Book 31: “My Name is Red” by Orhan Pamuk
Thursday, July 29th, 2010 19:01![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittiwake“Now then, draw Death for me,” the old man said.
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever, not once in my entire life, having seen a picture of Death,” said the miraculously sure-handed miniaturist, who would shortly, in fact, end up doing the drawing.
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order to depict that thing,” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man.
“Yes, perhaps not,” said the master illustrator. “Yet, if the picture is to be perfect, the way the masters of old would’ve made it, it ought to be drawn at least a thousand times before I attempt it. No matter how masterful a miniaturist might be, when he paints an object for the first time, he’ll render it as an apprentice would, and I could never do that. I cannot put my mastery aside while illustrating Death; this would be equivalent to dying myself.”
“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter,” quipped the old man.
“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters, it’s never having experienced it that makes us masters.”
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then.”
A tale of art, religion and murder, set in later 16th century Istanbul, which has been hanging about unread on my shelf for several years. For some reason I though it would be heavy going, and I only read it this month because I am trying to work my way through the books that I have owned for longest, but it turned out to be an intricate and beautifully written mystery story.
One of the master miniaturists working on a secret project for the Sultan, goes missing and is later found dead. The story of the murder investigation is told from multiple points of view, including some of the drawings made by the miniaturist and his colleagues, but the chapter headings make it clear who is talking so it never becomes confusing. The murderer is one of the narrators, pretending to be innocent of the crime and trying to throw suspicion onto his colleague, but he also narrates chapters as 'the murderer' and in these chapters he explains events and tries to justify his crime, and tries not to leave any clues to his identity.
“I cannot draw a picture of Death without ever, not once in my entire life, having seen a picture of Death,” said the miraculously sure-handed miniaturist, who would shortly, in fact, end up doing the drawing.
“You do not always need to have seen an illustration of something in order to depict that thing,” objected the refined and enthusiastic old man.
“Yes, perhaps not,” said the master illustrator. “Yet, if the picture is to be perfect, the way the masters of old would’ve made it, it ought to be drawn at least a thousand times before I attempt it. No matter how masterful a miniaturist might be, when he paints an object for the first time, he’ll render it as an apprentice would, and I could never do that. I cannot put my mastery aside while illustrating Death; this would be equivalent to dying myself.”
“Such a death might put you in touch with the subject matter,” quipped the old man.
“It’s not experience of subject matter that makes us masters, it’s never having experienced it that makes us masters.”
“Such mastery ought to be acquainted with Death then.”
A tale of art, religion and murder, set in later 16th century Istanbul, which has been hanging about unread on my shelf for several years. For some reason I though it would be heavy going, and I only read it this month because I am trying to work my way through the books that I have owned for longest, but it turned out to be an intricate and beautifully written mystery story.
One of the master miniaturists working on a secret project for the Sultan, goes missing and is later found dead. The story of the murder investigation is told from multiple points of view, including some of the drawings made by the miniaturist and his colleagues, but the chapter headings make it clear who is talking so it never becomes confusing. The murderer is one of the narrators, pretending to be innocent of the crime and trying to throw suspicion onto his colleague, but he also narrates chapters as 'the murderer' and in these chapters he explains events and tries to justify his crime, and tries not to leave any clues to his identity.
