Orhan Pamuk - My Name is Red

It gave me pause, however, when I learned that the picture was to be made without color in the black-ink style. Why no colors? Because I happen to be the best in the selection and application of them? Who would judge which illustration was best? I tried to get more information out of the broad-shouldered, pink-lipped, pretty boy who’d come from the palace, and was able to infer that Head Illuminator Master Osman was behind this contest. Master Osman, without a doubt, knows my talent and likes me the best of all the masters.

So, as I gazed at the empty page, the stance, look and demeanor of a horse that would please both the Sultan and Master Osman came to life before my eyes. The horse ought to be lively, but serious, like the horses Master Osman made ten years ago, and it should be rearing, in the way that always pleased Our Sultan, so that both of them would concur on the horse’s beauty. How many gold pieces are they offering, I wonder? How would Mir Musavvir make this picture? How would Bihzad?

Suddenly, the beast entered my thoughts with such speed, that by the time I understood what it was, my damnable hand grabbed the brush and began to draw a miraculous horse beyond anyone’s conception, starting from the raised left foreleg. After quickly joining the leg to the body, I made two arcs swiftly, pleasurably and confidently-had you seen them, you would’ve said this artist is no illustrator, but a calligrapher. I was gazing at my hand with awe, while it moved as if it belonged to another. These spectacular arcs became the horse’s ample stomach, solid chest and swanlike neck. The illustration might’ve been considered complete. Oh, the talent of which I am possessed! Meanwhile, I looked to see that my hand had traced out the nose and open mouth of the strong and joyful horse and laid down the intelligent forehead and ears. Next, once again, look Mother, how beautiful, I merrily drew another arc as if scripting a letter, and I was moved to the verge of laughter. I swooped down in a perfect arc from the neck of my rearing horse to its saddle. My hand occupied itself with the saddle as I proudly regarded my horse, now coming into being, with a robust, rounded body not unlike my own: Everyone will be stunned by this horse. I thought about the sweet comments Our Sultan would make when I won the prize; He’d present me with a purse of gold coins; and I had the urge to laugh again as I imagined how I’d count them at home. Just then, my hand, which I gazed at out of the corner of my eye, finished with the saddle and took my brush to the inkwell and back before I began the horse’s rump with a chuckle as though I’d told a joke. I briskly outlined the tail. How gentle and curvaceous I made the rear end, lovingly wishing to cup it in my hands like the gentle butt of a boy I was about to violate. As I smiled, my clever hand finished with the hind legs, and my brush stopped: This was the finest rearing horse the world had ever known. I was overcome with joy, happily thinking about how much they would like my horse, how they would declare me the most talented of miniaturists and even how they would announce at once that I was to become Head Illuminator; but then I considered what else those idiots would say: “How quickly and joyfully he’s drawn this!” For this reason alone, I was worried they wouldn’t take my wonderful illustration seriously. Therefore, I meticulously rendered the mane, nostrils, teeth, strands of horsetail and saddle blanket in minute detail so there would be no doubt that I had indeed labored over the illustration. From this position, that is, the rear lateral view, the horse’s testicles should’ve been visible, but I left them out because they might unduly preoccupy the women. Proudly, I studied my horse: rearing, moving like a tempest, strong and powerful! It was as if a wind had kicked up and set elliptical brush strokes in motion, like the letters in a line of script, yet the animal was also poised. They’d praise the magnificent miniaturist who drew this illustration as if praising a Bihzad or a Mir Musavvir, and then, I, too, would be like them.

When I draw a magnificent horse, I become a great master of old drawing that horse.

After the evening prayers I intended to go to the coffeehouse, but they told me there was a visitor at the door. Good tidings, I hoped. I went to discover a messenger from the palace. He described the Sultan’s contest. Fine, the world’s most beautiful horse. You tell me how much you’ll offer for each, and I’ll quickly draw you five or six of them.

Rather than say any such thing, I maintained my reserve, and simply invited the boy waiting at the door inside. I thought for a moment: The world’s most beautiful horse doesn’t even exist that I might draw it. I can draw war steeds, large Mongolian horses, noble Arabians, heroic, writhing chargers covered in blood, or even luckless packhorses pulling a cartfull of stone to a building site, but no one would call any of them the world’s most beautiful horse. Naturally, by “the world’s most beautiful horse,” I knew that Our Sultan meant the most splendid of the horses that had been depicted thousands of times in Persia, in keeping with all of the formulas, models and poses of yore. But why?

Of course, there were those who didn’t want me to win the purse of gold. If they’d told me to draw your average horse, it’s common knowledge that nobody’s picture could compete with mine. Who was it that had duped Our Sultan? Our Sovereign, despite the endless gossip of all of those jealous artists, knows full well that I am the most talented of His miniaturists. He admires my illustrations.

My hand abruptly and angrily sprang to action as if wanting to rise above all of these vexing considerations, and in one concentrated effort, I drew a true horse beginning from the tip of its hoof. You might see one like this on the street or in battle. Weary, but controlled…Next, in the same fit of anger, I dashed off a spahi cavalryman’s horse, and this one was even better. None of the miniaturists of the book arts workshop could draw such beautiful animals. I was about to draw another from memory when the boy from the palace said, “One is enough.”

He was about to grab the sheet and leave, but I restrained him because I knew full well, as I know my own name, that these scoundrels would be giving up a purse of gold coins for these horses.

If I illustrate the way I want to, they won’t give me the gold! If I can’t win the gold, my name will be tarnished forever. I stopped to think. “Just wait,” I said to the boy. I went inside and returned with two incredibly shiny counterfeit Venetian gold pieces, which I proceeded to give to the boy: He was afraid, his eyes widened. “You’re as brave as a lion,” I said.

I removed one of the notebooks of forms that I kept hidden from the eyes of the world. This is where I secretly made copies of the most beautiful illustrations that I’d seen over the years. Not to mention the copies that the chief of the dwarfs, Jafer, in the treasury would make of the best trees, dragons, birds, hunters and warriors from the pages of volumes locked away; that is, if you gave him ten gold pieces, the rogue. My notebook is excellent, not for those who want to see the actual world in which they live through pictures and decoration, but for those who want to recall the fables of old.

Flipping through the pages while showing the images to the pageboy, I selected the best of the horses. I briskly poked holes over the lines of that picture with a needle. Next, I placed a clean sheet of paper under the stencil. I gradually sprinkled a liberal amount of coal dust on top, then shook it so the dust would pass through the holes. I lifted the stencil. The coal dust, dot by dot, had transferred the beautiful horse’s entire shape to the sheet below. It was a pleasure to behold.