Butterfly and Black arrived in t; tures on to tell tration. It reminded me of turban” o play ary and try to matcten on ots.

    I told told its story to toryteller. I said t gentle Butterfly, , must’ve dra of tly. I remembered t Olive an  entory irely by ted storyteller. I’d started tree  nigory as  oo: Some red ink tered onto a page and tingy storyteller asked if ure of it. e dribbled some more red ink onto tcold tory of oryteller mig it. Olive made te alent—and I t terfly terfly removed t and told Black t, yes, ributed to t of Kalenderis e t’s sacred book 250 years ago, revealing in verse t ion manifested in beautiful faces.

    I asked ter artist bretate of our

    coffee nor s oranges because my ill asleep in t barge in t o ring clots and dolmans in ts and trunks ts and cused pages I’d prepared for various books, and he pages of bound volumes.

    Nevert confess t it gave me a certain pleasure to behem. An

    artist’s skill depends on carefully attending to ty of t moment, taking everyto test detail seriously ime, stepping back from takes itself too seriously, and as if looking into a mirror, alloance and eloquence of a jest.

    Accordingly, upon t, yes,  forty in tant illustrators, ts ice of unsurpassed beauty, oto t of poets, drunks, s and dervisor into alloo join tty group. I explained or for some baertainment began to leave in a panic, no one t to mount a defense of tablis or of toryteller dressed as a y? “Yes! I, Mustafa ter, also knoork,“ ed