Turkish summer art lessons bring bliss
Güncelleme Tarihi:
by Damaris Kremida
Oluşturulma Tarihi: Mayıs 23, 2009 00:00
The sun is out, the weather has made up its mind to stay warm and Moda is swarming with visitors and locals alike sunning themselves along the coast and filling themselves with bottomless cups of tea. It is summer and soon the city’s arts will move outdoors or remain a distant reminder of how we fill up the winter months.
The cinemas are competing with the weather for viewers and at the Surreya Opera on Kadiköy’s Bahariye Street the season is coming to an end this month offering a last chance to those who want to catch a show before the summer break.
Hopping off the boat at Kadiköy’s port passersby have the rare opportunity to witness the sounds of some of this nation’s future virtuosos and talents, be they in or out of tune. The windows are open to let the sea breeze cool their fatigued brows. Last Saturday I strained to hear the music of students preparing for end-of-year exams and performances. All I caught was the repeated screeching of one violin player undoubtedly eager to make it to Surreya’s stage or the nearest "tea garden".
Realizing that the opera and ballet season of the city was coming to a close and I risked going through the summer as an un-cultured renegade I rushed with a friend to fill the arts cache and be inspired to reach higher in life, specifically this summer.
The ten lira seats in the balcony afforded us one of the best views of the young ballet dancer in the opening act. He was feverishly writing a letter to a love, telling her he couldn’t live without her. We knew this thanks to a screen on which his scribbling appeared. The object of his affection, in the form of a vision appeared and they danced together an elusive dance. She left and our protagonist was left with pen and paper to scribble his last words. Finally the man in tights got up, danced his last round of desperation, took out a gun and shot himself in the head. End of scene.
I squirmed, cleared my throat, put my hand to my mouth, and felt a seismic shake of laughter rise up from my belly. The sound of my laughter was thankfully concealed by the enthusiastic clapping of what I’m assuming were misty-eyed Turks. Is this the summer inspiration I had been looking for?
The art of dying and flying
Not long ago, I discovered that every good Turkish film ends with death. "Everybody dies in the end," an observant American friend told me a few weeks ago. Naturally I didn’t expect the Turkish ballet to confirm the point with such immediacy.
This is not a scientific observation. I’ve only been once. But the death theme in Turkish arts and especially the cinema has been on my mind a lot lately. Why does it make such a good ending?
One of this season’s best films, Nokta, examines the voyage of a young artist in Tuzlu Gol to purge his soul of a crime he committed by virtue of association. The seamless panning from the scene to the sky to another scene are remarkable. The story is short, and ends with the artist losing his sight and his life as an act of catharsis.
In my cinema binge this month I also saw Usta, another masterpiece not to be missed. A man with a passion for flying and airplanes holds onto his dream relentlessly as he tweaks, molds and puts together a rickety red two-seater even after he nearly loses his life in a failed attempt to fly it. Naturally, in the last scene when the protagonist is sitting in the perfected plane about to take off and starts crying because he’s too scared, my throat got tight and I felt my fingers dig into the seat. What ensued were some of the most stunning airborne views of Eskişehir, one of Turkey’s Anatolian cities. Oh how a happy ending makes my frail yabanci heart sing!
In an attempt to make all of the dying in Turkish cinema make sense I called one of this paper’s film experts to ask how the postmodernist view of glorified and romanticized death in Turkish cinema reflects the psyche of the nation's modern day angst. My phone call caught him on the beach in Kas, and he asked me to call back later. I have decided to spare him and myself. The lesson I take away from all this artistic illumination: time is limited, enjoy the summer.
Hopping off the boat at Kadiköy’s port passersby have the rare opportunity to witness the sounds of some of this nation’s future virtuosos and talents, be they in or out of tune. The windows are open to let the sea breeze cool their fatigued brows. Last Saturday I strained to hear the music of students preparing for end-of-year exams and performances. All I caught was the repeated screeching of one violin player undoubtedly eager to make it to Surreya’s stage or the nearest "tea garden".
Realizing that the opera and ballet season of the city was coming to a close and I risked going through the summer as an un-cultured renegade I rushed with a friend to fill the arts cache and be inspired to reach higher in life, specifically this summer.
The ten lira seats in the balcony afforded us one of the best views of the young ballet dancer in the opening act. He was feverishly writing a letter to a love, telling her he couldn’t live without her. We knew this thanks to a screen on which his scribbling appeared. The object of his affection, in the form of a vision appeared and they danced together an elusive dance. She left and our protagonist was left with pen and paper to scribble his last words. Finally the man in tights got up, danced his last round of desperation, took out a gun and shot himself in the head. End of scene.
I squirmed, cleared my throat, put my hand to my mouth, and felt a seismic shake of laughter rise up from my belly. The sound of my laughter was thankfully concealed by the enthusiastic clapping of what I’m assuming were misty-eyed Turks. Is this the summer inspiration I had been looking for?
The art of dying and flying
Not long ago, I discovered that every good Turkish film ends with death. "Everybody dies in the end," an observant American friend told me a few weeks ago. Naturally I didn’t expect the Turkish ballet to confirm the point with such immediacy.
This is not a scientific observation. I’ve only been once. But the death theme in Turkish arts and especially the cinema has been on my mind a lot lately. Why does it make such a good ending?
One of this season’s best films, Nokta, examines the voyage of a young artist in Tuzlu Gol to purge his soul of a crime he committed by virtue of association. The seamless panning from the scene to the sky to another scene are remarkable. The story is short, and ends with the artist losing his sight and his life as an act of catharsis.
In my cinema binge this month I also saw Usta, another masterpiece not to be missed. A man with a passion for flying and airplanes holds onto his dream relentlessly as he tweaks, molds and puts together a rickety red two-seater even after he nearly loses his life in a failed attempt to fly it. Naturally, in the last scene when the protagonist is sitting in the perfected plane about to take off and starts crying because he’s too scared, my throat got tight and I felt my fingers dig into the seat. What ensued were some of the most stunning airborne views of Eskişehir, one of Turkey’s Anatolian cities. Oh how a happy ending makes my frail yabanci heart sing!
In an attempt to make all of the dying in Turkish cinema make sense I called one of this paper’s film experts to ask how the postmodernist view of glorified and romanticized death in Turkish cinema reflects the psyche of the nation's modern day angst. My phone call caught him on the beach in Kas, and he asked me to call back later. I have decided to spare him and myself. The lesson I take away from all this artistic illumination: time is limited, enjoy the summer.