A DATE WITH AN ANGEL: Worlds Collide in Hagia Sophia

A Date With An Angel ©2012 Trici Venola

IT’S ALL ALIVE The date of this angel is probably slightly after 1261. That’s when the re-enfranchised Eastern Christians of Constantinople dug up Henri Dandolo and threw him out the window of Hagia Sophia, officially ending the sixty-year Roman Catholic aftermath of the Fourth Crusade. You remember Dandolo, don’t you? The old blind Doge of Venice who told the Fourth Crusade to sack Constantinople? Buried in Hagia Sophia, center of Eastern Christianity and its foremost temple, which he turned into a cathedral after trashing its entire congregation and their city? That guy. Out the window, his bones gnawed by the dogs. How I love the history here.

Ayasofya Angel photo

This Angel is actually a Seraph, a sexless bodiless representation of Divine Thought. Its re-emergence in 2009, thanks to the Turkish government, colors the whole eastern side of the basilica. It’s the only whole survivor of four, mosaiced into the four pendentives below the dome. A pendentive is that triangular space  that allows a dome to join with the square space beneath it. Why not fill the space with angels? Made sense to the Byzantines. Makes sense to me, but then I’ve been living here awhile.

A Date With An Angel Progression ©2012 Trici Venola

ALL HISTORY MUST INCLUDE A CAT So: fifteen hours drawing this angel from this exact spot: a complete sweep of history. We have the 6th-Century windows around the dome, the post-Latin mosaic Angel, some of Sultan Abdulmecid’s 1841 paint, the Byzantine balustrade, an Ottoman chandelier, and a medallion with Abdulmecid’s tribute in Arabic to family and Allah. All of this in one shot required sitting on a campstool precisely lined up against certain scars on the marble floor, because I have to get up now and then, moving the stool, and the perspective hangs on a hair. Lots of concentration here! As always I muse, while drawing, on the passionate concentration of the original mosaic artists, keeping the grand gesture in such a slow tedious medium. That face up there is over three feet wide.

To break things up a little, I wandered around drawing those graffiti crosses, probably put here by Fourth Crusaders. We talked a lot about them in the post HOT CROSSES: Drawing Crusader Graffiti in Hagia Sophia. I was down on the floor in front of the nave drawing this one hacked into the floor when another sort of angel came over to watch, followed by his parents.

Emirhan on His Sunnet Day ©2012 Trici Venola

COMING OF AGE If there is an icon of boyhood in Turkey, this is it. Emirhan here is attired for his Sunnet, his circumcision, followed by a  party to celebrate his manhood. Every Turkish boy goes through this ceremony, and it bonds them for life. It may or may not take place with an anesthetic, but it will take place. Before the great event the little boy parades around town in as grand a fashion as his parents can afford, often in this costume of a miniature Sultan. Normally I don’t take requests, but when his father asked I just couldn’t resist.

Obama Kedi & Friends ©2012 Trici Venola

AND HERE’S THE CAT One of Hagia Sophia’s stellar guards with Obama Gul Kedi, who our President petted on National TV while visiting Hagia Sophia back in 2008. Hagia Sophia is popular with American Presidents: here it is in 1999 with the Clintons inside.

Ayasofya wClintons 72

Ayasofya with the Clintons Inside © 1999 Trici Venola

Obama Kitty In SituObama Gul lives in Hagia Sophia and like all girl cats has always behaved as a queen, but since her media appearance with the President she is even more fat and smug.

WHIRLIGIGS UNDER HEAVEN

And check out that inlay work above the pillars around the upper alcoves! I always loved whirligigs and so did the Emperor Justinian. St Catherine was one of his patron saints, and we find Catherine Wheels everywhere in Hagia Sophia. Is it mother-of-pearl? With some dark wood or tortoise-shell or black stone, porphyry in the circles…

Justinian and his Empress, Theodora, began building on Hagia Sophia in 532, to replace the previous temple which had been burned in the Nika Rebellion. To create what they hoped would be a glory for heaven, they commissioned Isadore of Miletus, a physicist, and Anthemius of Tralles, an architect and mathematician. Justinian and Theodora’s love was legendary. Like Hagia Sophia, it has outshone all the contemporary criticism, all their probable and all too human flaws. For fifteen hundred years, now, their great temple has stood, a miracle of sensual symmetry, of space and light and beauty. It’s what happens when  great physics, architecture and mathematics combine with great love.

DSC01142 copy

So, whatever this whirligig façade is made of, it was made in the 6th Century. It’s recently been cleaned, and what a revelation. It used to look like shallow gray bas-relief. Here’s a drawing from 2004, see? I couldn’t make out the design and had to make do with curlicues.

Balustrade Cross Graffiti 72 ©2004 Trici Venola

The roughened surface of the marble balustrades is acturally fifteen centuries of people carving their names. Over time the names fade down into the marble, leaving a scratched, pitted texture I love.

DSC01143 copyPEELING TROMPE L’OEIL The far right arch in these photos is trompe l’oeil from the Fossati Brothers, Swiss architects hired in 1841 by Abdulmecid to do a restoration. That’s their yellow paint job peeling off the upper walls, trying to match the original gold mosaic below. The Fossati Brothers found the Angel face plastered over. They carefully documented it, drew it, and according to Islam’s proscription on faces, covered it up with a medallion like the ones still on the other three. Our angel is on the northeastern pendentive. The ones to the west are trompe l’oeil to match the mosaic ones to the east. The southeastern medallion may have a face under it. I sure wish I knew.

Guards at Ayasofya ©2012 Trici Venola

Here are more faces from Hagia Sophia’s wonderful security staff. I drew each one at different times and separated them for gift prints. If you are going to spend any time drawing monuments, be nice to the guards.

RELENTLESS BEAUTY

St Irene in Pala d’Oro Altarpiece, St Mark’s, Venice

That there are faces at all on the walls of Hagia Sophia is due largely to Empress Irene of Athens, who ruled Byzantium at the turn of the eighth century to the ninth. Notice her shield and cross: she was a kind of warrior.

ICONS: PORTALS TO POWER  Irene’s Emperor, Leo IV, was an Iconoclast. His father Leo III of Armenia, the first Iconoclast, is said to have been influenced by Islam in his abhorrence of icons. We all know icons as those little gizmos that pop up on your desktop, letting you know where to click to access all manner of things.

Mac Icons

Their origin, like so much else, is pretty much Byzantine. What the Byzantines were accessing was faith. Here are some religious icons.

Religious Icons

A modern program icon designer works with much the same limitations as the original religious painters. In a (usually) small space with limited colors you must create an instantly recognizable image that conveys a sense of where you want the viewer to go.  We icon designers want you to know you’ll be  transported to Desktop or Skype or Adobe Photoshop. The Byzantines wanted you to be transported into Faith. Faith that the saint represented by the icon would intervene with the Power of the Universe to help you. Come to think of it, they’re not so different.

Battle Over Icons, Medieval painting

DESTRUCTION OF ART Icons are a touchy subject. In Communist Russia you could get into a lot of trouble for possessing them. Many were said to perform miracles, survive all manner of cataclysm. In our time icon has come to mean a powerful representational figure, or face, like Hitler meaning Fascism, or Steve Jobs representing idealistic progress. The Byzantines prayed to pictures of the saints, lit candles to them, went on their knees before them, fought wars under and for them. The power was in the faith, but Emperor Leo believed that people worshipped the pictures themselves, so he destroyed them. All of them. Every icon, large and small, and then every pictorial mosaic, fresco and bas-relief went. Hagia Sophia is full of empty frames, carved marble around a vacant space, and lone, austere crosses. The original gold mosaic ceiling, with its geometric designs, was allowed to remain. After the Iconoclasts– the breakers of images– had done with the pictures, they started in on the artists. Leo is not my favorite emperor, but at least there aren’t a lot of pictures of him.

Ceiling Gold in Hagia Sophia

HELL HATH NO FURY… Irene his wife was an Iconodule or Iconophile: she loved icons. She is remembered as a beauty: a tall noble brunette. One fable has Leo discovering some icons she’d hidden, and refusing to sleep with her afterwards.

Harun Al-Rashid

Was she a woman scorned? Leo died in 775, and Irene set about gaining the throne. Beset by her own ministers, Bulgars, and Harun Al-Rashid, she never gave up…wait a minute. Worlds collide….Harun Al-Rashid? Isn’t he supposed to belong in Arabian Nights? Yes, and he did his best to invade Byzantium. Irene kept him out by paying him a whopping annual tribute. When the Pope refused to recognize her rule and crowned Charlemagne Roman Emperor, rather than sulking over the insult, she simply arranged to marry Charlemagne. But she was deposed first.

Medieval drawing of Pope Crowning Charlemagne

ECLIPSE OF THE SON Her son by Leo, Constantine VI, grew up in the shadow of his vivid autocratic mother. He too became an Iconoclast. When the inevitable clash came, Irene gave him short shrift: she seized the throne, and in the same porphyry chamber in which she had borne him, she had him blinded. He died of his wounds. This sickened the people, who proclaimed it “a horror of Heaven” and blamed on it a 17-day solar eclipse.

Byzantine Empress regnant Irene of Athens

Irene and Constantine VI by Hubert Goltzius 16th-Century

THE SKULL CARAFE Nevertheless Irene ruled for five years before being replaced by her minister Nicophorus. You remember Nicophorus? Driven insane by incessant warfare in Bulgaria, he wound up beheaded by Krum the Horrible, Khan of the Bulgars, who had a silver-lined beerstein made of his skull, and to the end of his days drank to his own health from the head of the Byzantine Emperor. That’s Nicophorus on the right, being carried in filled with beer.

Medieval drawing of Krum the Horrible with his famous Byzantine beerstein

THE SAINT The Iconoclasts stuck around until the mid-9th Century and finally petered out.  Irene ended life on an island, spinning to support herself, and in Hagia Sophia, the heart of the kingdom she ravaged her soul to protect, there is no image of her. I doubt there’s one in Istanbul. Fourth Crusaders carried them all off to Venice, the city of that Doge thrown out of the window. Yet Irene endures, for she restored image worship in Christianity. Under her rule in 787, the Seventh Ecumenical Council at Nicea refuted the Iconoclasts, declaring that artistic materials merely represent the saints, a belief upheld to this day. The glorious pictorial mosaics of St Savior in Chora, as well as many surviving in Hagia Sophia, are all from after Irene. Throughout Christianity, religious art endures, and it always has a face.

Greek Orthodox Icon of St Irene of Athens

THE EVOLUTION OF AN ICON Santa Claus, called Noel Baba (Father Christmas) is big here in Turkey. St Nicholas himself was Bishop of Myra, down on Turkey’s Mediterranean Coast. A benevolent leader, he gave all his money to the poor, hiding dowries in the shoes of impoverished virgins to save their pride, which comes to us as the tradition of Christmas stockings. St Nicholas is huge all over Europe. Think of all those Greeks named Nick. Here’s one of many Russian icons of him.

Russian Icon-St Nicholas of Myra

Russian Icon-St Nicholas of Myra

At some point, he became mixed with Lapland myths of tall, fur-suited Father Christmas who lived with reindeer in the snow. Vikings were in Istanbul, the Varangian traders invited in the 9th Century, not to mention the Emperor’s special guardsmen. Here’s their graffiti in Hagia Sophia, and even I feel I’m stretching to imagine that’s when the mix began. But worlds DO collide here…could it be?

Viking Graffiti ©2004 Trici Venola. Means "Halvdan was here."

Viking Graffiti ©2004 Trici Venola. Means “Halvdan was here.”

Victorian Clement Clark Moore turned Father Christmas / St Nicholas into “a right jolly old elf” in his iconographic (!) poem The Night Before Christmas. And in 1930, Coca-Cola hired Norwegian-American illustrator Haddon Sundblom to depict St Nick for their ads in the Saturday Evening Post. These became the prototype for Santa Claus as we know him today.

Haddon Sundblom for Coca-Cola, 193

Haddon Sundblom for Coca-Cola, 1931

Justinian undoubtedly included icons of St Nicholas in Hagia Sophia. After all, he built the church at Myra in memory of the 3rd-Century saint.

SLEIGH BELLS STILL RINGING As the snow whirls in the darkness outside and the wind howls up over the mouth of the Bosporus, Chinese-manufactured Santas rock their hips down in Kumkapi as tourists eat Bosporus fish. A few years ago, they told us that the Mayan Calendar was about to run out. Projected human history was ending, as the Calendar only runs until 2012. Surely the world was going to end as well!  Since the beginning of recorded history, people have been crying that the world is going to end any minute. We’re  years into After the Mayan Calendar. We may be flying blind, but we’re still flying. The Grinch is still around — Christmas lights are now forbidden in Myra as anti-Islam– but so is Santa Claus. Try and eradicate Santa Claus. The world clearly needs a symbol of cheer in the darkness, of good living, of unity, for Santas appear everywhere in every medium, from cheap synthetic to solid gold. The world looks on, smiles, stuffs its stockings. Once again, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Noel Baba New ©2011 Trici Venola.

Noel Baba New ©2011 Trici Venola.

—-

All drawings Plein Air, 20″ X 7″ / 18cm X 52cm, drafting pens on rag paper, sketchbook format. All art ©Trici Venola. All drawings from The Drawing On Istanbul Project by Trici Venola, see description on this blog. Thanks for reading. We love your comments!

A DATE WITH AN ANGEL: Worlds Collide in Hagia Sophia

A Date With An Angel ©2012 Trici Venola

IT’S ALL ALIVE The date of this angel is probably slightly after 1261. That’s when the re-enfranchised Eastern Christians of Constantinople dug up Henri Dandolo and threw him out the window of Hagia Sophia, officially ending the sixty-year Roman Catholic aftermath of the Fourth Crusade. You remember Dandolo, don’t you, from two posts back? The old blind Doge of Venice who told the Fourth Crusade to sack Constantinople? And he was buried in Hagia Sophia, center of Eastern Christianity and its foremost temple, which he turned into a cathedral after trashing its entire congregation and their city? That guy. Out the window, his bones gnawed by the dogs. How I love the history here.

Ayasofya Angel photo

This Angel is actually a Seraph, a sexless bodiless representation of Divine Thought. Its re-emergence in 2009, thanks to the Turkish government, colors the whole eastern side of the basilica. It’s the only whole survivor of four, mosaiced into the four pendentives below the dome. A pendentive is that triangular space  that allows a dome to join with the square space beneath it. Why not fill the space with angels? Made sense to the Byzantines. Makes sense to me, but then I’ve been living here awhile.

A Date With An Angel Progression ©2012 Trici Venola

ALL HISTORY MUST INCLUDE A CAT So: fifteen hours drawing this angel from this exact spot: a complete sweep of history. We have the 6th-Century windows around the dome, the post-Latin mosaic Angel, some of Sultan Abdulmecid’s 1841 paint, the Byzantine balustrade, an Ottoman chandelier, and a medallion with Abdulmecid’s tribute in Arabic to family and Allah. All of this in one shot required sitting on a campstool precisely lined up against certain scars on the marble floor, because I have to get up now and then, moving the stool, and the perspective hangs on a hair. Lots of concentration here! As always I muse, while drawing, on the passionate concentration of the original mosaic artists, keeping the grand gesture in such a slow tedious medium. That face up there is over three feet wide.

To break things up a little, I wandered around drawing those graffiti crosses, probably put here by Fourth Crusaders. We talked a lot about them in HOT CROSSES: Drawing Crusader Graffiti in Hagia Sophia. I was down on the floor in front of the nave drawing this one hacked into the floor when another sort of angel came over to watch, followed by his parents.

Emirhan on His Sunnet Day ©2012 Trici Venola

COMING OF AGE If there is an icon of boyhood in Turkey, this is it. Emirhan here is attired for his Sunnet, his circumcision, followed by a  party to celebrate his manhood. Every Turkish boy goes through this ceremony, and it bonds them for life. It may or may not take place with an anesthetic, but it will take place. Before the great event the little boy parades around town in as grand a fashion as his parents can afford, often in this costume of a miniature Sultan. Normally I don’t take requests, but when his father asked I just couldn’t resist.

Obama Kitty & Friends ©2012 Trici Venola

Here is one of Hagia Sophia’s stellar guards with Obama Gule Kitty, who our President petted on National TV while visiting Hagia Sophia back in 2008. Hagia Sophia is popular with American Presidents: here it is in 1999 with the Clintons inside.

Ayasofya wClintons 72

Ayasofya with the Clintons Inside © 1999 Trici Venola

Obama Kitty In SituObama Gule lives in Hagia Sophia and like all girl cats has always behaved as a queen, but since her media appearance with the President she is even more fat and smug.

WHIRLIGIGS UNDER HEAVEN

And check out that inlay work above the pillars around the upper alcoves! I always loved whirligigs and so did the Emperor Justinian. St Catherine was one of his patron saints, and we find Catherine Wheels everywhere in Hagia Sophia. Is it mother-of-pearl? With some dark wood or tortoise-shell or black stone, porphyry in the circles…

Justinian and his Empress, Theodora, began building on Hagia Sophia in 532, to replace the previous temple which had been burned in the Nika Rebellion. To create what they hoped would be a glory for heaven, they commissioned Isador of Miletus, a physicist, and Anthemius of Tralles, an architect and mathematician. Justinian and Theodora’s love was legendary. Like Hagia Sophia, it has outshone all the contemporary criticism, all their probable and all too human flaws. For fifteen hundred years, now, it has stood, a miracle of sensual symmetry, of space and light and beauty. It’s what happens when  great physics, architecture and mathematics combine with total faith and great love.

DSC01142 copy

So, whatever this whirligig façade is made of, it was made in the 6th Century. It’s recently been cleaned, and what a revelation. It used to look like shallow gray bas-relief. Here’s a drawing from 2004, see? I couldn’t make out the design and had to make do with curlicues.

Balustrade Cross Graffiti 72 ©2004 Trici Venola

The roughened surface of this marble is fifteen centuries of people carving their names. Over time the names fade down into the marble, leaving a scratched, pitted texture I love.

DSC01143 copyPEELING TROMPE L’OEIL The far right arch in these photos is trompe l’oeil from the Fossati Brothers, Swiss architects hired in 1841 by Abdulmecid to do a restoration. That’s their yellow paint job peeling off the upper walls, trying to match the original gold mosaic below. The Fossati Brothers found the Angel face plastered over. They carefully documented it, drew it, and according to Islam’s proscription on faces, covered it up with a medallion like the ones still on the other three. Our angel is on the northeastern pendentive. The ones to the west are trompe l’oeil to match the mosaic ones to the east. The southeastern medallion may have a face under it. I sure wish I knew.

Guards at Ayasofya ©2012 Trici Venola

Here are more faces from Hagia Sophia’s wonderful security staff. I drew each one at different times and separated them for gift prints. If you are going to spend any time drawing monuments, be nice to the guards.

RELENTLESS BEAUTY

St Irene in Pala d’Oro Altarpiece, St Mark’s, Venice

That there are faces at all on the walls of Hagia Sophia is due largely to Empress Irene of Athens, who ruled Byzantium at the turn of the eighth century to the ninth. Notice her shield and cross: she was a kind of warrior.

ICONS: PORTALS TO POWER  Irene’s Emperor Leo from Armenia, the first Iconoclast, is said to have been influenced by Islam in his abhorrence of icons. We all know icons as those little gizmos that pop up on your desktop, letting you know where to click to access all manner of things.

Mac Icons

Their origin, like so much else, is pretty much Byzantine. What the Byzantines were accessing was faith. Here are some religious icons.

Religious Icons

A modern program icon designer works with much the same limitations as the original religious painters. In a small space with limited colors you must create an instantly recognizable image that conveys a sense of where you want the viewer to go.  We icon designers want you to know you’ll be  transported to Desktop or Skype or Adobe Photoshop. The Byzantines wanted you to be transported into Faith. Faith that the saint represented by the icon would intervene with the Power of the Universe to help you. Come to think of it, they’re not so different.

Battle Over Icons, Medieval painting

Icons are a touchy subject. In Communist Russia you could get into a lot of trouble for possessing them. Many were said to perform miracles, survive all manner of cataclysm. In our time icon has come to mean a powerful representational figure, or face, like Hitler meaning Fascism, or Steve Jobs representing idealistic progress. The Byzantines prayed to pictures of the saints, lit candles to them, went on their knees before them, fought wars under and for them. The power was in the faith, but Emperor Leo believed that people worshipped the pictures themselves, so he destroyed them. All of them. Every icon, large and small, and then every pictorial mosaic, fresco and bas-relief went. Hagia Sophia is full of empty frames, carved marble around a vacant space, and lone, austere crosses. The original gold mosaic ceiling, with its geometric designs, was allowed to remain. After the Iconoclasts– the breakers of images– had done with the pictures, they started in on the artists. Leo is not my favorite emperor, but at least there aren’t a lot of pictures of him.

Ceiling Gold in Hagia Sophia

HELL HATH NO FURY… Irene his wife was an Iconodule or Iconophile: she loved icons. She is remembered as a beauty: a tall noble brunette. One fable has Leo discovering some icons she’d hidden, and refusing to sleep with her afterwards.

Harun Al-Rashid

Was she a woman scorned? Leo died in 775, and Irene set about gaining the throne. Beset by her own ministers, Bulgars, and Harun Al-Rashid, she never gave up…wait a minute. Worlds collide….Harun Al-Rashid? Isn’t he supposed to belong in Arabian Nights? Yes, and he did his best to invade Byzantium. Irene kept him out by paying him a whopping annual tribute. When the Pope refused to recognize her rule and crowned Charlemagne Roman Emperor, rather than sulking over the insult, she simply arranged to marry Charlemagne. But she was deposed first.

Medieval drawing of Pope Crowning Charlemagne

ECLIPSE OF THE SON Her son by Leo, Constantine VI, grew up in the shadow of his vivid autocratic mother. He too was an Iconoclast. When the inevitable clash came, Irene gave him short shrift: she seized the throne, and very likely in the same purple chamber in which she had borne him, she had him blinded. This killed him and sickened the people, who proclaimed it “a horror of Heaven” and blamed on it a 17-day solar eclipse.

Byzantine Empress regnant Irene of Athens

Irene and Constantine VI by Hubert Goltzius 16th-Century

THE SKULL CARAFE Nevertheless Irene ruled for five years before being replaced by her minister Nicophorus. You remember Nicophorus? He wound up beheaded by Krum the Horrible, Khan of the Bulgars. That’s Nicophorus on the right, being carried in filled with beer.

Medieval drawing of Krum the Horrible with his famous Byzantine beerstein

THE SAINT The Iconoclasts stuck around until the mid-9th Century and finally petered out.  Irene ended life on an island, spinning to support herself, and in Hagia Sophia, the heart of the kingdom she ravaged her soul to protect, there is no image of her. I doubt there’s one in Istanbul. Fourth Crusaders carried them all off to Venice, the city of that Doge thrown out the window. Yet she endures, for she restored image worship in Christianity. Under her rule in 787, the Seventh Ecumenical Council at Nicea refuted the Iconoclasts, declaring that artistic materials merely represent the saints, a belief upheld to this day. The glorious pictorial mosaics of St Savior in Chora, as well as many surviving in Hagia Sophia, are all from after Irene. Throughout Christianity, religious art endures, and it always has a face.

Greek Orthodox Icon of St Irene of Athens

THE EVOLUTION OF AN ICON Santa Claus, called Noel Baba (Father Christmas) is big here in Turkey. St Nicholas himself was Bishop of Myra, down on Turkey’s Mediterranean Coast. A benevolent leader, he gave all his money to the poor, hiding dowries in the shoes of impoverished virgins to save their pride, which comes to us as the tradition of Christmas stockings. St Nicholas is huge all over Europe. Think of all those Greeks named Nick. Here’s one of many Russian icons of him.

Russian Icon-St Nicholas of Myra

Russian Icon-St Nicholas of Myra

At some point, he became mixed with Lapland myths of tall, fur-suited Father Christmas who lived with reindeer in the snow. Vikings were in Istanbul, the Varangian traders invited in the 9th Century. Here’s their graffiti in Hagia Sophia, and even I feel I’m stretching to imagine that’s when the mix began. But worlds DO collide here…could it be?

Viking Graffiti ©2004 Trici Venola. Means "Halvdan was here."

Viking Graffiti ©2004 Trici Venola. Means “Halvdan was here.”

Victorian Clement Clark Moore turned Father Christmas / St Nicholas into a “a right jolly old elf” in his iconographic (!) poem The Night Before Christmas. And in 1930, Coca-Cola hired Norwegian-American illustrator Haddon Sundblom to depict St Nick for their ads in the Saturday Evening Post. This became the prototype for Santa Claus as we know him today.

Haddon Sundblom for Coca-Cola, 193

Haddon Sundblom for Coca-Cola, 1931

Justinian undoubtedly included icons of St Nicholas in Hagia Sophia. After all, he built the church at Myra in memory of the 3rd-Century saint. And as  the snow whirls in the darkness outside and the wind howls up over the mouth of the Bosporus on this 20th of December 2012, the day before believers in the Mayan Calendar tell us the world is going to end, it’s fitting that we end this post with a commemoration. Since the beginning of recorded history, people have been crying that the world is surely ending, but we will more surely see another Christmas, another New Year…

2014 POSTSCRIPT: It’s two years into After the Mayan Calendar. We may be flying blind, but we’re still flying. Once again, Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Noel Baba New ©2011 Trici Venola.

Noel Baba New ©2011 Trici Venola.

—-

All drawings Plein Air, 20″ X 7″ / 18cm X 52cm, drafting pens on rag paper, sketchbook format. All art ©Trici Venola. All drawings from The Drawing On Istanbul Project by Trici Venola, see description on this blog. Thanks for reading. We love your comments!

HOT CROSSES: Crusader Graffiti in Hagia Sophia

TWO LEAD CROSSES

Two Lead Crosses ©2012 Trici Venola

They’re only visible from a few inches away. Carved  at eye level into the side of a malachite pillar in Hagia Sophia’s lower North Gallery are two thick little crosses side by side. The lead pressed into them is the same tone as the pillar itself. Leaning there in the dark one day last winter, I saw them between my fingers and thought I was hallucinating.

There are dozens, some say hundreds, of graffiti crosses scattered throughout Ayasofya. Along with the ghost images of bronze or gold crosses wrenched away are these thick little artifacts. I think they’re from the Fourth Crusade.

Hagia Sophia, Constantinople, 1204: Illiterate Christian Soldiers far from home with nothing to do but raise Cain, melt lead, fix chainmail and make arrowheads. Here’s some melted lead among the graffiti up on the balustrade in the Imperial Gallery.

The more I looked, the more crosses I found. Here’s one on a massive malachite column, one of the eight major ones in the nave. Notice how this cross fades out at the top, but still has all that lead pressed into it.

Here it is in situ. Can you see it?

PAGAN COLUMNS  Sources differ as to the origin of these eight giant green columns, each 70 tons of priceless malachite, probably 2400 years old. Tradition claims Justinian brought them from Ephesus, from the Temple of Artemis or the Gymnasium there. Other sources claim that they’re from the Temple of Baalbek in Lebanon. I haven’t been there, but photos show zero malachite. The big purple ones, porphyry, are probably from Rome.  Porphyry must be harder to carve, because I’ve yet to find a cross cut in it. Almost all of the columns here– veined purple-and-white, speckled green, swirled purplish-grey, golden, and the green and purple monoliths– were scavenged from Pagan temples; brought by barge, rolled on logs, hauled by lines of straining oxen, sweating slaves, cushioned in bushels of straw, great wooden wheels groaning over the Roman roadstones.

Clearly, Hagia Sophia’s architects, Isadore of Miletus and Anthemis of Tralles, got the most magnificent columns to be had in matched sets, and the leftovers from this perfect symmetry likely made up the nearby Cistern, also built by Justinian at the same time as Hagia Sophia. The Cistern, never meant to be seen, creates an effect so breathtaking that it takes a few visits to realize that all of its columns are flawed.

Here in the great temple, the columns are all different sizes, and it’s wonderful how the architects worked with these limitations. I’ve always loved Hagia Sophia’s feline, feminine curves. Now I see a practical application: the arches swoop down to meet the shorter columns, up to reach the tall ones. Some columns are mounted on pedestals. Here’s a cross carved in the corner of one.

 See how he had just a little leftover lead to put in it?

Pedestal Cross ©2012 Trici Venola

DRAWING IN THE DARK Next thing I knew, I was sitting for days in the dark behind a pillar with a flashlight stuck in my hair, telling a diverse parade of perfectly fascinating people from all over the world about the Crusader Crosses and the Fourth Crusade. A guide came along and excitedly told us that in 28 years he’s never seen these particular ones, and that I must be lucky. And how! I get to be here and draw this:

Crosses in the Dark ©2012 Trici Venola

I slaved over this drawing and despaired of ever getting it right. There’s so much detail, and it’s all so dim. It took about fifteen hours. The crosses here have no lead and are far down on the wall side of the pillar. I found them by feeling around and using my little flashlight. Notice that there are bits of the dark shiny original surface left on the crosses as decoration, and that the two crosses are linked by a bit of it. Like two names. Are we looking at a Crusader Bromance here? Even a Romance is possible: ancient Romans had the canonized gay soldier couple Ss Sergius and Bacchus as patrons. Why not Crusaders?

We’ll never know.  All that is certain is that someone carved these, and took the time to do it neatly and carefully. Here’s a shot of the entire composition, which I didn’t notice until well into the drawing. There are four: our two linked ones at the bottom, a deeply incised stick cross in the middle, sort of pouring out of a very deep hole, and the top one which is forever just coming into being out of the marble. I find this one magical.

Hot Crosses Four ©2012 Trici Venola

“Politicians, ugly buildings and whores, all become respectable if they last long enough,” said John Huston’s raddled old crook in Chinatown, and so it is with graffiti.

Can worship create an energy? Hagia Sophia, St John’s, the Temple of Artemis, St Savior in Chora, Rumi’s Tomb in Konya, Baalbek in Lebanon– all are palpably holy places, whether ruins, museums or adaptations to another religion. The columns from Pagan temples still reverberate with worship to the ancient gods, although they’ve been holding up Ayasofya for 1500 years. Worship is a powerful force, and although the name of the Deity changes I believe the force remains, singing down through the pillars through the massed energy of millenniums of temples here on this rock sacred from the beginning of time. So what’s the story with Christian crosses carved as graffiti in a Christian church? Why do I think these are from the Fourth Crusade?

Gustave Dore’s engraving: The Crusaders Entering Constantinople

Hagia Sophia was consecrated in 537. Until the rape and sack by Crusaders in 1204, no hostile armies succeeded in getting into the city. It’s unlikely that anyone would have cut crosses during that time. In the late 8th century the Iconoclasts, starting with  Emperor Leo, destroyed much of the pictorial art: mosaics, bas-reliefs, everything. But crosses were allowed to remain. Graffiti ones, though? This one is right out in front of the altar!

Hot Cross Floor ©2012 Trici Venola

You can see in the photo below that another cross was started. Somebody swinging an axe, chopping away…

Carving with a knife into marble is not so easy. One must devise a chisel effect and bash at it with…what? A mallet, a mace? Lean into the edge with all your might, again and again. Noise, fuss, swearing, leaning there on your cutting device and scraping. Not a light undertaking, and nothing furtive about it. Here are three columns in a row, each with a cross in the same place.

From 1453 until 1931, Hagia Sophia was a mosque. Mehmet the Conqueror, in 1453, refused to burn it. Instead, his men built a minaret and amputated the arms of every cross they could find. A Western tourist visiting the Ottoman empire might have succeeded in furtively scratching one cross over in the shadows, but banging away, cutting deep into marble floors and pillars right out in the nave, making all these and more?

Hot Crosses Group Shot ©2012 Trici Venola

Cemented-Over Cross

Could the crosses, similar in size and shape, have been made after the Republic? Hagia Sophia has been a museum since Mustafa Kemal Ataturk declared it one in 1935. It was closed for four years prior to that. It’s barely possible that some Christian fanatic was working there alone at night…but I doubt it. It’s much more likely to have been then that some insect cemented over several crosses, at the front of the nave and on a few of the pillars. These boneheaded attempts have the look of some excised crosses upstairs, in which the axe cuts faithfully echo the cross shape. Someday a method may be found for dissolving cement without dissolving the stone underneath, but until then I can only long for a chisel.

Nope, not likely during the Ottomans, nor after the Republic. Had to be Fourth Crusaders. Here’s why.

THE FOURTH CRUSADE

 

There were two sides to the Christian church: the Catholics in a collection of city-states in Italy, and the Eastern Roman Christians– we call them Byzantines– an empire ruled from Constantinople. Venice, in Italy, looked longingly over at the glorious city of Constantinople, bastion of the Eastern Roman Church and very, very rich.  The two factions did not get along. Eastern Roman Christians favored trade over war, and they bathed, looking down their long narrow Byzantine noses at the unwashed, body-eschewing “Latins,” the Catholics who they considered filthy warmongers, observers of pagan Latin rites.

 

Mural, in Istanbul’s Archeological Museum, of Constantinople before the Fourth Crusade. Huge grey building is Hagia Sophia.

Pope Innocent III tried to muster up a Crusade against the Byzantines but only succeeded in drumming one up to take Egypt from the Muslims.  To get there, the Fourth Crusaders hired Venetians to build ships for them. They couldn’t pay for the ships. Enrico Dandolo, Doge of Venice, old and blind, suggested that they recapture Zara, in Hungary, for the Venetians, and then go sack Constantinople. So the Crusaders, mostly Italian and French out for treasure and glory, became mercenaries for Venice.

Do you know who painted this? Let me know so I can credit them!

Crusade videos abound on YouTube,  In one, the unctuous narrator actually says that the Crusaders didn’t mean to destroy the Christian city of Constantinople. He says they had no choice but to sack it to pay the Venetians. “Um…I maxed out my credit card, so I’m going to kill you and your family and take everything you own to pay it…”

Eugene Delacroix, The Entry of the Crusaders into Constantinople.

 

It’s true that the Crusaders scrupulously honored their debts to Venice. Picture a household gutted of its glory and beauty, the husband and wife disemboweled among the bodies of their raped children, screams from the convent nearby, flames belching out of church windows, coffers smashed open, blood and stench everywhere, sky black with oily smoke, silks and satins billowing through splintered shutters– and a bunch of bean counters making piles for the Venetians. “One for you, and one for me…”

This accounts for the glories of San Marco Square in Venice, plundered from Constantinople, among them the four bronze horses taken from the Constantinople Hippodrome.

 

Istanbul Through the Ages, the top floor exhibit of Istanbul’s Archeological Museum, houses broken marble from site after site destroyed by “the Latins,” punctuated by photographs of art treasures now in Venice.

Jacopo Tintoretto, The Second Conquest. A Venetian, the artist painted heroism.

Upstairs in Hagia Sophia, just behind the Deesus Mosaic, is a grave in the floor. It’s Dandolo’s. He died in 1205 and was buried by his request in Hagia Sophia. But he’s not there. 57 years later, when the Byzantine Christians of Constantinople succeeded in vomiting out the Catholics, they dug up Dandolo and threw him out the window.

Alexius Angelos

There were other factors in this mess. Alexius Angelos, deposed Byzantine Emperor, promised the moon to the Crusaders if they helped him get back his throne. He got it, and died soon after, proving a miserable ruler who bankrupted the Imperial treasury.

Pope Innocent III

 

During the convoluted and bloody track of this Crusade, Pope Innocent III, horrified at the mayhem, excommunicated all the Crusaders. After being presented with the spoils from Constantinople, he accepted them back into the Church.

The Imperial Tombs were all over at Holy Apostles, on the site of what is now Fatih Mosque. Everyone of consequence was entombed there, and there were celebrated relics of the saints. Over the protests of one Latin priest, the Crusaders ripped open the sarcophagi, took all the gold, and threw the bones to the dogs in the street. And that’s what happened to St Luke, to Constantine, St Helen, Justinian and Theodora, the relics of Ss Timothy, Andrew, John Chrysostom, Gregory the Theologian… What remains of their glittering reliquaries can now be seen in the Treasury of St Mark’s Basilica in Venice. If St Mark had been buried at Holy Apostles, he would have been chewed by the dogs as well.

Opened Sarcophagus in front of Hagia Sophia

 

There are many sources for all of his, but let’s hear a contemporary account:

How shall I begin to tell of the deeds wrought by these nefarious men! Alas, the images, which ought to have been adored, were trodden under foot! Alas, the relics of the holy martyrs were thrown into unclean places! Then was seen what one shudders to hear, namely, the divine body and blood of Christ was spilled upon the ground or thrown about.

Domenico Tintoretto, Conquest of Constantinople

They snatched the precious reliquaries, thrust into their bosoms the ornaments which these contained, and used the broken remnants for pans and drinking cups… just as… Christ was robbed and insulted and His garments… divided by lot; only one thing was lacking, that His side, pierced by a spear, should pour rivers of divine blood on the ground. Nor can the violation of the Great Church [Hagia Sophia] be listened to with equanimity. For the sacred altar, formed of all kinds of precious materials and admired by the whole world, was broken into bits and distributed among the soldiers, as was all the other sacred wealth of so great and infinite splendor.  —The Historian Nicetas Choniates, 1155-1215/16

 

There is no excuse for the Fourth Crusade, but there are these crosses.

Hole-In-One Cross ©2012 Trici Venola

 

After a couple of weeks hunting and drawing crosses, I can see these guys, these Crusaders. They’d been camped out in Venice, fighting and looting Zara in Hungary, excommunicated, nothing more to lose.

 

Then to  Constantinople, telling each other it was meet and just to behave like beasts in the fabled streets. Now in the dusky church the massive  pillars rising up into glory, mayhem below, fires here and there reflected on the marble floor, glittering off the gold ceiling mosaics high above. Whores singing, one lolling in the Patriarch’s Seat, drunken carousing, the altar hacked to pieces, puddles of sacrificial wine. Bedding and loot spilling out of sacks, chainmail in stinking heaps, exhaustion, hilarity. Illiterate treasure-hunters, murderers and thieves by our standards, but with the same desire to make a mark that Justinian had, and only a knife, an axe, a sword to make it with. All of them played by Ray Stevenson of Rome. Hack, crunch. “You call that a cross? Hang on, let me at it.” They might wrench away every gold crucifix, but still carve one as well. “I was here,” it says, “I lived.”  Just guys. We can almost forgive them for St Luke.

———

All drawings Plein Air, done with drafting pens on rag sketchbook paper 18X52cm / 7X20 “. All drawings and most photos ©2012 by Trici Venola. All drawings from the series Drawing On Istanbul by Trici Venola. I know you’re out there, so feel free to comment. We love comments, and Followers get a special place in Art Heaven.

SUNKEN PALACE: Drawing in the Basilica Cistern

Sideways Medusa ©2012 Trici Venola.

Far below Yerebatan Street, down in the Cistern, hundreds of marble columns march off in the vaulted dimness, each one holding up its bricked arch and, above it, the pavement. They’ve been holding up the street and everything on it for 1500 years. At the base of one column is a massive upside-down marble face, a head of Medusa, sunken on her stone snakes in the coin-strewn shallow water. Moss greens her face like uplighting. Why is she here, and why is she upside down? It’s another Byzantine mystery.

THE WELL OF THE CISTERN

Ben Wachs & the Well of the Cistern ©1999 Trici Venola.

Huge, humped, immutable, Hagia Sophia has been there for fifteen centuries, anchoring the neighborhood which has settled haphazardly around it on this side of the hill where the Straits of the Bosphorus run into the Marmara Sea. Across from Hagia Sophia, on the corner of Yerebatan Street and the tramline,  is a tall pitted rock thing that looks like a giant barbecue chimney. It’s a well going down to the Basilica Cistern, a sixth-century underground reservoir built in 532 by Emperor Justinian.

Basilica Cistern

There are many cisterns in Istanbul but this is the biggest ever found.  Yerebatan Sarayi, or Sunken Palace, the cathedral-sized Cistern runs beneath the entire street and all the buildings, clear to the great dome of Hagia Sophia looming above the trees and tram lines like the top of a glacier.

Hagia Sophia and Neighborhood c 1909

Across the street from the Well is a tall Victorian building, listing like a determined drunk, painted egg-yolk yellow. This is the office of the Tourist Police. Some of them patrol outside under the peeling yellow gingerbread, holding machine guns.

Yerebatan Street is covered with buildings. All of it–hotels, restaurants, shops, machine-gun toting police, mosque, carpet salesmen, shills, postcard sellers, trolling taxis– is held up by the magnificently engineered masonry down in the dim green Cistern: 336 columns marching in perfect order off into the shadows, bloated carp gliding into the watery shadows, expanding rings from the continual dripping of water from the vaulted brickwork above. There is some evidence that the Cistern originated under Constantine and was expanded under Justinian, but it is Justinian rules down here; the scale, grandeur and endurance all testify to that.

Cistern 1 ©2012 Trici Venola.

The water originally fed from the Belgrade Forest via the 4th century Valens Aqueduct, up to 100,000 gallons. Over the centuries various Sultans have repaired it, but then it was lost under the coagulating Ottoman city. The Cistern was re-discovered in 1968 and restored to its present condition in 1985. The government dug out 50,000 tons of mud, put in some reinforcing concrete piers and built walkways and stairs and a ticket office. Before then, the area was covered with wooden houses. People used to send Grandpa down to the basement to catch fish for dinner. They took this for granted. Doesn’t everyone fish in their basement?

Basilica Cistern 99 ©1999 Trici Venola.

There’s an angry account from a Western visitor whose host took him down by boat in the latter 1800s. “He doesn’t even know what he has,” he fumed. But all I can think is how lucky he was to see it by boat and torchlight.

“So I’m sitting down there drawing the Medusa,” I told my friend Mike, back on that first visit back in ’99, “and every tour guide is saying that she’s upside down so–”

“So she won’t turn you to stone?”  he said. Mike’s from the neighborhood.

“Yes!  And there’s another Medusa below the column next to her and it’s sideways— is that why?”

“No!  They just needed a piece that big.  Those Byzantines, they used everything the Romans left lying around.”

COLUMN OF TEARS

Column of Tears ©1999 Trici Venola.

At the top of the column you can see where a section has split off.   There’s another column just like this, lying in chunks up at the Forum of Constantine, now up the hill next to the tramline in Laleli, discounting a fatuous theory that the “tears” represent the 7000 suffering slaves who built the Cistern. This column was probably used because it was damaged. The entire Cistern was built of material scavenged from pagan temples. None of it was meant to be seen. Many columns are pieced together, and none of them match. Capitals are Corinthian or Ionic or plain Doric;  there’s one column carved with flowers. The granite columns are smooth, but the softer marble ones are bubbled like liquid: in 1500 years they’ve taken on the look of the water around them. The Cistern was not built for beauty, but the Byzantines can’t have been insensitive to how beautiful it is.

Site of Pillars in the Cistern ©2012 Trici Venola.

In museums all over Turkey are fabulous carved pediments from the tops of ancient temples. But no columns. All over Istanbul are cisterns built by the Byzantines to provide water to a thirsty or besieged populace. It’s easy to match the pediments with the columns. Other columns were sliced up by the Sultans, like carrots for a casserole, and used to pave bakeshops and mosques.

Beginning Pillars in the Cistern ©2012 Trici Venola.

So last week Security stopped me with my little stool en route to draw the Sideways Medusa and said in Turkish, Are you nuts? Two cruise ships in town, and the Medusa was jammed. So I drew this less popular view across the tops of some arches, a nice warm-up view. Still didn’t catch the water, but I may drop in a huge carp anyway. Five hours here.

Pillars in the Cistern WIP ©2012 Trici Venola.

This drawing works a lot better with the darkened pillar in the middle. Plein Air drawing means drawing from life, drawing the light. The Cistern is wonderful to draw because the light never changes. But there isn’t anything to sit on. The drawings back in 1999 were done sitting on the clammy cement walkway. Now, after thirteen years drawing in the neighborhood, I got permission from Security, and something to sit on. Nice guys!

Pilars in the Cistern ©2012 Trici Venola.

Here’s a second take on the Medusa, back in 1999. My first take is…well, I’m saving it for later. I’m mortified to notice that in these early takes, for some reason I drew nostrils and pupils in the eyes, although she doesn’t have any. This sloppy documentation is annoying, but all I can say is that I don’t do it anymore, which is probably why the drawings take about five times longer.

Alpaslan On the Medusa ©1999 Trici Venola.

Friends of Kybele Hotel will recognize a younger Alpaslan Akbayrak. I’ve always found him fun to draw, but have no idea why I put him on the top of the Medusa. Since Alp is right side up, know that he won’t turn you to stone.

PERSEUS AND MEDUSA

Perseus by Benvenuto Cellini, Florence, Italy.

Now about that stone-turning:

In the original ancient Greek mythology, The Gorgons were three daughters of ancient sea monsters. Winged, with snakes for hair, they hated men. One was mortal: Medusa, a beautiful priestess in Athena’s temple. Athena caught her lover Poseidon, the God of the Sea, ravishing Medusa. She cursed the girl, giving her hair of snakes and a face that would turn anyone to stone, including Perseus, the hero she loved. The love was not returned. Perseus, darling of Athena, was sent to kill Medusa. Like modern hunters he had huge advantages: he was granted invisibility, winged sandals, a good sword and, from Athena, a mirrored shield. By looking into it he sidestepped the stone curse and beheaded Medusa. She was pregnant by Poseidon, and as her head was severed, two magical beings sprang from her body. One was Chrysaor, a golden giant with a sword, and one was the winged horse Pegasus. After that, Perseus got to ride Pegasus, but doomed dead Medusa did achieve mortality: she decorated shields for thousands of years.

Medusa by Michelangelo Caravaggio, 1597

As to why she’s upside down and sideways: It may be possible that the Christian builders wanted to demystify or desanctify the pagan idols. I noticed that someone took the trouble to excise whatever was written on the scrolls of the square sections of these pillars. Then again, it might be that they were simply never finished.

The Medusas are all the way at the end of the Cistern and would always have been below the waterline. The sideways one may be resting on a split-off or damaged section, while the famous upside-down one has no pupils or nostrils; was she unfinished? There’s another one just like them in the sculpture garden at the Archeological Museum nearby. All three Istanbul Medusas look very much like the ones at Aphrodisias, an ancient Roman resort about three hours east of Ephesus. Scholars believe they were created by the same artists. It’s easy to imagine the unfinished blocks with Medusa faces on one side simply included with a shipment of scavenged columns for the Emperor’s new project.

MEDUSA 99

First Take Medusa ©1999 Trici Venola

Here’s my first-ever drawing of the Medusas.  I  must have noticed that Upside-Down Medusa really doesn’t have pupils in her eyes. I’m always saying Draw what you see, not what you think you see– perhaps I didn’t understand it, so it just “wasn’t there.”

Oh, those early drawings!  I remember the amazement and longing to share it all with back home. So beyond my skills. Pulling art for this post, I went into that first book from 13 years ago and thought, damn, I must have had either overwhelming arrogance or overwhelming faith to base an entire life on what was in there. I’ve been drawing all my life, but in 1999, 15 years working digitally had atrophied my analog drawing skills, not to mention I’d been drawing mostly out of my head. But I’ve always drawn from life whenever possible, always been seduced away from abstraction by the sheer glory of the way things look really, when you really look.

Medusa One ©2012 Trici Venola.

Looked up from the book and here I am in Istanbul with twelve years of framed art on the walls, a row of sketchbooks four feet wide full of art that has made friends all over the world. I traded a whole life to be able to draw better, and I can. Found myself cackling wildly. You can get very, very good at something if you do it all the time.

Two Carp ©2012 Trici Venola

All drawings Plein Air; drafting pens on rag sketchbook paper 52 X 18 cm / 7 X 20 ” All art ©2012 by Trici Venola for The Drawing On Istanbul Project.

LYCIAN TOMBS and BURNING CITIES: Kas 2000

LYCIAN TOMBS & BURNING CITIES

A Slant on Perge ©2000 Trici Venola.

Have you ever seen Perge?  A plain, under an endless sky, littered with the broken remnants of a city old when Alexander came.  There’s a big square stone gate, and through it the remains of a huge fountain: chunks of carved stone balanced on either side; and beyond that an expanse of broken columns, some fallen, some standing, marching off in a colonnade into an infinity of arches and turrets and giant stones lying on the cracked streets polished with centuries of feet. In the center two fragmented towers go up into the sky. Oh, yes, a Roman amphitheater too.  This one is all busted up and weedy, next to a stadium with an oval chariot track.

Perge Longshot ©2000 Trici Venola

I saw it with Pierre, a French chef turned wandering watercolorist. “They told me of you,” he introduced himself in the Kas square one morning over breakfast. We’d been drawing together ever since. Most of these drawings are from that summer, exactly 12 years ago, when I made so many of the decisions I live with today. They were done on the run, so to speak, and worked on later during a convalescence from an illness. I love them.

Night Bus ©2000 Trici Venola.

In 2000, I ripped up my marriage and my comfortable life in Los Angeles and moved to Turkey. Numb with the pain of divorce and the loss of much of my family, I was also in a tortuous affair with a Kurdish man. There was a deal of passion, but we could not be easy together. We fought in Side, we fought in Istanbul. During a truce we took a night bus to Kas, (in English Kosh), a little town on the southernmost tip of Turkey. We fought again and he left for Side. Exhausted, I stayed in Kas, where my friend Rayan was managing a hotel.

Tiny Rayan ©2000 Trici Venola.

I rented rooms in an old Turkish stone house covered with Bougainvillea.  My place had a big balcony with  a view of the little boats in the harbor and beyond them the sea. This was Kas before they built the present huge marina.

Kas from Afar ©2000 Trici Venola.

Kas is in the ancient kingdom of Lycia. Here and there in the sunstruck green and gold of the hillsides are the square carved faces of plundered Lycian tombs.  The land has the most amazing color: peach-colored, salmon, saffron, shading down into rose and maroon; the dirt is the color of dried blood.  In places where a landslide  has broken open a hill, the bright rock contrasts with the grayed stone and growth on the surface  like a geode.  Pine and cypress trees march along ridges and cluster in gulleys, and olive trees are everywhere. Below the rocks the sea is sapphire-black, turquoise, jade.  There are black goats and red rock houses and boats and friends.

Olive Tree ©2000 Trici Venola.

I needed all of it.  I had realized I couldn’t have Kazim. I craved that crazy love, you know, that wild nutso glorious reckless stuff, and he’d gotten too dark. Still I burned, and the beauty of the land was painful. I drew incessantly.

Married for Life ©2000 Trici Venola.

Hanife & Her Son ©2000 Trici Venola.

  At sunset these days the people of Kas are waiting to break their Ramazan fast, but back in 2000 they would gather at the ruined Roman amphitheater on the edge of town.

Sisters in the Ruins ©2000 Trici Venola.

In the middle of Kas is a big tomb that has never been moved since it was placed there 2500 years ago. It looked easy to draw, but when I started it took five hours.  At the time it was the longest I’d ever spent on one drawing, and in one sitting, too. The guys in the street brought me sandwiches.

Big Tomb in Kas ©2000 Trici Venola.

I spent a couple hours the next day drawing down the hill in the other direction. The view is still pretty much the same.

View from the Tomb ©2000 Trici Venola.

My drawing buddy Pierre and I rode all over Lycia with a cabdriver with an immaculate taxi, stone face and no English, actually named Ali Baba.  He’d driven me on a sortie to Side when I’d gone to see Kazim. It was a four-hour drive, and for the last two I sang. Ali Baba kept exclaiming, “No Turkish  music!  Chok guzel!”–which means Very Good or Fat City or You’re Pretty—  Anyway he liked my singing.  Since he didn’t speak English I just sang anything regardless of how appropriate it was, from Big Mama Thornton to Rogers and Hart.  What really got Ali Baba off was Gilbert & Sullivan.  So I wailed away on Pirates of Penzance and The Sorcerer, and we went to Phaselis, where Alexander the Great once wintered:

Busted Old Arch in Phaselis ©2000 Trici Venola.

a high pine forest with stone ruins in the pine needles between two sweet shady beaches, and on to Aspandos, where the theater is as big as the ruined one in Side and completely intact; it still has its looming square proscenium wall, startling after so many open theater craters.

Simena ©2007 Trici Venola.

All this history is strung like a pearl necklace along the spectacular Mediterranean coast of Southern Turkey, between Bodrum to the west and Side to the east. We had already been to Myra, where the square-cut Lycian tombs, carved in golden rock, ornament the hill over the ruined Roman arches of the theater built centuries later. The basic drawing below was done in 45 minutes standing bolt-upright in the singing heat, and darkened later.

Roman Stone Mask & Gargoyle ©2000 Trici Venola.

In Myra a chalky Byzantine church rises out of the sunken ground in perpetual restoration, a church built in honor of and once housing the bones of… Santa Claus. There’s a bashed-in stone sarcophagus, vaguely sleigh-shaped, but alas, no reindeer, only a brass plate saying in several languages: Here lay the remains of St. Nicholas. Italians stole his body in AD1007.

Noel Baba One ©2000 Trici Venola.

The Church of St. Nicholas is powdery pale with mosaics in the floor, treble arched windows and very old brickwork like embroidery among the ancient stones.  It was built by Justinian and Theodora in the 6th Century to honor St Nicholas, Bishop of Myra two centuries earlier. A wealthy man who gave all his money to the poor, his original gifts were dowries for two destitute sisters, dropped down the chimney to save their pride —or, on a hot night, put in the open window in their shoes, depending on which story you read. That’s supposed to be what started the tradition of Christmas stockings.

Cliffs at Big Pebble Beach ©2006 Trici Venola.

Ali Baba took me out to the beach the next day and made a serious pass, but he backed right off and I just went on singing at the top of my lungs.  And him a family man. He took me to Letoon, where Leto, one of Zeus’ many conquests, took her infants Artemis and Apollo to bathe in the river. The townspeople threw stones at her, so she turned them into frogs.  Nevertheless they built her a temple. There’s this one to Leto, one to Apollo and one to Artemis, all Hellenic. The Letoon temple, being built by frogs, regularly floods. It looks beautiful in the guidebook but in the dog days of August, when I was drawing it with sweat stinging my eyes, it was sun-baked, crusted mud. My self-appointed guide Mehmet, a lithe 12-year-old, scampered nimbly across the old scored stones, while I stepped carefully between the clumps of brittle dead reeds and broke through right down into sucking sticky swamp. My foot felt like it was being digested. I pulled up hard, swearing at Mehmet, and nothing happened for the longest time.  I was wearing a pair of flip-flop platform sandals from LA.  I was fond of them; I would not let my foot slip out, and finally with a great sucking sound the sandal came free loaded with about five pounds of mud. I limped out of the temple swamp and it took a helpful attendant with a hose and a brush ten minutes to get the mud off, but I got a hell of a drawing.

Letoon ©2000 Trici Venola.

Then Ali Baba took me to Xanthos.  The cab turned down a hill and I saw the toothed ridge of old wall.  We came around a bend and there was the ridged theater crater and some high capstone sarcophagi; then we came all the way around and I saw it, a city entire all ruined on the hill, excavations for fifty years, ringed with walls in disrepair, chunked rock and old rooms and carvings and columns overgrown with bushes and trees.  Much of Xanthos has been spirited away to various museums worldwide but there is plenty of fabulous pitted glory left there in situ: Lycian and Roman with Byzantine overtones.  It was so hot in all the ruins that I’d taken to putting my whole head under the restroom tap just before we left each one.  It was always sweaty-dried by the next stop.

A Lion from Xanthos, British Museum, ©2006 Trici Venola.

Xanthos was a glaring furnace with no scrap of shade.  I wandered around the sandy mosaics pouring sweat and wondering how on earth I could stand still to draw them.  I was too black to burn by then but the sun on my arms and legs was painful.  There was a gang of workmen, nice guys I could ask for a chair and some kind of rigged shelter but they were away across the mountain. Before they left, I did some sketches and took a photo. Later I did a drawing from it–my personal favorite from this era– and digitally incorporated it with some Plein Air bits.

Working Stiffs In Situ ©2000 Trici Venola.

That day in Xanthos I had a sarong and a big hat, so I broke off some dead reeds and jammed them into the steps going down to ancient baths overlooking the olive groves and the power lines in the distance.  There were cicadas buzzing in a gasping chorus in the heat.  I draped the sarong over my hat and the sticks and thought of Lawrence of Arabia. It gave just enough shade to endure drawing for about twenty minutes.  Sweat ran down my face and dripped on the page.  I  looked at the drawing.  It was enough to go on.

Xanthos ©2000 Trici Venola.

This is the fabled city where the Xanthians, finding themselves c540 BCE overwhelmed by Persian hordes, slaughtered all their loved ones: wives and concubines, parents, children and slaves– by ringing the walled city with fire and burning everyone alive.  Then the warriors put on their armor, charged fighting into the Persian waves and were killed to the last man.  Yet the city rose again, and again was besieged, this time in 42 BCE by Brutus, as in Et tu Brute.  The Romans would not go away and the Xanthians would not give up and finally the horrified Romans saw a woman with her dead baby slung around her neck torching her roof as she hanged herself.  “Enough!” called Brutus and offered a substantial reward for any Roman to save a live Lycian.

Rock Tombs in Myra ©2000 Trici Venola.

Nevertheless they are all gone now.  Only the cities and tombs remain, square rock faces shining gold and bronze and red in the gray sides of mountains, all tumbled with emerald and jade bushes.  Gray-green leaves mist around the black sticks of olive trees parading down the bright meadows, gold in the afternoon sun.  Gothic-arch-topped barrels of sarcophagi rise up like great stone mushrooms in forests, on mountaintops, on the edges of towns and amphitheaters and in that main street of Kas, each with its looted black hole.  If I were a Lycian I would never ever want to leave, either.  I would tell them to put me on the hill over the sea, and I would arrange an earthquake to hide my tomb to keep them from coming later and stealing my skull and my jewelry.  Squint at any hill here and there’s a tomb.  Surely some must be hidden, and the Lycians sleeping inside, undisturbed bones clothed in the splendor they deserve for keeping this kingdom so long and so well.

A Tomb With A View ©2007 Trici Venola.

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A Slant on Perge, Perge Longshot, and Working Stiffs In Situ were partially drawn from  the author’s photographs. All other drawings Plein Air. All drawings done with drafting pens on rag paper in sketchbooks. All save Tiny Rayan measure 18 cm X 26 cm / 7″ X 20.”

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Kucuk Ayasofya: Drawing With the Masters

KADIRGA AND KUCUK AYASOFYA

Spot KucukAyasofya ©2012 Trici Venola

In its Ottoman incarnation, our Byzantine basilica of Saints Sergius and Bacchus became Kucuk Ayasofya Camii, which means Small Hagia Sophia Mosque. Built in 527 and converted to a mosque in 1509, it remains a beloved local landmark. Renovation has rendered it all shipshape, but the charm of its Medrese is unchanged: a grassy garden studded with broken antique marble enclosed on three sides by stone workshops topped by leaded domes. Originally a religious school, its actual name is Huseyin Aga Medrese, after its builder, Chief Black Eunuch of Sultan Beyazit II, who also built the portico in front and converted the basilica to a mosque in 1503.

The original old medrese masters wore turbans and cited the Koran. Now they are master artisans registered with the Turkish government. Huseyin Aga Medrese is a center for Turkish Master Craftsmen.

In My Name Is Red, novelist Orhan Pamuk describes Ottoman painters of miniatures running the artworks from workshop to workshop, where one artist would paint the woman, another the horse, another the trees. Each had attained such mastery that they could paint in the dark, and the reward for a lifetime of hard work was going blind. As can happen, exquisite results can come from ghastly suffering. Pamuk tells a story of a Sultan who commanded a great master to paint his cumulative work and then had him blinded, so he could never surpass it. The master then had his revenge. Sightless and sick of living, he created the greatest work of the age from memory for someone else, and then killed himself. Pamuk was likely writing in part about this actual location.

In happier echoes of the horrors of yore, these beautifully-rendered copies of antique miniatures are often painted on the backs of hand-lettered book pages. Here’s a Noah’s Ark, often seen, for after the Flood, it’s supposed to have fetched up on Mt. Ararat, in Eastern Turkey. Two painters occupy adjacent workshops in one corner of the Medrese. Under the leaded domes, masters of calligraphy, ebru (marbelized paper), block print, and shell inlay all occupy the small stone chambers with those low-slung doorways, which come to my forehead.  I can’t count the times I’ve whacked into a lintel in this garden. Is it because people used to be smaller? Nope, those old religious leaders built to encourage humility. If you didn’t bow to the Master when you came in the door, you were bashed in the head. And now, at least at Huseyin Aga Medrese, artists are getting their due respect.

SLY CATS AND SHELL INLAY

Ahmet Sezen and his wife Ebru were just kids back in 2004, newly engaged, with a jewelry workshop in the last building next to the mosque. Ahmet was already rising fast in the world as a master of shell and silver inlay. Later they moved into my building. We were bonded by our mutual love of cats. I used to feed ’em up on my roof. It started with a pair I called Peachy and Danny, after those rogues in The Man Who Would Be King. Then Peachy turned up pregnant, and soon I was feeding thirty cats, up on the corrugated plastic roof of the balcony. Here’s one dimly seen above the view of the snow and the scaffolding around the mosque.

Cat on Roof ©2005 Trici Venola

In 2006 friends found a two-day-old kitten. Its tail was half as long as my little finger. Its paws were little rat claws, eyes squeezed shut over a flat little snout. I named it Pete and kept it alive all night, and in the morning took the little starving thing downstairs to Ahmet and Ebru’s, where their cat Arife had some kittens. And when she accepted the frantic newcomer, we could hear those ferocious feeding sounds clear out on the street.

Just Married! ©2007 Trici Venola

Years passed. Pete grew up and had to be re-named Esmeralda, and boy, is she fat and cranky now. Ahmet and Ebru got married and had a son. And Ahmet became a recognized, registered Turkish Master of shell inlay, and was able to move into the beautiful and prestigious Huseyin Aga Medrese. A few years back, he was exhibiting at a festival in Taksim Square when someone from the Greek Orthodox Church found him, and now he is building reliquaries for saints as well as jewelry, furniture and keepsakes.

You can visit Ahmet <www.sedefkar.com> in the Medrese and find all sorts of goodies, prices  basement to spire, depending on scarcity of material, amount of labor, and size of project. Here he is at work. It’s very cold now, and Arife will stealthily steal onto your lap and settle in, purring. If you look carefully, you can see that she has sneaked into this drawing.

Ahmet & Arife At Work 72 ©2012 Trici Venola

DUCKS YAS YAS

Down in the corner of the garden where the ducks hang out, next door to Ahmet, is Block Print Master Tahsin Istengel <.tahsinmeister@yahoo.com>

Most of his prints are from his own drawings, but here he is with a block cut from one by our Gabrielle just before she left. All day long he wields blocks of wood or styrofoam or rubber, armed with an exacto knife. Tahsin makes the most amazing patterns, singly or in combinations on bolts of cloth. In drawing him, trying to combine master, method and results, I found myself drawing the print. The temptation was too much, and I stamped with the actual block, inked in red:

I noticed that his prints incorporate shapes from the environment. The drawing’s nice, but I had to go and render it. Which is better? Ask the ducks!

Block Print King ©2012 Trici Venola

I haven’t yet drawn anything for Tahsin,  but I guarantee it will involve a duck. Here’s a grand slam display: a photo of one of Ahmet’s reliquaries and bolts of Tahsin’s hand-stamped cloth.

KADIRGA

In Byzantine times, there was a street leading from the Great Palace down to the Church of Sergio & Bacchus. In Ottoman times the street ran from Sultanahmet Mosque down to Kucuk Ayasofya. Here’s a drawing of it from 1850. See the street?

Today Kucuk Ayasofya Caddesi runs from the Marmara side of the Arasta Bazaar, behind the Blue Mosque, down to Kucuk Ayasofya. I started this drawing up at the top of the street in 2004. You can see the fabulous old mosque down at the bottom, against the silver sea.

Kucuk Ayasofya 2004 ©2004 Trici Venola

GUYS IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

Guys in the Neighborhood ©2008 Trici Venola

With renovation came a swell park where once there was a row of factory buildings. The neighborhood artisans got a big shot in the arm, a shot called Tourism. Textile repair shops became cafes, my house became a hotel. I moved down the street, and now relentless hotelization has moved me across the Golden Horn.  But I still feel that Kucuk Ayasofya’s my ‘hood. I go there all the time. I love it.

Sultanahmet West.Corner ©2008 Trici Venola

One of the girls next door told me that Kadirga, the name of this neighborhood, means a man swaggering along with big dignitas. She told me this as a bunch of big-bellied bureaucrats were parading toward Kucuk Ayasofya. The tot above, lugging the big water bottle, is a happier version of this. I called him Little Big Man, and he is indeed growing big and strong. The huge old ruined hamam below is near the entrance to the mosque. Early on, too poor to eat out, I sat in a doorway and drew this scene as though I had my face pressed to the window of Turkey.

Chesme at Night ©2004 Trici Venola

A short time later I did the drawing below from the same spot, and by then we were friends.

All Down the Day at Chesme ©2004 Trici Venola

I started this drawing in September 2004, in bright noon, left it, and didn’t finish it until the dark of a day in November, so the light and season changes as you move down the page, hence the title: All Down the Day At Chesme. Things like these keep me working Plein Air. Chesme means Fountain, and there’s a fountain put up by a sultan who wanted everyone to have fresh water. It still works.

Ali's Fruit Stand ©2008 Trici Venola

Ali was the greengrocer next to Chesme Restaurant at the Fountain. He was a landmark. I lived on soups made from Ali’s produce, which was, like all Turkish food back then, totally organic and very cheap. Ali’s retired now, but Chesme restaurant remains the best value in the neighborhood. Oh the happy times there.

Lovely Little Girls ©2008 Trici Venola

These little girls are growing up now, but on Saturdays they used to come to play at my house, where I would tie many ribbons in their hair. My framer, Baki, is around the corner, in a cavernous building between a teahouse and a calligrapher. Five personable brothers still run Pekar Market, open early until late. And across the street is Ayhan Kesap Butcher Shop, with Ayhan, the most cheerful butcher in the world, and his equally cheerful wife Ayla.

The Butcher and His Wife ©2011 Trici Venola

The cats still congregate at his kindly front door. Ayhan inspired this sticker. I’m putting it out at 300 DPI. Feel free to print your own!

My life in Kadirga, in those early days of little money and no language, was fraught with inconvenience bordering on catastrophe. But I was doing the right thing and I knew it. This from a letter in spring of 2005: There’s a blood moon tonight, red as a tomato. Saw the beginning, shrouded in thick cobweb cloud, and the end. Saw one in Spain, from a train crossing the plain (I am not kidding) and one in from a hospital window in Southern Turkey. Both times were also during excruciating changes in my life. The blood moon: mystic, impossible, inarguable, reminding me that the world is rolling on in its mysteries despite my little human calamities; remote, alien and comforting.

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All drawings Plein Air. All art ©2012 Trici Venola.


BIG MOTHER HAN 3: Drawing in Buyuk Valide Han

Well, she’s gone. My drawing partner from the past six months, Gabrielle who got me up on this blog, is now drawing her tucchas off in Rome.  I’ve never had a drawing partner, and my we had fun, both drawing and hanging out. We’re about the same height and coloring, and she’s half my age. Everyone thought she was my daughter.

Gaby & Me ©2012 Trici Venola

UP ON THE ROOF

Our last drawing session was up on the roof at Buyuk Valide Han. We meandered up there about a month ago the first time, on a miserably cold dark day, and held out for about two hours. We knew she was leaving, and wanted to make the most of any dry weather. Here’s what I got: not much:

Up On the Roof WIP 1 ©2012 Trici Venola

And we had a swell pizza. This beloved place is just out the back door of the Han complex. If there’s a better in the Old City I don’t know where.

That Great Pizza Place ©2012 Trici Venola

After that day the snow set in and drawing outside was impossible. About ten days ago, we staggered up there anyway to finish the drawings. Plein Air, brrrrr.

Suleymaniye Vista ©2012 Trici Venola

But here’s the view, isn’t it wonderful? That’s Suleymaniye Mosque on the hill up there. It was built by the great master architect Mimar Sinan, still studied all over the world, back in the mid-16th century for Suleyman the Magnificent. It’s been in renovation for the past five years. It used to look like God had been living in it for half a millennium, and now it looks like a movie set. It actually is a movie set; they shot part of the new Bond movie up there last fall.

Bosporus Vista ©2012 Trici Venola

And there’s the Yeni Mosque in front of the Galata Bridge in Eminonu, and beyond it the Ataturk Bridge across the Bosphorus. We’re looking up toward the Black Sea.

The Guys in the First Courtyard ©2012 Trici Venola

Where are we? You go all the way through Buyuk Valide Han: up the steep driveway and through the first little courtyard, through the Big Han parking lot with the Shiite mosque in it, clear to the back. If you’re lucky, you’ll meet one of the all-time great faces: Cemel.

The Best Face in the Han ©2009 Trici Venola

I’ve never encountered a face like this. Cemel tells me he’s got several brothers look just like him, but this is a two-shot of his face alone. You’d do a lot worse than to get a shoeshine from him, too.

Cemel at Work ©2012 Trici Venola

Through the arched Byzantine passage, past the sunken courtyard, and out the back door of what I call the Church Han. Back in 2009 there was this kid, Firat. He hung around for hours when I drew the Han, and since he did not demand it I drew him. He was so excited. Firat’s probably in the Army now, but here he is with his first mustache.

Firat Holding Still ©2009 Trici Venola

Like all portraits, I did this in about ten minutes and rendered it later, along with the background. Notice the pen strokes, how they can really strengthen the illusion of depth. Here’s a photo of the Church Han courtyard:

The Church Han Courtyard ©2012 Trici Venola

As you may remember from older posts, the roof, a barrel-vault arching across from side to side, came to just above the tops of the arches. The altar area is straight ahead. Just at the exit, there’s an astonishing work of art on the stone wall: the electrical panel for the Church Han. Lost in admiration at the sheer audacity of this job, I once started to draw this but got lost in the wiring. See?

Wired: Big Mother Han ©2007 Trici Venola

Then a hard right and a climb up a flight of tilted cement steps stuck precariously onto the side of the centuries-old wall. It’s stone and brick, with horizontal wood spacers in places. A mason friend told me that these take stress and keep the wall from collapsing. The wood is hard to recognize but wood it is. Here’s what the place looked like in fall 2004.

BVH Back Porch ©2004 by Trici Venola

I found this unfinished take with a note: Too damn cold. Later. This is common when one does not have a drawing partner. It was far colder when Gabrielle and I were up on the roof finishing those bloody drawings. This roof, like the much larger one of Buyuk Valide Han’s biggest structure, is covered with small domes, each topping a workshop. This smaller han’s domes used to cover the church, and possibly a monastery or convent.

Rooftop Domes ©2012 Trici Venola

Up here on top, the domes are weedy in places, holey in others. See them sticking up above this doorway?

There are several workshops up here, built onto the roof. Right at the top of the stairs is an earsplitting din. Glance in and see hundreds of spools furiously spinning, winding brass wire. The smiling proprietor is partially deaf, as was his father before him, but still employed.

Roof Shop Spools ©2012 Trici Venola

There used to be a cypress tree growing up here, and a rusty old weaving machine and a tribe of bronze tabby cats. And down at the end a shanty with a million-dollar view, in which dwelt a happy bearded man and a lot of barking dogs. There were more chimneys, too. One day in 2007 I was told in the Han that weaving machines had been banned. I came up and found a pile of rubble, a tree stump, and one lonely chimney. The Forces That Be had swept it all away. No one knows why.

That last morning, I got to the roof about fifteen minutes before Gaby. I’d just set up when I noticed the air turning thick. This jocular group was cleaning stove parts. In no time it looked like Armageddon.

Rooftop Smoke ©2012 Trici Venola

I leaped up and away, and fifteen minutes later there wasn’t a trace of smoke. Thanks to its location, a natural castle moated by seas, Istanbul has remarkable powers of recovery. Here’s my final drawing. Suleymaniye is undoubtedly the most magnificent mosque in Turkey. Its proportions are perfect. The four minarets (one is hidden by the dome) are of graduated size, and give a different aspect from every angle.

Up On the Roof ©2012 Trici Venola

As you can see from the rough at the beginning of this post, I tried to draw the top of this historic Ottoman chimney, but my own proportions got away from me. To my chagrin the top didn’t fit on the paper, and I’d already invested a few bone-shattering cold hours. So after I finished the drawing, I drew the chimney-top, and Photoshopped the two together.

Up On the Roof Composite ©2012 Trici Venola

Gaby with Chimney ©2012 Trici Venola

You know what? I like the first one best. The complete chimney throws off the balance and pushes the whole composition too far down. But we should pay attention to this fine old Ottoman chimney, because it is the very last. The much bigger roof of the main part of Buyuk Valide Han was covered with them, but now there are no more anywhere. Or so I am told by architect friends.

Tower of Eirene.detail 1 ©2012 Trici Venola

At the end of the roof is the Tower. This is the one I mentioned in Big Mother Han 2, the tower the guidebooks peg at 11th century but the guys in the Han call 6th. It lost its top in an earthquake in 1926 but is still impressive. A young woman was taking photographs of it, with a ruler for scale. We asked her, in a polite way, what she was doing. Her doctoral thesis, no less. At last, an expert. “What is the name of the church?”  Unknown, and this from a Turkish graduate student. She commiserated on the complete lack of information. She’s looking to find out, and I’m rooting for her. One tiny puzzle piece: an 18th-century writer referred to this tower as the Tower of Eirene. A churchly friend thinks it was a bell tower. And there it must rest.

Gaby Smoking Nargile ©2012 Trici Venola

As did we. We packed up and wrapped up, and my drawing fell facedown on the roof, which accounts for its murky wash shading in places. We clambered down the steep steps, me clutching the handrail, and out the Han, charged up the icy street and flung ourselves gasping into the clamorous color and warmth of the Grand Bazaar. Straight through, out the top and over the cobbles to the nargile cafe at Corlulu Ali Medrese. This haven deserves its own post, so I will leave you with this picture of Gabrielle smoking a snowy farewell nargile. In Rome, in Paris, in Laramie, Wyoming, draw on, girl, draw on.

All drawings Plein Air.