**The Red Rose of Painting and Illumination**

The question of what it means to be a color is a profound one. Imagine being that color, having a voice to sing of cloth fit for royalty, of battles and spilled blood, of love and death. Orhan Pamuk, a rebel and revolutionary, uses the color red to explore the world of art and its traditions. He breaks the rules of narrative to offer fresh perspectives on the artist and expression.

Pamuk loves Istanbul and his books are tributes to this city and its history. A crime among master miniaturists working on a secret book commissioned by the Sultan leads to an investigation that reveals the traditions of manuscript illumination and the pressures of contact with the realist style from Renaissance Italy. The question of whether an artist should follow tradition or their inner vision is at the heart of the story.

The novel is balanced between modernism and tradition, with each chapter a confession or monologue. It follows the oral traditions of Arabian Tales while also being firmly rooted in Pamuk's 'cultural Muslim' identity. The joy of storytelling is evident, as the reader is put in the 'skin' of various characters and objects. The artist's struggle to depict the 'invisible' and the debate about artistic expression are central themes.

Ultimately, the color red represents both passion and destruction. The artist may not be rewarded for their struggles, but they continue to strive for truth and beauty. Pamuk does justice to his heritage and his literary prizes are well-deserved. The red rose of painting and illumination may have withered, but its beauty and mystery will always remain.

I was very pleased with it although at first I couldn't establish communication with it. Maybe the reason was that it was a new and unique way of doing things and its name!

It's quite interesting how this situation developed. Despite the initial difficulty in getting in touch, there was something about it that still appealed to me. The novelty of its approach and the distinctiveness of its name perhaps added to its allure. I found myself curious to know more about it, to understand why it was the way it was.

Even though the beginning was a bit challenging, I had a feeling that there was more to discover and explore. Maybe with time and more effort, I would be able to overcome the communication barrier and truly understand the essence of this thing. Its newness and uniqueness made it stand out, and I was determined to find out what made it so special.

An important novel about a closed world, of stereotypes and ancient customs, lazy, suddenly (at the end of the 16th century) forced to open up and take into account Western habits. And not only in terms of painting, calligraphy and drawing.

Two books came to my mind while reading: The Secret of Pure Colour by Federico Andahazi, a modest story about two rival schools of painting in the West (Florentine and Flemish). But, above all, The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco.

Pamuk's style reminds me, on the other hand (I don't know why this doesn't surprise me at all), of Borges' style. Here is a sentence that sounds perfectly Borgesian: "I lingered for a long time, without moving a muscle. I looked at the world. Everything."

And another one in which Pamuk repeats the verb "to see" as Borges does in the story El Aleph, but also Roberto Bolaño in Wild Detectives:

"We didn't speak at all for a long time. I saw the buzzard that had perched on the roof of a small Greek church, waiting for night. I saw the slum kids looking at my bicycle and laughing. I saw a stray dog scratching itself as it came down furiously from the cemetery with crosses into the street, emerging to meet the night."

I would also like to add something. Orhan Pamuk's style is not at all mannerist (as some critics have found). It is rich, youthful, lyrical, that's for sure. Manierist? Not in the least. Pamuk's metaphors have great clarity. And their clarity disproves mannerism. Because, in my opinion, mannerism means dryness, absence of emotion.

I quote: "[He imagines] a beauty from Kazvin, with skin like silk and a vinegary mouth."

Or: "Silence spread like a flower that opens without you even noticing."

If you don't have Orhan Pamuk's novel or, alas!, you haven't read it yet, rush to the bookstore and get your hands on it. After you finish it, give me a tip, a coin, a gratuity, because I encouraged you to buy it. Polirom has published several editions...

P.S. My Name Is Red is NOT a thriller :)

Saying I liked it or didn't like it doesn't really capture the complexity of my experience with this book.

Part murder mystery, part love story, and part historical novel about the book-art in the Ottoman Empire, I initially thought it was right up my alley. However, it turned out to be a rather intellectual read, which somehow frustrated me. It was like churning up my stomach when it was quite contented on a diet of all-fluff, all-the-time. Reading this was like eating roasted beets with rosemary - good for me but I prefer something sweeter and smoother.

OK, here's my beef: It often felt like reading a genealogy of Islamic stories and historical books, which I found tiring. Although sitting in the vault of the sultan and perusing these books would be incredible for me, reading about the rich visual imagery was tedious.

I constantly felt like there was something I couldn't access because I don't have the specific background knowledge. But I still can't even form the questions I need for a deeper connection. I had the impression that the stories recounted over and over would be mundane (in a comforting way), familiar and meaningful for people from that culture, but they weren't for me.

The murder mystery kept me reading because I wanted to find out who did it, but resentfully, as I kept losing track of the author's clues while trudging through the endless philosophizing.

The conversations about the place of art and artists in relation to their funders, influences, and the contemporary culture; the ways representation can be slippery and dangerous; the questions surrounding seeing, perception, blindness, and divine inspiration vs. a skillful hack job - all of these are fascinating and relevant to me, but presented in such a dry voice.

And the love story was pffff... like looking through a snow globe at some scenery you couldn't touch.

Personally, I think what distinguishes Pamuk from many outstanding writers is his extraordinary command of history and literature. It is not only about the history and literature of Turkey, but also at least the cultural sphere of the Persian and Arabic languages. This command was clearly evident in the book "Istanbul" and also in "My Name Is Red". However, another important point is that this command of literary and historical sources has not caused the literary value of the book "My Name Is Red" to decrease: the narrative line of the story has not become less colorful or it does not seem that the author wants to impose these knowledges on the reader without any specific reason. Pamuk tells his story and in order to make it better and more readable, he inserts historical and literary narratives into it. "My Name Is Red" provides the reader with the experience of reading a good story set in history, so that while reading, one becomes familiar with the special space of that period and the Ottoman period's calligraphy and so on. It is both a story and a learning experience, don't miss it. :)

During nine snowy, cold, winter days in the fabulous city of Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire, at its height in the reign of Sultan Murat III, a brutal murder occurred in 1591.

At the bottom of an abandoned well, the mangled body of Elegant Effendi, nicknamed Red, a miniaturist who had worked for the Sultan, was found. But not before the corpse told his sad story. He was lured by a person thought to be a close friend, with promises of riches and then savagely attacked. Strangely, the spirit is now contented and feels no anger, just looking forward to the new world paradise in heaven.

Red was a talented painter, along with Stork, Olive, and Butterfly, under old Master Osman who gave them all their aliases and taught them everything they know, including beatings when mistakes were made. Surprisingly, they all love their master of 25 years. They worked in a workshop funded by the revered sovereign, creating colorful paintings of bright glorious colors of horses, trees, clouds, important people slaughtered on many battlefields, fables, and enchanting gardens under the exotic illuminating moon with lovers looking tenderly at each other.

Red was uneasy about a secret project he worked on because of the foreign, Venetian styled illustrations, which many believe were forbidden by Islam. Later, when completed, these small paintings would be put in a book to be viewed only by the ruler and a few trusted associates.

Black (Kara), a clerk, secretary, and occasional warrior hired by pashas fighting endless wars against the Persians, returns to his hometown of Istanbul after twelve long years. A failed romance caused him much suffering, which was the reason for his volunteered exile. The beauty Shekure, his uncle's daughter, was constantly on his mind during the lonely days. He thought about his cousin's wanderings through the vast hot deserts, freezing temperatures in the dizzy elevations of towering mountains, and sleeping in pungent tents in isolated locations. The rejection of a marriage proposal by his own uncle for his love, and her wedding to another, a famous soldier, he can never forget. But her husband has been missing for four years, and she, with two small children, is living at her father's house. The army has come back, giving Black a second chance for happiness if only he can win her affections.

Still, he has very strong competition from fierce Hasan, the younger brother of Shekure's fearless husband. Esther, a shrewd Jewish peddler, matchmaker, and messenger for clandestine sweethearts, knows everything about everyone. Having walked over all the city's streets, she begins bringing letters to Shekure, Black, and Hasan too. Rumors that the killer is a miniaturist sweep the city. Black had been one in his youth, with the three remaining master painters before quitting. And the angry Sultan wants the murderer caught in three days, or torture will commence on the suspects, every miniaturist.

The story is told from the perspective of multiple characters and mainly focuses on the art of painting.

The book is half historical, half romantic, half artistic, and half ordinary.

My personal opinion about this book is also somewhat like this! In other words, despite its bulk, in all aspects, it appears to be half and half.

The type of character portrayal in the book, even though each part of the story is told from the language of the characters themselves, did not lead to a better understanding of the characters for me and I did not have a correct and vivid image of them in my mind. In fact, I did not have any particular feeling towards any of the characters. Only one character, in my opinion, was better developed in the book and it was possible to have an image of him, which was fortunate.

The story was very dull and tiring for me and in my opinion, all these words could have been written in 300 pages and more than half of the book was unnecessary!

The literal translation was strange but good and its smoothness made me finish the book.

I gave it a passing grade!

----------

A memory of the book:

"Won't they get used to my absence so soon? When a person comes here and sees that everything there is going according to his usual routine, he will be very upset. Before I came into the world, an infinite time from eternity had begun, and after my death, it will continue forever!"

...

"As long as you have a dear face in your heart, the world is still yours."

...

"For years, I have been looking at the beautiful women who are painted in my father's books, and they are all shy and veiled, as if they are ashamed of someone and look down. I have never seen a painting in which they, like men, raise their heads and look each other in the eye. As if the male painters love the world like this."

...

"The main reason we are alone is that we don't know which story we belong to."

...

"I don't want to be a tree myself, I want to be the true meaning of the existence of a tree."

...

"Whoever rises from his place shouts and cries out that our religion is in danger and our faith is lost and so on. This is also a good trick for those who have come to bring bread."

I firmly believe in the truth that there is no such thing as an absolute fact. Everything that the eye perceives is the individual reality of the beholder. What the eye sees and the mind interprets as sight is a phenomenon of individual perception. And this is precisely where the artist distinguishes himself from a mere onlooker. He is, at the same time, both a beholder and a creator, or perhaps we could say a re-creator. His strokes bring the scenery to life, his colors ignite the stars, his art immortalizes the mortality of life, and his hands bestow timelessness upon the time-bound. However, in the eyes of Islam, such an artist is a blatant sinner, for Allah is the sole creator, and to create is His attribute alone. To imitate this attribute is an act of sacrilege! And Orhan has taken over 700 pages to indispensably convey this message.

It is the sixteenth century in Istanbul, the pinnacle of Ottoman rule. A book of illustrations is in the making, and its contents are being kept secret until it is completed, as demanded by the Sultan. One of the four creators of the book is found murdered at the bottom of a well, with the cause of death and the identity of the murderer unknown.随后，整个项目的负责人恩伊斯泰·埃芬迪也被同一凶手以同样的方式杀害，接下来的500页内容涵盖了后续的种种事件。

This novel is bursting with numerous plots within plots, including history, mystery, art, education, philosophy, love, and loss. You name it, and it has it. However, what it lacks is the ability to grip the reader and the inspiration to keep them engaged, or at the very least, to drag them along. I believe that Orhan is not the sole creator of this concoction of a novel. The translator has also done an equal amount of work. But translation alone does not drive the story forward. It is the whirlwind of infinite narrative voices that you find yourself being blown up with, or perhaps more accurately, swept away by. The characters are as flat as a scale, and I have never read anything as lackluster on the subject of art.

I am inclined to believe that all Pamuk aimed to achieve through this was to pay tribute to the lost art of Islamic illumination. If only it could have been presented with a more engaging voice... huh!

The book is well-known enough and doesn't need additional introduction except for two points in my opinion.

First, the way of narration from different narrators, like a certain place using the language like a coin, which had extremely attractive power.

Second, there is a sentence that I personally think is the biggest and most important difference between the East and the West. The content of the sentence is why do Westerners enjoy drawing portraits and Eastern painters draw the faces of angels and those from the upper world? Then it writes that this is because Westerners see the world as it is and Easterners see it as they want it to be!

This book not only presents a vivid story but also makes readers think deeply about cultural differences. It shows how different perspectives and values can lead to distinct artistic expressions and ways of perceiving the world. Through these two aspects, the book offers a unique and thought-provoking exploration of the relationship between culture and art.

Ouhan enters the magical world of painting and drawing in the ancient city of Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire.

The history, themes, techniques, and stories of paintings, books, and myths are presented.

A detailed description of the paintings with all their details and colors is provided.

The narrative is unique and distributed among multiple narrators, with each chapter told from the perspective of one of the characters or objects.

The novel contains some excitement and mystery, starting with a murder and not lacking a long love story.

However, the overall subject of the art of painting in all its aspects is the most important, and it is written about by Ouhan with great literary skill.

In some parts, the abundance of details was a cause of some boredom.

Só Para Estranhos

There is a corpse at the bottom of a well!

Filled with revolt and indignation, it launches into a long monologue of complaints:

"I, a renowned miniature artist, the creator of the most beautiful illuminations that adorn page after page of erudite books, am here bleeding and broken, with a smashed skull, broken bones and teeth...

I who was once happy and still had so much to give, was shattered into pieces - propelled into this darkness!

Avenge me - I beg you!

Catch the scoundrel, the thief who threw me into this filth!

Hunt him down and torture him - crush his ribs one by one!... Torture him until he begs you on his knees for death!... Make him pay for what he did, so that my soul can have peace and float freely in the Afterlife!

If you truly desire to know what Life is like after Death, if you want me to one day tell you that great secret, avenge me!

Avenge me, so that my Soul can finally leave this fetid well and soar to the Heights of Paradise!"

And it is in this outburst that the story unfolds!...

And a strange cast of characters gathers, which... if I hadn't had to improvise, were: the tree, the gold coin, the butterfly, the black man, the stork, the assassin, the dog, the red ink... among others equally bizarre!

And with them we wander through an intersection where art, philosophy, and Islamic religion and culture intersect.

And embedded in this erudite and chaotic web, there are something lost, a forbidden love and a crime to be solved!...

"My Name is Red" is a strange read from beginning to end, which makes it especially suitable for strangers:

- those who are strangers and even know that they are!

- those who are strangers but still don't know that they are!

- those who are not strangers but will become strangers!...

If this story is not art in and of itself, then where will art be? This question challenges our perception of what constitutes art. Art is a diverse and subjective concept, and a story can be a form of art in many ways. It can evoke emotions, stimulate the imagination, and offer unique perspectives on the human experience. A well-crafted story has the power to transport us to different worlds, introduce us to interesting characters, and make us think about life in new ways.

Even if a story does not conform to traditional definitions of art, it may still have artistic value. It could be a raw and unpolished account that captures the essence of a moment or a personal experience. In this sense, art is not limited to the refined and the beautiful, but can also include the rough and the imperfect.

So, if this story is not art, it does not mean that art does not exist. It simply means that we need to look beyond the obvious and consider the many different ways in which art can manifest itself.