that pitted us against each other； and as he
spoke； he didn’t mince his words。 He seemed to be provoking me to cover up a
mistake； as during our apprentice years； when the goal was to avoid a beating
by Master Osman。 Back then； I found his sincerity convincing。 As an
apprentice； his eyes would widen as they did now； but back then they hadn’t
yet dimmed from the labor of embellishing。 But finally I hardened my heart；
he was prepared to confess everything to everyone。
“Do listen to me；” I said with forced exasperation。 “We make illuminations；
create border designs； draw frames onto pages； we brightly ornament page
after page with lovely tones of gold； we make the greatest of paintings； we
adorn armoires and boxes。 We’ve done nothing else for years。 It is our calling。
They mission paintings from us； ordering us to arrange a ship； an antelope
or a sultan within the borders of a particular frame； demanding a certain style
of bird； a certain type of figure； take this particular scene from the story； forget
about such…and…such。 Whatever it is they demand； we do it。 ”Listen；“ Enishte
Effendi said to me； ”here； draw a horse of your own imagining； right here。“ For
three days； like the great artists of old； I sketched hundreds of horses so I might
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e to know exactly what ”a horse of my own imagining‘ was。 To accustom
my hand； I drew a series of horses on a coarse sheet of Samarkand paper。“
I took these sketches out and showed them to Elegant。 He looked at them
with interest and； leaning close to the paper； began to study the black and
white horses in the faint moonlight。 “T