Friday 16 September 2011 * 3:00-4:30
Showed up at the Boukoleon today where I was greeted by barking dogs. Awful, trash everywhere, weeds, and a new bum lean-to at the wall under the high Byzantine portals I’m drawing, rowdy guys in there. Police showed up, said Be Careful but don’t seem to care about the tent or the trash, nobody seems to care about this palace but me, drawing like a fool. A dramatic frenzy of brick shards radiating around the arches, marble posts and lintels bowed with age, muscular blackened spines of brick arcing up behind the portals. Then a shock, tourists actually walking around up in there. Had to be tourists, nobody else wears those bright machine-embroidered satin pillbox hats. One girl stood right on the threshold of the Center Arch. Right where I’d dreamed of standing. She probably never even heard of the Palace before today.
How dare they? Spent years! Staring at that arcade of arches and could never get in, days and nights imagining what it looked like from there.
Here’s winter and summer, hours spent staring out my windows at that arcade of arches, wondering.
And here are pages from an entire childrens’ book I set there back in 2005, months visually speculating what the Palace would have looked like if things had been a little different and people had fixed it up, lived in it in, say, the 1920s– A place, a Palace, so
pack up all my paraphernalia, hoof it up the hill and around to the property adjacent to the Palace which has always been blocked
off by the owner of the house there. It’s open now, but I had to walk over a broken gate and someone’s garden. It’s forbidden to block off these places, but they didn’t exactly put up a sign either. But finally there I stood at last, high in the center portal looking out towards the sea, just where I’d drawn and dreamed so many times. The marble on those portals is ten inches thick, the mortar still holding over a thousand years. Back in 2008 around this time of year I sat on the table-sized balcony of my old apartment, hanging over the railroad, and drew this. It’s sheer bliss to know I’ve stood there at last. The view is the same, only closer, with the huge marble presence looming all around. A flat pounded dirt floor, sprung filthy couch, big pile of construction materials. I’d rather see it like this than turned into kitsch with “restoration.” Nobody can build like the Byzantines; ruins should be fortified, yes, but left as ruins. I want to know that what I am looking at is what was placed by fingers like mine. Built by hands now dust, like the place where there once were marble floors.