Persian miniatures are as long as day

Sunshine, and at the end of the long, narrow pool is that is said to be pure Persian style palace. The line of sight was unobstructed, gliding effortlessly across hundreds of meters of emerald water and through twenty eerie pillars -- oh, no, forty, the other half of which were clearly reflected in the water. After the pool, the stone pillar holding the lion head of the female stone so healthy and natural naked body, a soft and lively curly hair, and the side of the lion without a sense of dignity on the opposite, very happy.

Palace forty column data diagram, coordinates of Isfahan, in the sight of the palace forty column was established in 1647. It was during the Safavid period that Persian miniatures reached their peak. This dynasty produced the most outstanding and long-lived miniature master Behzad, who lived in the early Renaissance period in Europe. He has been compared to Giotto and Botticelli. The miniatures on the interior walls bear witness to its best days. I was fascinated by the large painting showing "Tahermasp I Meeting Humayun, King of India". On either side of the Tahermasp sit the lords of the Safavid dynasty, arrayed with warriors and falcons. Behind Humayun are attendants with gifts in their hands, and sit musicians playing and singing. The work is almost symmetrical in structure. This is said to be because there were more officials on the Tahermasp side than on Humayun's, and to maintain a sense of balance, the miniaturists lined up more musicians alongside the Indian visitor's retainers. In my opinion, the musicians and their pipes and flutes are far more interesting than the majestic warriors and weapons. Make wine a song and serve as a sommelier. Some of the details are really funny. The guests who have had too much to drink are so confident and comfortable that they almost leap out of the wall, or invite you to the wall to drink and sing with them.

I loved the Persian couple on the other wall with the spring in their eyes more than the miniature paintings in the Forty Pillars. Their expression, the posture of holding wine utensils, and the color of clothing patterns seem to reveal the past customs of ancient Persia. The city had its own master of miniature paintings, Sheikh Mohammed. He was able to inject poetic passion into his paintings, resurrecting long-forgotten ancient techniques dating back to the days of Genghis Khan and couragously painting taboo subjects like Alexander peering at a naked man or Celine bathing in the moonlight. He painted prophets on flying horses, itchy Kings, and drunken imams. And best of all, he finally got the whole world of fine art to accept these images. This same master, in his later years, regarded every picture he had painted during the first thirty years as filthy and blasphemous. He went from city to city, searching palaces, libraries and treasuries for and destroying all the copies he had made. He burned down Prince Abbas Mirza's huge library at Gazwin because it contained hundreds of books of his paintings. This agonized and remorseful master was finally burned alive in that terrible fire. It all sounded really thrilling, and then I sighed, and stood in front of these big pictures for a long time, unable to recover my mind. But if I don't understand phil dorsey Kings, rumi's navier, saadi "rose garden" and "orchard", even the hafez lyrics also didn't read a few words, I'm afraid I can't understand this kind of painting and literature, can further understand to lofty feeling of love is how to define religion. The miniature paintings of Hafez's love poems are, to a large extent, "the expression of religious piety with the help of secular love, and the contrast of the nobility of God's love", which is the highest level of miniature paintings that masters are willing to risk blindness and aspire to achieve. Orhan Pamuk spent six years reading and looking at art before he set out to write My Name is Red. "I didn't think of it as research," he says. "On the contrary, I enjoyed it. It is said that all the murals in the Forty pillar Palace were painted with natural pigments, some of which were mineral pigments, such as activated clay, colored slime and even gold powder. Some are herbaceous pigments peculiar to West Asia, such as walnut and madder, and a strange animal pigment. The mural will also use a very high purity of Ashrafi gold, and then by the mixture of Arabic gum. Through the tinting of the masters we could see rose red, India green, saffron yellow, the horses, the hills, the sky, and the night, which was always as bright as day.

Inside the 40-pillar palace I often looked at two items I had brought back from Iran: a cobalt blue vase with a round neck and a cow bone jewelry box more than an inch long. I love the color and pattern of the vase, and sigh the fine fine lines of the small painting of the jewelry box. That vase, basically, brings back the dominant colors of the Persian mosques. The same hues and patterns that adored the mosques' domes and walls were also used in miniature paintings, especially the classic blues and greens that craftsmen frequently use. Cobalt blue, which produces the color, is local. This cobalt-blue technique was later introduced to China by Persian craftsmen, giving birth to the blue-and-white porcelain, which was later the obsession of European aristocrats. To this day, I vividly remember picking them out. Mr. Mohammed, a middle-aged painter in a white shirt and a bushy beard, rose from behind his small drawing table to receive us. The shop is small but two-story, in an alleyway with arcades next to the Imam Square in Isfahan. A few dozen meters away is the world's second largest square, now called Imam Square, but that doesn't prevent people from sometimes calling it by its former name, King's Square, before the Islamic Revolution. "Naqsh-e Jahan Square" in English. Naghsh is the Persian word for "window" and Jahan means "world." Mohammed was patient in his business dealings, neither servile nor pushy, and with something of the poet's pride. The painter's expression seemed to say that the miniature paintings he had made by hand were worth the price. He opened the glass case and took out a small ox-bone box. He pointed to the picture on the box and said calmly, "With this picture alone, it should be worthy of your favorite piece of jewelry." It was a black and gold miniature painting box. In the scene, two large, bulky camels pass the gate of the mosque, sweeping past an ordinary rammed earth compound, their backs laden with baggage. The camels looked happy. However, the space of the extra inch is drawn into five figures, which are listed in the foreground, middle scene and distant view. The flat-roofed earth tampers are still common in rural Iran today and feature in Abbas films: airy, dry second-floor terraces where quilts are hung out to dry, Persian carpets are banged on and passers-by below can chat. In glass frames hanging on the walls, miniature paintings depict familiar old stories and scenes, as well as scenes from everyday life. In fact, back hundreds of years, miniature paintings are not for ordinary people to buy home, hang on the wall to decorate their lives. Their customers were aristocrats and royalty, and their purpose was to honor the gods, so each miniature painter would turn his devotion into every line and every color on the tip of the squirrel's tail hair. Hundreds of years ago, the practice of "mimicry", which had nothing to do with book illustrations, was frowned upon by orthodoxy as an attempt to sacrifice artistic standards for personal gain. In the savavid dynasty, there was a king, tahemas, who was not involved in government affairs. With the power of the monarch, he quickly gathered around him a large number of talents related to this art, from poets, court painters, calligraphers, to specialists in coloring, grid, gilding and binding. In the end, however, the monarch suddenly retreated into the religious world, with the immediate consequences of the downfall of a large number of masters and their apprentices who had worked wonders in the palace's painting workshops. As a result, the art, which takes "the sense of nobility" as its own duty, has to be involved in the social world with some kind of defeat, and becomes vulgar in the world. "Some of them went north into Uzbekistan, some went east into India, some went to Istanbul. Some people switch careers to other jobs. Others took advantage of rival princes and satraps, and began to draw under their hands books of no more than three or five pages of illustrations. Here and there are cheap books, scrawled and hastily drawn, just to suit the tastes of the common soldier, the coarse pashah, and the covetous prince."