Istanbul "la ville encore pucelle malgre mille epousailles" (Tevfik Fikret),
Would it be possible to reduce the experience that is Istanbul to meretwo-dimensional prints? How is it possible for a person to separate thevibrations, the smells, the sounds that emits this innocent yet fouledlady across two continents from what a person sees through a glasshole, reflected images of a mirror? Could our experience of her bedistorted on this mirror, a mere technical difficulty that may coststrangers this wondrous and terrible city the merveille of a lifetime?
I have tried just that, to represent the life that is Istanbul in theform of a tetralogy, although a mere compilation into four colors andexperiences may never be enough to put into images my distancedadmiration towards this girl. Our relationship is not built on trust orlove, but on the hurtful steps, on the salty seashore, on the slappingwind and on the unholy people. No city in this world can ever compareto Byzantium, to Constantinople, to Dersaadet, to Istanbul.
Would it be possible to reduce the experience that is Istanbul to meretwo-dimensional prints? How is it possible for a person to separate thevibrations, the smells, the sounds that emits this innocent yet fouledlady across two continents from what a person sees through a glasshole, reflected images of a mirror? Could our experience of her bedistorted on this mirror, a mere technical difficulty that may coststrangers this wondrous and terrible city the merveille of a lifetime?
I have tried just that, to represent the life that is Istanbul in theform of a tetralogy, although a mere compilation into four colors andexperiences may never be enough to put into images my distancedadmiration towards this girl. Our relationship is not built on trust orlove, but on the hurtful steps, on the salty seashore, on the slappingwind and on the unholy people. No city in this world can ever compareto Byzantium, to Constantinople, to Dersaadet, to Istanbul.
Yellow, sunny, golden.
Like the wrinkled corners on vintage photographs of old couples on the Bosphorus, like the dusty whispers of the Poet, like an Istanbul lullaby.
Like the wrinkled corners on vintage photographs of old couples on the Bosphorus, like the dusty whispers of the Poet, like an Istanbul lullaby.
