In a city whose colors can easily turn drab and dark by stumbling around wrong corners, one’s eyes constantly refer back toward the Bosphorus as a reminder of its beauty. Pamuk describes a similar orientation in his memoir of Istanbul and his childhood. The Bosphorus encapsulated for its residents a circus of life, death, and entertainment as the heart of the city with a soul deep enough to forever swallow whole anything that fell in. Ships and cruise liners from all over the world would flow through challenging the children to identify each and every one, car accidents consisted of leaps of faith into the Bosphorus and old wooden Ottoman mansions burned and served as a pastime spectacle. The last vanishing remnants of an empire for child’s play.
For Pamuk, while everyone was drawn to the Bosphorus, he was also drawn to the streets, those melancholy, dark alleys where he spent his formative years wandering. He lovingly tells the story of some of his favorite chroniclers of the city, whether it be in the form of drawings or out of print encyclopedias seen through foreign eyes or as natives. A young French expat Antoine Melling comes to Istanbul and gets commissioned to design buildings and interior spaces and draw some landscapes by an Ottoman Princess only to have his money cut when he marries an Italian. An homosexual academic Reşat Ekrem Koçu takes on the task of completing an encyclopedia of Istanbul also including youths or street boys he encountered on the streets he had crushed on.
Pamuk also grapples with the relic of a former Ottoman glory and the poverty that could be seen walking the streets. He admits to being a victim of seeing the city through the receptacle of a critical Western lens but approves of this over a romanticization of the past.
Great if you’re a business traveler and a Platinum member but not well-suited for travelers actually visiting Istanbul. The views are dreamy but you can’t walk anywhere, not even to the Bosphorus which you can see in the distance or even a bus stop.
Our first evening in Istanbul it started to rain as we crossed the Galata Bridge and so we ran into the square of the New Mosque. With no other cultural reference, I felt I was in the disney film Aladdin. There were potted palm trees and a central washing fountain. Arabic was written on the walls and some Turkish ladies were still going into the mosque as they put their shoes into plastic bags. I felt like I was in another world.
The first time I flew into Istanbul, I saw these exotic fishing boats, ones that cast nets like a bridal train from above in the plane. They were silhouetted against strong light and looked like they came from an ancient world that wasn’t Western.
I saw these same boats again outside our hotel window and for awhile, I couldn’t stop taking photos of them. They will always represent my first impression of Istanbul.
A warm Istanbul winter, after Christmas 2013 at the Sakip Sabanci Museum, a villa along the Bosphorus close to almost nothing. All my other encounters with Kapoor’s work were massive and sublime, structures you could walk into or underneath. Abstract and without form almost eating up the space of the gallery or museum to fit its own needs. The size allowed for playful visitor interaction, parents could take photos, kids could play inside. I used to think cute jellybean. I never thought of Kapoor’s work in a sexual way until I saw this exhibition. There were some pieces like the one below that reminded me of his more familiar work.
Structures that reflected its surroundings.
(I just really liked these covered rock forms)
But the majority of the other work were slits, hanging sacks, holes, deep holes, structures penetrating holes and then there were these cute rocks. When I saw a group of elementary school kids all standing in front of a vaginal opening in marble, I couldn’t help but wish I spoke Turkish to understand the tour guide.
After all that sexually stimulating art with a long time friend, I misread the menu and accidentally ordered a serving of Sucuk sausages when I thought I was ordering dumplings.