imitation。”
Unable to look me straight in the eye; he assumed an unexpected gentle
manner; and begging my passion as much as my honesty; he asked me;
trembling like a maiden:
“Do I have a style of my own?”
I thought tears would flow from my eyes。 With all the gentleness; sympathy
and kindness I could muster; I hastened to tell him what I believed to be the
truth:
“You are the most talented; divinely inspired artist with the most
enchanted touch and eye for detail that I’ve seen in all my sixty years。 If you
put a painting before me which had seen the bined work of a thousand
miniaturists; I’d still be able to recognize instantly the God…given magnificence
of your pen。”
“Agreed; but I know you’re not wise enough to appreciate the mystery of
my skill;” he said。 “You’re lying; now; because you’re afraid of me。 Describe;
once again; the character of my methods。”
“Your pen selects the right line seemingly of its own accord; as if without
your touch。 What your pen draws is neither truthful nor frivolous! When you
portray a crowded gathering; the tension emerging from the glances between
figures; their positioning on the page and the meaning of the text
metamorphose into an elegant eternal whisper。 I return to your paintings
again and again to hear that whisper; and each time; I realize with a smile that
the meaning has changed; and how shall I put it; I begin to read the painting
anew。 When these layers of meaning are taken together; a depth emerges that
surpasses even the perspectivism of the European masters。”
“Fine and well。 Forget about the European masters。 Start from the
beginning。”
“You have such a truly magnificent and forceful line; that the observer
believes in what you’ve painted rather than in reality itself。 And just as your
talent could create a picture that would force the most devout man to
renounce his faith; it could also bring the most hopeless; unrepentant
unbeliever to Allah’s path。”
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