FROM PILLAR TO POST 5

BYZANTINE POP

There’s nothing really old in Los Angeles.

Venice Beach #5. Photo ©2008 by Charles Lester.

Maybe that’s why there’s a Youth Cult. Hah! They don’t know what old is. Awhile back, a friend from my squandered flaming youth sent me an iPod stuffed with 566 live performances of Classic Rock he’s been personally recording since 1966. He’s standing right there in all of them, and now, so am I. I feel like the Ghost in the Machine. I always wanted a guy who would take me to concerts.

So I’m listening to The Beach Boys, circa 1973. Talk about old!! Songs of youth in safety and privilege, so simple and lovely. A song about being safe in your room. A song about a girl who rode a surfboard. A song about how all the girls in the country are so beautiful. A song about making money and being popular. A love song to a car. A song simply about feeling good. Once I thought them vacuous but now in the turgid Middle East present they sound soooooo beautiful, sugary harmonies going up into the stars over the unhurried nonchalant Surf Beat . And I’m remembering a Russian kid I met at a college here in Istanbul telling me how his father got sore at him, said he was the Russian equivalent of clueless, that he, the father, had risked his life to listen to Beatle records back in the ‘sixties, because there was a death penalty for possession of Beatle songs, symbols of capitalist extravagance, and his son didn’t appreciate his freedoms. We took the Beatles pretty seriously, but a death penalty? From this perspective The Beach Boys are singing the dream of the world. A youth in freedom, safety and privilege, and I’m grateful that I had it.

But … there is nothing old in Southern California. This is one reason for my passion for visible antiquity. You can always tell Californians in Istanbul. We’re the ones staring in disbelief at the walls that are really as old as they look and not the product of a set designer. Astonishing, that there are really such things in the world. So when Dan DiPaola sent me this camera I set about taking pictures of the old Boukoleon Palace walls to send him in LA, where there’s one fireplace down in Olvera Street supposed to be from the late 1500s, wow man. Above is the drawing I got last session. Check out the section at the bottom right:

I drew all the way to the lower right corner of the paper, which is the corner of a window. Not being able to include the whole thing would have made me crazy, except that I spent 13 hours drawing this very window back in Februray of 2008. Here, take a look:

A Room With a View ©2008 by Trici Venola

Notice how there are things buried among the rocks of the outermost layer of the wall. You can see one pillar showing through at top left, and toward top right is a bit of carved marble. At left, just above the lintel arch, is a section of the marble balcony clearly showing through in our present drawing. The window itself is bare to the elements. Once high over the sea, it clearly had something attached to its marble sill, look at the three holes.  I’ve taken lots of Americans to see this window, and we just stare at it and darn near cry, it’s so old and so beautiful and so…authentic. Back in 2008, 13 hours was the most time I’d ever spent on a single sketchbook drawing. It was important to draw every brick and stone exactly as I saw them, and am I glad I did, because there’s a fence there now and you can’t see as clearly, but I can still see that the rocks are different now. I never feel comfortable showing this drawing without its companion, Eager Student, a portrait of Ahmet Dal, a guy living in the ruins who made store runs for me and kept the creeps away. He’s reading my copy of Tayfun Oner’s book Walking Through Byzantium, with mighty enjoyment of the CGI of his home the Boukoleon.

Back to the section of the present drawing: Just to the left of the window is a section of original Byzantine brickwork eroded into a roll. This is where the newer layer has fallen away. Can you see the edge of the newer layer? It’s that vertical zigzag at the bottom left. Here’s what this wall tells us: First, early in the ninth century, Theophilus the Iconoclast Emperor built the Boukoleon Palace right into the City Walls rising up on the Marmara Sea. Then in 1204 came the Fourth Crusade, Roman Catholics mostly from Italy, and they  burned the Palace, flames wreathing the crosses carved over its windows. People moved into the burnt-out husk and lived in it for centuries. All this time, this wall was right on the water, which gradually receded as the harbor silted up. In 1871 the Sultan ran the railroad through the Palace, and someone built wooden houses next to it, which filled in the windows with dirt and debris. Water dribbled through from the plumbing. Then in the early sixties the highway and park were built, raising the ground level by about twenty feet. At some point, possibly around the time that 16th-century fireplace was built in LA, the wall was reinforced with an outer layer of stone. That’s why the pillars are partly concealed. The edge of this outer reinforcing layer is that zigzag. In the last blog, I described finding one lone pillar, to the left of this arcade of pillars, with a filigree capital intact. It’s likely that there are other capitals buried in the wall. 

 

There have got to be other windows as well. Drawing this stuff, I see all sorts of things I never noticed before, and now I can take pictures.

Buried Window Ledge

Here’s some sort of ledge sticking through the newer layer of wall. The gray vertical stains are from water draining out from the wooden houses above.

Ghost Window Closeup

And there’s a Ghost Window. See how the more recent layer of wall sticks out much fartherthan the layer to the right. The innermost layer is original Byzantine brick.

Ghost Window Longshot

In the longshot at the bottom of the page, we can clearly see the window.
See it there, at the bottom of the picture? There’s yet another window that just sticks up from the ground, over in the corner next to the Lighthouse. You can just barely see the desiccated scored window lintel above the ground.

Ground Level Buried Window

Suddenly I’m cold to the bone. It’s time to pack up the drawing board and trek down the highway. Gulls shrieking, distant tankers out on the horizon, a row of battered fishing boats, and the looming grizzled hulk of the Boukoleon and the City Walls. A far cry from the soft white sands of Southern California where 30 seems old, lavender sunset light lying in little pools in the tromped-in sand, one great continuous Pacific wave, and those soaring falsettos. Thank you Randy Harris for sending them to me, and for being in touch all these years later. The Beach Boys would have sounded like angels to the Byzantines. Shoot, they sounded like angels to us.

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Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 10 & 11

Sunday 2 October 1:00-4:30

INVOKING THE CROSS

Yesterday I put in the big lump of roundy brickwork at the top of the far right arch. It was not at all where it seemed it should be. I invoked the Cross: the method of lining up what I ‘m trying to draw with something I’ve already drawn. I do this by holding the pencil out in front of me, so that it makes a line across what I’m looking at and… NOOOO!! Couldn’t be that low… you can’t see it here, but that pencil is all over the drawing. That pencil  I was only using in emergencies…well, this was an emergency. A perspective perception emergency. Everything in me told me that big brick lump was WAY HIGHER than it actually is. Wrestled with this awhile when Gabrielle showed up. She’d come the day before, when I was home working, and her ink-wash drawing is now wonderful, dark and solid and mysterious. She decided to leave it alone, and about that time the affable guy, the one who works up at the gas station, turned up. His name is Ahmet.  I asked him if I could draw his picture. He was bewildered, actually pointed at his chest and looked around as though he stood in a crowd and I had beckoned. Then he stood rock-solid, without a trace of self-consciousness, for ten minutes until I said he could move. Here he is. For portraits I do a tight but light drawing as fast as possible, using my own code to indicate what’s black, plaid, etc. as people need to move. Then I darken and finish it up later. I meant to scan the preliminary since many people are curious about how to draw a portrait. But I forgot and finished, so I’ll have to show that another time. Afterwards he kissed my right hand and put a small handwoven multicolored bracelet on it. He told Gabrielle he would give her a necklace. Youth!

After a plan to meet later and play How To Blog, Gabrielle left to go do stuff on the apartment she’s fixing up. A friend from the first day. What a bright, talented beautiful girl with her whole life ahead, and a solid resume besides. I remembered where I’d been at that age, barely on my own radar, hadn’t even gone back to school yet.  I worked for awhile longer but my head, that old enemy, had started up like a rusty old engine. I started worrying about getting my work out while I’m still alive. If I live as long as I’ve been living, I’ll be 122. Hm. How hard I work, moan whine, and look at how little I make. Piss, grind. When my head really gets going I completely forget things like choosing to do what I love, choosing to do without other things to make it possible, having friends who act like angels…Then I noticed the slant on the bricks had gone all wrong and I quit while I could still fix it.

 Monday 3 October 1-3:00

DISTRACTIONS

Today was a short one.  I showed up at one fully prepared to draw my ass off for five hours. Ha.

Took the route down from Hagia Sophia along the Topkapi Palace/Gulhane Park wall and out the Ahirkapi, the Stable Gate, to the highway. Another beautiful day! So beautiful that when I walked through our tea garden in the wall and saw Osman sitting there smoking nargile (waterpipe, apple tobacco), I asked him for a hit. Staring out at the water and smoking was just what I wanted, and I got up to leave…and then I found myself going back to draw him and the cafe…just a few lines…

Forty-five minutes later, I got to the Boukoleon and started to draw. As always, the first look is clearer than any other. I tackled the Cross Hell Mess from yesterday and got some licks in.  Straight across, yes, it really IS that low on the page. Should I use the pencil again? I’m tired of all this backing and filling, I just threw the ink on.Looks like a pine cone, not like bricks. I drew what I saw and not what I thought I saw, and yes, it looks exactly like a pine cone. Why?  First the marble sheathing was removed or fell off. Then the wall began to erode. The mortar went first, from the surface backward, leaving the edges of brick exposed. Then the brick itself began to erode. So now there are these edges, curved from rain and wind patterns, sticking out like wafers, tongues of flame…a pine cone.

Just then, a mere hour and a half into the session, a group of truculent teenagers came striding up, through the gate in the Belidiye’s fence, and over to the little tree and the site of the bum tent. They carried pillows and rugs, and set about shouting and shoving each other and hanging the rugs to make a tent.  Five skinny guys and a lumpy big girl with a mean face, a dog on a leash. I wondered if they were going to draw lots. These kids looked angry. They punched and screamed at each other, particularly at one kid. He stormed out the gate and over past me, then came up too fast and close and demanded… a potato chip. He got it. Thanked me in English, too. Well, the dog looked clean, actually I think it was the same dog as the second day, when kids were emerging from the tent straightening their clothes, and the police stopped by and said I should be careful. So this time too I kept drawing.

A woman with winesores came up with her companion. She wanted me to know she’s Romanian and her mother was an artist. She kept petting me all over, wanting to be friends. She looked like she had been pretty, in an elfin kind of way. She looked like she lived under a bridge somewhere.  I didn’t wince away, she was harmless and I didn’t want to hurt her. But I was glad when they wandered away.

I started delineating the actual end of the wall, a time I’d looked forward to…but now I was just slamming it down there as fast as I could. Never know how long I’ve got with these things– can’t come tomorrow… drawing a little tree growing out of the wall up top, the dark of the wooden house behind it. I fixed the slant on the bricks. No white pen this time, just a lot of shading.

The group by the tent got louder and uglier. Years ago in my experimental youth I hitchhiked all over Greater Los Angeles, developed some street sense, and lived to tell the tale. Maybe these kids were just kids, but I didn’t know what substances they were ingesting, so I got out of there.

Back to the tea garden and drew some more, smoked some more. Osman told me he and Asim are buddies from ‘way back, started this place together. He did this by crossing his two fingers and shaking them emphatically.  I drew the boats across the highway, up in dry dock. I drew some trees and the water. What I didn’t draw was the traffic. Cars bumper to bumper, slowly moving, so I had to draw real fast and then wait.

Went home, carrying far too much since I stopped and bought cans of cat food. Walked up the Istiklal, the huge walk street down the top ridge of Beyoglu across the Golden Horn, on my way home. Saw a demonstration, women in photos with hangman’s nooses, etc, a petition for women who were under sentencing for murdering their battering husbands. I said I’d sign it, although I didn’t know if it would do any good since I don’t vote in Turkey, I’m just a resident. not a citizen. A woman passing by said, “You don’t vote? Where are you from?” When I told her she said, “Ha, you should go home and vote against Barack Obama.” A brisk exchange, and  I sorta lost it. They were all laughing. So I said, OK, fine, insult my President and my country, to hell with it. And walked off. Why can’t I ever remember to say that if one is going to trash America, then one should trash those Nikes and jeans. And toss that iPhone too. Go home and sever the landline, and while you’re at it, rip out the electrical box and toss that. And the refrigerator-it seems to me that this, too, is an evil American invention. No more Facebook either! Finally if one owns a car, get rid of it and never ride in one again. Most especially, no more American dollars, which I notice are quite high here right now. But I didn’t think of any of those things in time to say them, and they wouldn’t’ve cared. It’s fun to hate America. It makes the world kin. And here I am being political in an Art Blog. What do I know? There’s nothing I can do about any of this, not the battered murderer wives, not the trashed ruins, not my spent youth, not my hated motherland. One thing we don’t have in America is the Boukoleon, or anything remotely like it. All I can do is draw it, draw it all, make art out of it, make sense out of it, make sense out of something.

Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 7

Tuesday 27 September 2011 2:00-5:30

EMPRESS ZOE & THE CROSS

Here’s a picture Joy Harvey sent me of Empress Zoe (978-1050) waving from the Boukoleon. How do we know it’s the Boukoleon? Because of the ships. That’s the row of portals right there. Those triangles on top are sitting on the lintels, over the arches I’m drawing these days, forgetting to breathe, trying to get it right. In the old days, they didn’t even show.

This splendid CGI reconstruction of the Boukoleon at byzantium1200.com shows flat grey marble around pillar and lion details.

©byzantium1200.com. Used with permission.

The CGI artist is working with Byzantine scholars, and his reconstructions are masterful. If there was any data on the color and texture of the Boukoleon facade I’m sure he would include it. From my years of wandering the Palace ruin, I think the facade of the Boukoleon was highly decorated. The Byzantines never did anything that wasn’t ornamented to the nth degree.

This vivid recreation of a palace by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema is close to the mark. I thought I was new to his work, but guess again, like everyone else in Western Civilization I’ve grown up on his imagery in the movies. All that Cecil B. DeMille Bible stuff, Spartacus, Gladiator, Rome and everything else of antiquity– full of Sir Lawrence’s imagery. This painting, Spring, was done around 1900. Pure speculation, but…Check out that layout!– a row of high stately portals on the right, a small arch to the front over a doorway, right where there’s the ghost of one in the existing wall, and behind those pillars at the left, an enormous arch. Notice the pophyry and malachite– those pillars in the back are definitely green. A pillar lying in the weeds inside the ruin is malachite and the thickness reaches above my knees. I wonder if Sir Lawrence visited the Boukoleon after the railroad ran through it in 1873? Before the highway, when there was still some neoclassical marble clinging above the portals and the front was a lagoon…

Another of his paintings, Hero, done in 1898, is also evocative of the Boukoleon.   Nobody rendered the ancient world like Sir Lawrence, and I’m grateful, he helps me. Thanks to all these artists and my own observation, I have a vivid idea of what this place looked like, with translucent sheets of white marble, giant lions, saffron and speckled green and amber stone, pophyry and malachite and white marble fitted together with a lo-rez ziggurat cut, as we can still see in the arches over the doors of various mosques and in Topkapi Palace.

Things like this play through my mind while I’m drawing the precious, dessicated old dragon that the Boukoleon has become. They play through all right, and I don’t notice them go, because I’m mired in ghastly perspective problems like this one, today. That damn pencil got me into it, and I had to use it to get me out.

Actually it’s a lovely pencil, the one I borrowed from the bus driver. I never saw him again although I look for him every day. He’s going to have to fight me for this pencil. It’s become a talisman. It’s so long and sharp. It’s much longer than my drafting pens, so long that I can hold it up to line up various points on the drawing and find the perspective. Which DOES NOT match the spiffy pencil horizontal lines I drew last week when the world was young and I started this project.

Just for laughs, before I started inking it in from scratch, I checked the topmost right point of the Third Portal, using the Cross Method. I held the pencil up, level, and Mah Gawd, it was level with…the inner arch of the Far Left Portal? This CANNOT BE!! It’s much higher than that…isn’t it?

I checked the other side. Level with that Center Portal top inner right corner? Whaaa? ?????The black inner top right corner? Level with that point HALFWAY DOWN the Center…oh, this can’t be right…

Well thank God for that pencil. I drew and I drew, and I knew the proportions were all wrong, yet I checked them over and over again and…

THE CROSS NEVER LIES. See? The blue lines are my faulty perspective lines. The red lines are the Cross.

This is EXACTLY the correct size, position and perspective of the Third Portal. I’m still wrestling with the bottom. It seems too steeply slanted, so I left it for tomorrow when I am not tired. Because  I felt like I’d climbed all Seven Hills. I had pack up and hike down to the tea garden, drink some water, shake my hand and my head around. I came back, unpacked, measured, measured, measured some more, took a big deep breath, and laid it in with the pen. After carving that thing out in pencil against all my drawing instincts, it felt like coloring in a book. I made a mental note: When the drawing is nearly done, blacken all the shadows to where they are at around 5 PM.

The drawing was right. The world was beautiful. I noticed that it had gotten really windy, almost cold. Hurrying down along the CIty Walls, I had to hold my hat on. Across the highway, the water was deep teal with ripped whitecaps and seagulls rioting all over the surface. Through the Stable Gate, up the hill and down, stopped at the Spice Bazaar on the way home for olives and cheese and cashews. Oh how I dreaded climbing the hill to my apartment, so I decided that that was going to happen to someone else: the person I was at that moment got to look at the minarets of the Yeni Mosque. The tram was jammed, but I did indeed turn into someone else, someone who didn’t care that much about a little old hill, for coming across the Galata Bridge, the light turned to that fairy color between pink and blue, the sea whitening under the fading sky.

Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 6

Sunday September 25 2011 • 4:00-6:00

LINING IT UP

Sunday. The park is full of people picnicking. They’re so glad to get out by the water they don’t even notice the highway, families sitting two spits from the cars whooshing by. I got there late, just two hours to work, but these days I’m so excited about the project it’s sheer joy. At this point, the stuff is filling in fast. The weather is delicious, breezy and warm, crisp in the evenings. Bliss. And then, the first bloody insurmountable problem…

Normally I draw by finding the center and radiating outwards.  I draw the first thing and use it as a unit by which I measure everything else. The first unit on this drawing was the distance between the top left corner of the far portal and the iron strap wrapping it just below the first hole in the marble. I mentally think of a cross, for when I’m trying to find where the next line goes, everything is above or below, to the left or the right, of something else. In this way, the perspective comes out perfectly each time. And I’m working in ink.

But did I trust this? No, I had to go and use pencil for this big fat drawing. Pencil, not too much, just the major sweeping horizontal perspective lines. The one at the top of the portals, and the one at the bottom.

The top of the portals. Well, they’re not lined up. The center one has a lower lintel than the other two. And it has lost its top as well. The far right lintel is much smaller, but originally it lined up with the far left one.

So I recklessly drew that perspective line in pencil, because I could, and used it to determine the perspective of the center lintel. But it never looked quite right. Now I discover that the center portal is NOT the same perspective at all. Because, in its 1200 years it has… pleated slightly, in an accordion manner, and straightened out again by the right portal. Dayamn. Something– the railroad running through it, so it vibrates with each train, or the many earthquakes it has survived, or maybe when that top storey came down with the building of the highway– anyway, it ain’t straight. So I’ll have to see about chewing on those lines a bit, to make them look more like the thing itself. Rather than ripping it up I darkened the arch.

Just as the bricks began to get blurry, the affable guy appeared behind the fence, staggering and carrying a bottle. When someone walks like that they are drunk enough to get ugly. I started to pack up, I was done anyway. But he stopped. He stood on his side of the fence, staring with such longing, longing to be friends. I know that feeling. I could see myself through his eyes. He knew he was drunk and he was ashamed, and it was all hopeless. I wanted to tell him I understood, but I could only salute him. With his whole body he gestured back, what can we do? LIke watching the tide go out, so sad. He turned unsteadily and stumbled away, past the antique window, past the lighthouse, down the highway that used to be the sea.

Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 5

Sunday 25 September 2011 • 12:30-5:30

GABRIELLE

Success! Down there and drawing by 12:30 and tackled that center portal. There are those times that it all just draws itself– you don’t hurt anywhere, you can see, you don’t need anything, the pen is right, the paper’s right, and blessed concentration. Spent five hours and got to this point:

Well, I fell in love with the way the brick has eroded between those portals. With a little more work, it’ll be clearer, how fountains of water have washed down the surface of that brick in thousands of storms. Now as you can see, if I don’t start pulling back right away on the detail, the whole thing will be one busy texture and all the structure and drama lost. So next, it’s concentrate on the dark arches above these portals. And I’ll have to sacrifice. The inside areas may have to get a whole lot darker.

Gabrielle called. I like this girl. She read yesterdays’ note, and asked me if I’d like some time to myself first. So I had awhile in the zone, and then companionable work silence broken by grunts and the occasional profanity. She showed up in shorts, which made me yell at her, but quickly produced a large shawl and wrapped it around ’em. We made a pact to concentrate and natter later.  Her ink-wash is coming along very well, but it was dicey there for awhile. Even so, her marble is hard, her brick is old, the structure has weight and strength, no mean feat with ink-wash, one of the most difficult mediums.

A couple of the bums were down there, the affable one and a new one, who sat and drank his beer and stared over hungrily. Finally he came over and, touchingly shy, asked to see the work, made some conversation, wandered away. The guy off in the corner is still there from yesterday, eating, drinking and reading his newspaper. He never moves, he’s like a projection.

Around five-thirty my eyes were fine but I couldn’t sit anymore despite the cushion I haul down there every day. Coffee in the tea garden and then up the hill and over to the Corridor of Lord ruin under the carpet shop, which Garbrielle had never seen. More arches and domes, can’t get enough of ’em. We went out with Huseyin for fish dinner in Kumkapi, had a fabulous time, stuffed ourselves with fish, Gypsy musicians banging the tambourine and whining on that violin right in my ear. It hurt like hell. But the working girls down there were so draw-able that I had to pull out the sketchbook. Never have I seen so many intriguing bodies in such tight spandex. The drum still stabbed but it didn’t hurt anymore, I was in the paper, and so were they.  I’m falling asleep, I’m saving this as a draft, or not, it’s 2:45 AM and I didn’t do my exercises for the second day which means I’ll be flabby and die no doubt, but the hell with it, goodnight. A happy day.

Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 3

Wednesday 21 September 2011 • 4-6

BEFORE THE RAIN

During three days of coughing and sneezing, I started to upload stuff for a blog. I don’t know what I’m doing and there’s a mass of stuff to do before anyone can make sense of it. God, blogging. The writing is the easy part, it’s all the uploading and what size and dayamn, I was never going to get into computers again when I moved here in 2000, I’ve been dealing with them since 1984, so damned difficult to surmount all the mechanized obstacles and still come up with something that resembles good art, good writing. But it will out, it will out. I’m really excited and thank you Gabrielle for helping me get started!

Back to the Boukoleon. All this art here is at the left side of 35 X 70 cm (about 17 by 35 inches) horizontal heavy rag paper. Back on Friday, I posted about a misfire of the Boukoleon Portals. We’re looking at the portal on your far left as you face them.  I made the mistake of penning in the posts and lintel first. The arch squeezed, don’t ask me why, it’s pointed and it shouldn’t be. I forgot to draw from the center and leave myself room to grow a bit. So that drawing is trashed.

I started all over again. So many people have asked me how long it takes, and how I start, etc. that I’ve decided to scan as much as possible with each day of drawing. (Note 1 November 2011: When I figured out what I was doing on this blog, I went back and inserted the scans into the earlier posts, including this one. I put the comment into boldface because it’s actually when I realized what we could do by showing daily progress. This may be an old idea on the Internet, but it was new to me.) Here’s what I did last time in three hours. 

This time I started with the left post and then immediately went to the inner arches, finishing the right post only at the end and then lightly. We learned our lesson, we’re going to the right only.

Today was clouded and sultry, storm weather. But it didn’t storm. I had lots to do after being housebound for three days and didn’t get down to the Boukoleon until four. What a surprise, no trash around the Big Arch! Maybe the Belidiye read Facebook. Still pretty foul inside the fence in front of the Portals, but oh, what a difference. Now in the time I was housebound, I got into Blog Mode…thinking about it, planning…so I really. didn’t. think. I’d get anything done, but sat down anyway and opened up the drawing, which I keep clipped on a double-thickness mortarboard, also 35 X 70 cm, wrapped in brown waxed butcher paper. Tried not to think about switching gears and how I hate it, tried not to think at all. And went into the paper. With the pen, dotted in some perspective lines; pencil is okay but it smears and soon, you’re doing inking over pencils instead of pen-and-ink Plein Air. So I reserve pencil for the very minimum and only on these big ones. Walking on eggs, delicately added some surface bricks to the top and left. I was walking on eggs because there’s so much detail that it’s easy to make the entire drawing so busy it flattens out and kills all the drama. So there’s some severe editing that has to happen, in addition to reducing millions of colors to two, and millions of edges to lines.  Another couple of teenagers watched, also a young Turkish guy. The guy who sits in the far corner is still there drinking beer. I don’t think he’s moved all week. Maybe he’s a ghost. The light went at six. A short, sweet session. Here’s what we got today: all the brick down the right side of the Portal.

Packed up, walked along the City Walls down to the Stable Gate. The sea was slate-blue and scuttering foam. Warm delicious wind, the whole darkening day gathering in anticipation of rain. Walked up the hill next to the Topkapi Palace Wall, watching the buttressed backside of Ayasofya spread out at the top like a trumpet blast. Past the ornate Ottoman fountain with its swooping canopy, past the guards at the Topkapi Palace gate, along narrow Sogukcesme Street between tall wood and stone walls, over the hill and down, past the cheap shops and nargile places tacked onto the wall, played with a filthy black and white kitten, wished I could take it home, ran across the tramline and just as I got where I needed to go, oh rain!

Drawing the Boukoleon Portals 2

Friday 16 September 2011• 2:00-5:00 

STARTING OVER

Today we had no dogs at the Boukoleon and the bums’ tent was empty. It’s made of a blanket hung over a cord tied to the ancient wall and a little tree, with a teapot set up next to it, trash everywhere and wadded up against the fence. Away over in the corner near the big arch a guy sat scowling and reading. A pair of teenagers showed up, spread a newspaper on the brick pavement amid the blowing trash, and started necking. They were there for three hours. I felt like a duenna. Re-drew the left portal, and am I glad I did. Now it works, it’ll carry the whole thing.

Had a time as I couldn’t find my pencil. Knew I’d put it in with the pens. The page I prepared at home, up against the window, tracing the layout with pencil from what I”d done before, turned out to be cut too short. I had to prepare another. And. No. Pencil. Trying to hold two huge flapping papers up to the light and keep them from sliding out of place while I made pen dots on the perspective lines.  Then I packed up, went down to the bus stop and asked one of the drivers. He gave me a fine art pencil and I almost kissed him. Oh bliss, to safely delineate the basic block-in of that blasted portal. Here’s the hash I made of it yesterday. Notice the point on the dark negative space at the top of the inner arch. It doesn’t look like that, it’s rounder. The whole proportion is off:

Far Left Portal Misfire ©2011 by Trici Venola

The problem yesterday came when I drew the entire rectangle of the portal in ink and then tried to put all the arches inside, and they came out squeezed. This time I penciled only the left post and the top, the main horizontal perspective lines and some of the inside. Then I started drawing in ink, the inside of the portal, all the arches and twisted burned brick. This worked.

Far Left Portal For Real ©2011 by Trici Venola

It may not matter to you, but it sure matters to me. Sometimes you just don’t have time to start over, but this time I do. Also, a proportional problem this early on will only lead to grief, since as I draw I measure against everything that has already been drawn. Here they are side by side. See?

Far Left Misfire

Far Left for Real

Started sneezing but didn’t care, it was going so well at last. High above my small shady cypress tree is an enormous Sycamore, and something up there is crapping on the page from time to time. I have to be quick  with a tissue or it soaks into the page. Those neckers hung in there and I got a surreptitious drawing of them melted into each other.

They felt it, her suspicious little face glancing over at me past the sheaf of black hair. A kid with braces from Iran asked me the history of the palace, said he was stuck with his mother and grandmother who only wanted to shop. I gave him a card for the website.  A guy crawled out of the tent, scratched himself, waved.  An affable face. Said he knows me, I’m the artist, I could draw there as long as I liked and he would keep off the riffraff. He works long hours at the gas station across the highway, was catching some sleep.

End of the day an ebullient Turkish guy came up and said he could feel the presence of the ancient Byzantines. I said I could too, they blow in with the leaves and watch me draw. He said he could also feel the spirit of Jesus Christ. I let that one go. The Boukoleon was built in 817, lived in for four centuries,  sacked and burned in 1204. Byzantines built it and lived and prayed in it and Crusaders destroyed it, and all of them in the name of Jesus Christ. While I was drawing the portal I saw dark and blood and flames,  Crusaders in armor stalking through the arcade of arches, one standing there with drawn and dripping sword, the red cross on his chest visible through the smoke, over him the same cross carved in the blackening marble lintel, the flames fluttering like Crusaders’ flags.

Dog In the Ruins ©2008 by Trici Venola.