One afternoon, after getting finished with my language class, I took a bus over to Fener to try to tackle some more axon drawings. Not entirely happy with the result (I need to go back), I decided to go to Sultanahmet to meet up with Gabby.
Shortly after getting the chance to mess around with her ink and guache, we had spent the night together with Michelle and Nabil on his rooftop terrace in Cihangir, talking about art and music and Istanbul. Realizing that yes, I did indeed feel a true connection to this place, and knowing that there was a probability that I might return, I felt an inner peace come to me, and the frantic countdown in my head lessened a bit. If indeed I was to return to this place, then the work here was only a preparation for a larger step, as Gabby’s mulitple trips had been.
Watching the sunrise over the jagged stacks of apartment buildings, birds flying over our heads and down to the Bosphorus, I felt inspired to make do with the time I had here, and resolved to be incredibly productive in the two weeks we had left.
So, running on virtually no sleep, I went by the shop, chatted with Huseyin and Mehmet, tried on some jewelry and bedecked myself in the manner of a Turkish princess, regretted it, went and bought some paper, ink and guache of my own, and ventured with Gabby to our neighborhood in Fener. It was her first visit, and I could tell she liked the rundown and yet cheerful feel of the neighborhood. The local guys were all playing backgammon and other board games, and children’s feet slapped down the street as they played hide and seek.
Since Fener is a residential neighborhood, we did not have the comforts that we had been used to on our previous sketching adventures: bright well lit cafes, ample table room, and good views. Instead we stopped at a cay place that Michelle and I had frequented in the past, and not finding a good view on the side of the street the cafe was on, requested to move tables across the street. There, perched on perhaps two feet of uneven sidewalk in the rapidly fading light, we began to draw again. Within minutes the light had changed, and the drawings couldn’t keep up. Then, one of the cays spilled on the table. We did not have water so after a few sips the cay itself became our water for the ink, shading everything with a slight sepia tone. The ink I had used dripped over the side, onto my fingers, and then the drawing. And then the wind blew our papers everywhere.
Even with such an inauspicious start, as we kept working, those mistakes made their way into the drawing, giving it a life and depth it would not have had otherwise. The shopkeeper, coming to check on his odd guests, laughed at the now black tone of the cay. And around 10 oclock, when we could no longer see anything, we packed up and took the bus home.
Ink, Guache, and Cay on Paper.
I think the discomforts may have improved the drawing, making it grittier and muddier than one in the best of conditions. Every time I look at it I will remember that evening spent in the streets of Fener. And the shopkeeper now recognizes and smiles at me every time.
The Istanbul Project 