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Istanbul

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Created: 02/22/10
Last Edited: 05/23/10
Views: 55209
Appreciations: 1231
Comments: 31
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Istanbul "la ville encore pucelle malgre mille epousailles" (Tevfik Fikret),
Would it be possible to reduce the experience that is Istanbul to mere two-dimensional prints? How is it possible for a person to separate the vibrations, the smells, the sounds that emits this innocent yet fouled lady across two continents from what a person sees through a glass hole, reflected images of a mirror? Could our experience of her be distorted on this mirror, a mere technical difficulty that may cost strangers this wondrous and terrible city the merveille of a lifetime?
I have tried just that, to represent the life that is Istanbul in the form of a tetralogy, although a mere compilation into four colors and experiences may never be enough to put into images my distanced admiration towards this girl. Our relationship is not built on trust or love, but on the hurtful steps, on the salty seashore, on the slapping wind and on the unholy people. No city in this world can ever compare to Byzantium, to Constantinople, to Dersaadet, to Istanbul.
  • Istanbul "la ville encore pucelle malgre mille epousailles" (Tevfik Fikret),
    Would it be possible to reduce the experience that is Istanbul to mere two-dimensional prints? How is it possible for a person to separate the vibrations, the smells, the sounds that emits this innocent yet fouled lady across two continents from what a person sees through a glass hole, reflected images of a mirror? Could our experience of her be distorted on this mirror, a mere technical difficulty that may cost strangers  this wondrous and terrible city the merveille of a lifetime?
    I have tried just that, to represent the life that is Istanbul in the form of a tetralogy, although a mere compilation into four colors and experiences may never be enough to put into images my distanced admiration towards this girl. Our relationship is not built on trust or love, but on the hurtful steps, on the salty seashore, on the slapping wind and on the unholy people. No city in this world can ever compare to 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. 
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