Contrary to popular belief, a man’s face does not give a good insight into the state of mind of its owner. This is one of the greatest, most tragicomical misunderstandings in the human experience. The phrase “facial expression” should be included among oxymorons and “face with no expression” – among tautologies. If physiognomy allows us to infer anything, that anything is possibly, partially and often mistakenly – physiology. On the other hand, the whole, if I may say so, metaphysics of identity, which is so strenuously sought after in the face, has no access to the face at all. In any case, not more to a human face than to a fish’s mouth, a pig's mug or a vehicle’s bonnet.

Şeküre’s face is hidden under a veil, what is her great asset and the undoing of others. Meddah has a million faces, which is actually the same thing, although not quite, because Meddah is an eternal wanderer and Şeküre has to accommodate her fate within a rather narrow temporal margin. My Name is Red is (among other things) a monumental book of faces – about faces. I see this more and more clearly. 

Libretto for act one is done. The ending cost me a lot, I even dreamt about it. To make it work, I lend something to it from my own experience; I also borrowed something from another text.

Now comes the music.

(transl. Magdalena Małek-Andrzejowska)