grey, grey, grey

To say that winter is bleak in Istanbul, is an understatement. It is downright depressing. The sky is grey, the city is grey, the people are grey. I used to find a poetry in the mournfulness, in the huzun, but currently, I am in a terrible state of unrest. My toes can't seem to warm, there's a rattle in my chest, and the grumpiness of the people on the street is souring my mood. A few days ago, it was nearly spring weather— so warm in fact, that crocuses popped up their heads towards the pale sun. We have since descended back into that wet, bone-chilling gloom, and there is an inexplicable amount of mud.



What else can you do but wait?
Wait, and have another çay.

a winged escort

on last month's trip to Büyükada.

the rain continued to fall

The morning looked promising— clouds seemed steady on the horizon with plenty of blue above, the Bosphorus was calm, and the IDO website told us our ferry would leave Kabataş for the islands at 10:50. Bacon, eggs and coffee, a quick shower, a packed bag of sketching materials and tamales, and we were out the door. With 10:50 just minutes away, we rushed to the pier only to discover that the ferry was leaving at noon. This was confirmed by a kindly old poğaça vendor, who explained that it was the weekend, in spite of IDO's promise. We decided to retreat to a nearby çaybahçe for some çay.

We claimed our seats on the lower right side of the ferry, next to some enthusiastic North Africans (I want to say Libyans), who would give the roving gulls a thumbs up every time one caught a morsel of simit tossed from their hands. Songs were sung, and peals of Arabic were thrown with the crumbs at the gluttonous birds. Somewhere in the Marmara, the sky turned from blue to grey, and what I initially took for sea spray, turned out to be coming from above.

We set foot on Büyükada in a downpour, walked about ten metres across the street to Mado, and sat down for a coffee and some pudding. While we hoped for a break in the rain, we pulled out our sketchbooks and pencils, and began to search for faces to draw. I was taken by the curve of the nose of a most confusing older gentleman in a green sweater, who quickly approached us, and demanded our menus. It soon became clear by the way he was barking orders at the staff that he was the owner, and I tried to explain in broken Turkish that we hadn't ordered yet. With a huff and some incomprehensible muttering, he set the menus back down on the table and disappeared. The second our waiter ran off to bring us our coffee and pudding, the man reappeared and with a satisfying grunt, took our menus.

I followed his shuffling with my eyes and pencil, trying to capture that nose and his determined expression, and it was just a matter of time before he realised what I was up to, and was looming over my shoulder.

Bu ben değilim! Ouf— şişman!

Apparently I had drawn him fat, and he pretended to be slightly offended, hiding a grin under his white moustache. He disappeared to the corner of the café, and minutes later, a smiling waiter delivered us some tea, compliments of the owner.

The rain did not let up, and we remained in Mado for nearly three hours, drawing and sipping tea until we decided it was time to buy a crappy umbrella from across the street and try to explore a bit. We made it to the awning of a fading Ottoman house, pulled out the tamales and made the picnic I had dreamed of a standing one, watching the horse buggies clop-clop by.



The rain continued all the way to Istanbul.

one with sugar, one without

hüzün

Hüzün is one of those delightfully untranslatable words— a Turkish word which is closest to its English sister, melancholy. But it's more than melancholy; in Sufi philosophy, hüzün is a spiritual anguish from the distance felt between oneself and god. It's a sense of longing, perhaps for something we are not exactly sure of. This collective yearning can mostly be felt during the winter, when the skies turn dark over Istanbul, the colour vanishes from people's clothes and faces, and everything sort of moans onward. People are quieter, and seem to breathe at a much slower, greyer pace. It's a poetic suffering, permission to feel deeper, to ache.

art and laughter

Wandering around Istanbul with nine Italian sketchers for a weekend results in abdomens sore from laughter, tired feet, icicle fingers which struggle to hold pens and brushes, and one big, happiness. There is so much to say, so much I want to share about the last few days, but I am struggling to find the words. We feasted, we clinked glasses, we explored, we invented jokes, and we drew.

I am eternally grateful to Urban Sketchers for connecting me with so many wonderful people over the past three years. Grazie, Italian Sketchers— I'll see you in Rome one day!

Art and laughter.
You couldn't ask for much more.

Stay tuned for the sketches!

marmara's mouth

Running some errands in Asia today.

lovely day

A çay on the ferry to Asia.

A feast of cherry kebap, aubergine stew, lamb intestines stuffed with barley and a mysterious kebap with pomegranate sauce at Çiya.

Fishermen on the Galata bridge catch something unexpected.

city of grey

between europe and asia

I had some errands to run on the Asian side today, namely the purchasing of art supplies. It was a fantastically coloured day of every possible shade of grey— pale greys, blue-greys, green-greys, charcoal— what better way to appreciate such colours than from the windswept deck of a ferry? I just love ferries, and will always choose a boat over a bus.

The Bosphorus was a stunning, deep silvery green...

birds and powdered orchids

I always wanted to be a bird. As a child, I collected feathers in a secret wooden box, and leapt off walls and swings while vigorously flapping my arms. I took up the trapeze as an adult. As I stood atop Galata Kulesi, cold hands on the even colder railing, I marvelled at the labyrinth of Istanbul spread out below me. Red-tiled crumbling roofs, salmon-walled buildings, grey cobblestones and silvery Bosphorus, Golden Horn and Marmara beneath my feet. Seagulls and jackdaws soared and plummeted in the wintery sky, this, their daily perspective.


After wandering around Beyoğlu all morning, I hopped on a ferry to Kadıköy for a heavenly lunch at Çiya, which has got to be my most favourite restaurant in this city. The waiters and guys behind the counters were so friendly, happy to explain what was in every single dish and offer recommendations. Beet salad and cooked turnip greens, oregano salad, dolmas, something with eggplants, a spicy nut purée— oh! There was this soup with chickpeas, lamb and yoghurt that just enveloped me in warmth— a silver bowl of comfort on a perfect rainy day. Fresh herbs, bold spices and subtle sauces. Every bite was exquisite, every scent a delight.

Belly full and happy, a walk in the icy rain was in order. Fishmongers and grocers called out the names of fish and fruit, as people huddled under umbrellas splashed by.


I warmed my fingers with a paper cup of sahlep on the ferry ride back to Beşiktaş. Sahlep is a hot, sweet beverage made from the ground tubers of orchids. It's thick and delicately flavoured— a flavour hard to describe— a wonderful winter treat.


Even though the minibuses of Istanbul will terrify you with their speed and irritate you with their stuffed-in-a-can sardine feeling, I love them. I love watching people lost in thought. What are they thinking? What worlds live behind their eyes, inside their hearts? When I sketch someone, I hope to feel even the tiniest bit of what they are feeling.

february's last grey day

There are days when the weather decides to perfectly reflect your mood.

minus two

Sometimes it's worth taking a walk by the sea in minus two degree weather— hot coffee in hand, music in ears, wrapped up in layers of scarf, wool and coat. The bus can be boring.