I Am Red

My Name Is Red

By Orphan Pamuk

This book is about 14^th century art in Istanbul.  It is a murder mystery that blends the life stories of miniaturist … artist that created the beautiful artwork and gold leaf edging in books of that era.  Today’s miniaturist is better known as an illustrator of books.  The author takes a unique approach in beginning a chapter with a title “I am”.  Then each chapter is told in the voice of the name of what would follow “I am”; a first person story told by many different first persons.  The name is not necessarily a person.  It could be an object like a coin that would then set the setting for the commerce that crosses both Venetian or Ottoman, Christian or Muslim, of that era. There are love dramas, conspiracies, Greek tragedies, (so apropos a term for a setting in Istanbul), and a lot of art history in novel form.  Any reader would be intrigued enough to start fact checking and eventually planning a trip to Istanbul to discover firsthand the art of an era so over looked by us Westerners.

The murder and conspiracy spins around a real plot on a person’s conceit.  Imagine a person of wealth having his portrait painted and hung on the walls of his palazzo.   Take it a step further and imagine a famous scene, say a battle, and that a Doge would have himself painted in to the scene, though having not been there.   It would be a false rendering of the story. And then imagine the concern of the miniaturists who see the betrayal of truth and Allah himself.  Remember in the 1500’s there were no other material media for stories to get told in color.  You then begin to appreciate how grave the crime might be.  Of course Hollywood does this all the time, so one must question the sliding scale of the virtue of man.  And then weigh in on the moral consequences in what may be a justified murder.  Or was it just for the money after all?

As the murder plot thickens, the reader is rendered as the sleuth to figure out who the murderer is.  The information is presented in first person of the prime character of any chapter.  And the detectives are describing drawing styles of art that could be linked to one miniaturist or another.  The reader cannot help but learn to become an art critic.  The author, like in the book, sneaks up on you with art education while distracting you with a multi faced plot.  

The 14^th century Muslim art critic’s primary objection was in defense of Allah.  It was not the goal to paint a scene objectively, but rather the painting should be rendered as though seen through the eyes of Allah.  As the plot unfolds the objection unravels.  To determine the author you had to examine all the artists for style.  Style was at that time in the Ottoman Empire dictated by the masters of any given schools. Somehow a master artist would at the end of his career go blind from so much dedication to Allah’s work and he could still somehow  be able to instruct his students.  It  was an achievement to go blind.  Somehow the actors in the drama fail to see that Allah is really the master artist forcing his style on his students. 

The real tragedy is the suspect artists feud with each other as they witness art from the Venetians who capture scenes objectively.  Their feud is fueled with the competition of who would succeed their murdered master.  Poor Black who is strapped with the job to figure out who done it so that he may earn the love and hand of the dead master’s  daughter, finds himself being convinced, one by one by the arguments of each suspect.  Every argument brings two themes.  Fist is the sacrilege of their brethren actually painting with their own style.  And second is that unique style is exactly evidence found in the murder scene painting.

The book is clearly poetry in prose. It is word art.  It is a Walt Whitman rant style of poetry.  The only thing missing is the artwork.