ostrich eggs； cut…paper work； single…leaf pictures； amusing albums； playing

cards and books we’d offer him on holidays。 Where were the hardworking；

long…suffering； elderly artists of that day who were satisfied with so little？

They’d　never　sequester　themselves　at　home　and　jealously　hide　their　methods

from　others；　dreading　that　their　moonlighting　would　be　found　out；　but　would

e　to　the　workshop　every　day　without　fail。　Where　were　the　old　miniaturists

who humbly devoted their entire lives to drawing intricate designs on castle

walls；　cypress　leaves　whose　uniqueness　was　discernible　only　after　close　scrutiny

and the seven…leaf steppe grasses used to fill empty spaces？ Where were the

uninspired　masters　who　never　grew　jealous；　having　accepted　the　wisdom　and

justice　inherent　in　God’s　bestowal　of　talent　and　ability　upon　some　artists　and

patience and pious resignation upon others？ We recalled these fatherly

masters；　some　of　whom　were　hunched　and　perpetually　smiling；　others　dreamy

and　drunk　and　still　others　intent　upon　foisting　off　a　spinster　daughter；　and　as

we recollected； we attempted to resurrect the forgotten details of the

workshop　as　it　had　been　during　our　apprentice　and　early　mastership　years。

Do　you　remember　the　limner　who　stuck　his　tongue　into　his　cheek　when　he

ruled　pages—to　the　left　side　if　the　line　he　drew　headed　right；　and　to　the　right

side if the line went left； the small； thin artist who laughed to himself；

chortling and mumbling “patience； patience； patience” when he dribbled

paint；　the　septuagenarian　master　gilder　who　spent　hour　up