that the old masters of Tamerlane’s time; or 
the legendary illustrators of Tabriz and Kazvin; hadn’t lowered themselves to 
do so。 He was the first Muslim miniaturist to go to war and return safe and 
sound; in preparation for the Book of Victories that he would later illustrate。 He 
was  the  first  to  eagerly  study  enemy  fortresses;  cannon;  armies;  horses  with 
bleeding  wounds;  injured  soldiers  struggling  for  their  lives  and  corpses—all 
with the intent to paint。 
285 
 
I recognize his work from his subject matter more than his style and from 
his attention to obscure details more than his subject matter。 I could entrust 
him with plete peace of mind to execute all aspects of a painting; from the 
arrangement of pages and their position to the coloring of 
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