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Vali Art Gallery Sep 2016 Ahmad Tak The Third Script 03
Tehran

با آن لباس مندرس و سری تراشیده عجب نگاه پر نفوذی داشت، از خرابه های قونیه می گذشتیم یا شام نمی دانم همانجا بود در همان خرابه ها که می گفت آن خطاط سه گونه خط نوشتی، یکی او خواندی لا غیر

- در روم بود یا فلورانس هر کجا بود در آن هیاهوی سنگ و چکش عجب دستان زیبایی داشت داود را 

می ساخت شاید، پینه بود دستانش همانجا بود که با صدای بلند فریاد کشیدم چه می سازی مرد تنهای روم که آوازه ات تا فراسوی قرن ها گوش ها را دریده و چشم ها را خیره ساخته؟! با صدای وحشی و افسار گسیخته رو به من کرد جملات زیبایی گفت جملاتی که تا اعماق روحم را سوزانید حیف معنای  آن را نیافتم، افسوس که لاتین بلد نبودم.

- گفتمش بگو برای من بگو آن خط دوم چیست، چشمانش را روی هم نهاد حرفی نزد، شمس خسته بود و سرما زده و آتش دودناک

او را گفتم خدا را ... بگو او با صدای بریده گفت: یکی را هم او خواندی هم غیر او. 

- کوچه پس کوچه های اصفهان و شبهای نیلی اش عجب زیبایی هراس ناکی دارد وقتی همه خوابند و تو و او بیدار، نشسته ای چهار زانو مقابلش روی کهنه گلیم محقر اطاق کم نور با آواز هنجار یا ناهنجار قلم روی کاغذ، کنار او که حضورش گرمی بخش دلهاست  و نبودش رونق بازار. 

او راگفتم ای استاد بزر گ قرن ها! ای میر عماد حسنی استاد الاساتید ای قبله خوشنویسی رازت را به من بگو. حرفی نزد استاد تنها مرا نگاه کر و خط پاره ای از میان انبوه کاغذها به دستم داد صدای اذان نمی آمد و من 

وضو ساز کردم. 

- گفتمش آن  «خط سوم»  آن چیست  «خط سوم»  را بگوی. 

هیچ نگفت، هفت شب بود که راه می پیمودیم دوری او برایش جان کاه بود و مرگ کیمیا خاتون روح گداز، فریادی بر آوردم این آخرین فرصت است علاء الدین در راه است، حضورش را پشت همین دیوارها احساس 

می کنم بگو از آن  «خط سوم»  بگو. نگاهش را رو به آسمان نمود دست راست را روی قلبش نهاد و بادست چپ دست های سرما زده ام  را در دست گرفت با زبان لب ها را تر کرد و آرام گفت آن خط سوم نه او خواندی نه غیر او آن  «خط سوم » .... . 

آسمان را نگاه کردم در امتداد نگاهش ماه را دیدم و حضور مردی را، اندیشیدم که دیگر کنار من نبود اما رازش چون کوهی استوار بر شانه های خسته ام فرو نشست سرگردان، تمام کوچه پس کوچه های شام را تا قزوین و اصفهان پیمودم. سحرگاهان در آینه بود که او را یافتم همان خسته سرگردان همانکه درازنای تاریخ را پیمود با شانه ای خسته از بار امانت و دستانی پینه بسته از مرارت او را یافتم همینجا در آینه همین حوالی کنار سقاخانه بود شاید یا کمی بعد از آن ... آن  «خط سوم»  را همین حوالی یافتم در آینه بود.... شاید. 

احمد تک

شهریور 1395

احمد تک

متولد 30/6/1346

عضو انجمن خوشنویسان ایران 

اساتید 

استاد جمشید مردانی 

استاد علی شیرازی

استاد محمد حیدری خط شکسته

استاد امیر احمد فلسفی 

1382 – چاپ اثر کتاب مشق عشق 

1389 – نمایشگاه گروهی دوره فوق ممتاز استاد فلسفی  خانه هنرمندان تهران 

عنوان نمایشگاه : خط سوم 

With rags and a shaved head, what an influential look did he have, we passed from the ruins of Konya or Shaam, do not know. It was there, in that wreckage that said: that calligrapher wrote three types of scripts: One he could read but no one else.

In Rome or Florence, wherever there was, in the commotion of rock and hammer, what a beautiful hands did he have. He was making David perhaps, his hands were calloused. It was there that shouted with a loud voice: O, the Roman lonely man, whose reputation torn ears and amazed eyes over the centuries, what are you making?! He turned to me with a sound of wild and unrestrained. He said beautiful sentences, sentences that burned deep into my soul. What a pity that I did not find their meanings, Alas, I did not know Latin.

I told him, say, say to me, what is that second script, he closed his eyes, said nothing. Shams was exhausted and frostbitten and a smoky fire.

I told him: For God's sake… Say. He said with a cut voice: the second script, both he and others could read.

What a daunting beauty Isfahan backstreets and its indigo nights have. When all sleep and you and he awake, sitting cross-legged in front of him on the old rug of a paltry dim room with a normal or abnormal pen song on the paper, next to him whose presence is hearts’ warmth and his absence is the boom.

I told him: O, the Great Master of centuries! O, Mir Emad Hassani, the Great Master, the calligraphy king (Qibla), tell me your secret. Master said nothing, just looked at me and gave me a piece of paper among the papers mass, there was no Azan sound but I performed ablution.

I told him: that “third script”, what is it? Say the third script. 

Said nothing. It was seven nights that we paced the roads. Her separation was painful to him and Kimia Khatoon's death melted his soul. I shouted, “This is the last chance, Allaedin is in the way, I feel his presence behind these walls. Say, say about that “third script””. He looked at the sky. Put his right hand on his heart and took my frozen hands with his left hand. He moistened his lips with the tongue and said quietly: That third script, neither he nor anyone else could read, that third script....

I looked at the sky, I saw the moon along his look and a man presence. I thought he is not beside me anymore but his secret rested on my tired shoulders as a firm mountain. I paced all the backstreets of Shaam to Qazvin and Isfahan, wandering. It was dawn that I found him in the mirror, the same wandering exhausted man, who paced all throughout of the history with the shoulders tired of trust burden and calloused hands of bitterness. I found him. Here in the mirror, it was around here next to the Saqakhaneh or perhaps a little farther... I found that third script around here, it was in the mirror… perhaps.

Ahmad Tak

September, 2016

نمایشگاه آثار " احمد تک " با عنوان " خط سوم " مهر 1395 گالری والی

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