Turkish Letters #10 -- A Day at the Palace / A Day at the Islands (Büyükada) (John)

In order to fulfil our self-appointed duties as cultural ambassadors we decided to visit Istanbul’s spanking new Museum of Modern Art. The museum is easy to spot from the water - the words ‘Istanbul Modern’ are emblazoned on the façade (given the blandness of the building the words could be mistaken as being descriptive and not nominative) - but almost impossible to find from the land despite an over-abundance of signs attesting to its existence. The entrance is hidden behind a barrier, around a corner and across a parking lot. It has been built to the standard modern template with as much money and consideration given to the café and gift shop as to the display areas. The gallery is of a reasonable size - big enough to house a substantial show but not big enough to allow boredom to set in. The quantity of the work will not bore you, however, the quality may.

There were three shows on display; an exhibition of portraiture, an overview of Turkish art from the maudlin to the modern, and a multimedia show. The high point of The portraiture were a couple of works by ‘The Tortoise Trainer’ guy that showed that Orientals can paint in the romantic style as well as the best of the West. As for the rest, they gave evidence that Turkey once housed some competent practitioners of the painterly arts.

I tried to go easy on all the artists in the overview show given that Turkey is only new to modernism. Surprisingly there were no works based on the fine calligraphic or abstract traditions that dominated the arts for so long in this region. Basically, the show reminded me of any historical overview of Australian art – heavily derivative and often cack-handed. Many of the artists had spent time in Parisian studios doing the Left Bank thing, and a couple were obviously influenced by the USA arts scene. However, there were strange lacunae. Some periods, movements, isms or whatever, were absent. Given the recent history of Western art I thought that on the whole this was a good thing. If the young Turks want to become ‘Young Turks’ they’d be better off looking at their own history and traditions for influence rather than the fatuous, self-congratulatory guff so prevalent in Europe, the USA and Oz.

The multimedia show contained many media and very little mixed media. Apart from the unfortunate inclusion of two performance pieces (when will these people learn?) it wasn’t bad at all.

Feeling rather pleased with ourselves for having done our duty we decided to visit the Dolmabache Palace. The palace is a vast wedding cake edifice that sits on the shores of Bosphorus and in the name of good taste should be pushed in. It was built during a period when the Ottomans were infatuated with everything occidental. It is a case of ‘anything you can do, I can do more of’. As our guide explained, it is built in three styles – Baroque, Rococo and Neo-classical; which reminded me of that old chestnut – ‘We play two types of music here – country and western’.

Throughout all this the guide was informing us of the most ridiculous things – the acreage of rugs and the weight of chandeliers featured heavily. The whole experience was disorienting and painful. Frankly, you can recreate the effect by giving a stranger $12 to fire a camera flash into your eyes while you force tin foil into a filling. It would be sheer bliss to have free run of the place with a sledgehammer. We refused to pay the extra six lira for permission to take photos. I imagine with all that ornamentation a single photo would have used up the entire memory stick in the camera.

The grounds of the palace are dotted about with military types in dress uniform looking slightly less silly than the sculptures that also dot the grounds. At least the sculptures can’t shoot you. Our departure coincided with the changing of the guard. A line of soldiers marched up and with much stamping of feet, fairy steps and screwing about one climbed down from the pedestal to be replaced by another. This took about five minutes – if there is ever a terrorist attack these guys will need a lot of notice. Once the new guard was in position the superior officer did the inspection. He nudged the guard’s feet into the exact position, he adjusted the angle of the rifle, he tweaked his belt, and tugged on his shirt sleeves. He then went around the back and tugged on and straightened the guard’s trouser cuff, and generally fussed about like a parent sending their child off to the first day of school. We expected him to pull out his hanky, lick it and wipe a smudge off the sentry’s face. It was all too cute.

We antipodeans have a hard time taking this sort of thing seriously. Shiralee and I tried to hold back our giggles – not from politeness but from due respect for all the heavy weaponry these guys carried. Whenever I am around Turkish military types I cannot help but stare. However, I always nod politely and say ‘Merhaba’, and mentally rehearse the line ‘Esurdilerim memur bay, Avustralianiym’ which roughly translates as ‘Forgive me Mr Officer, I’m Australian’ or ‘Don’t shoot, foreign national!’.

The next day we took a day trip to the Princes Islands. The day started fine and clear with the temperature slightly above freezing. We trucked down to the ferry terminal with an hour to spare. Shiralee was befriended by a puppy that looked as though it was made from off-cuts from a sweater factory, and that decided Shiralee was a big, juicy chew-toy. We escaped to a simit shop and had a snack to kill the time. On our return Shiralee was befriended by a cat who decided she was its personal hot water bottle. It curled up in her lap and drooled with delight as she scratched its head. When some other people turned up with shopping bags it dropped us with all the alacrity of John Howard forgetting an election promise, and went to investigate. Cats are fickle things.

The ferry ride was very civilised. We sat at a table sipping tea and watched Istanbul fade into the haze off the port side. On the starboard horizon dozens of huge freighters formed a veritable cityscape. As the islands hove into view we realised that the guidebook was a tad ambiguous. This tied with the fact that we had a hard time remembering the islands’ names and which details fitted which island meant that, at my urging, we got off at the wrong one. Overcoming my disappointment at the lack of princes on the Princes Islands we strolled about for half an hour. Another thing lacking on the islands is a high road-toll. The islands are closed to motor vehicles; everyone walks or rides except the police, fire brigade, ambulances and the military (who do whatever they want). It was strange to walk about a Turkish town without the fear of imminent death. We returned to the terminal in time to catch another ferry to, hopefully, the right island.

About 20 minutes and another cup of tea later we arrived at our destination. Büyükada is the summer weekend playground of Istanbul’s substantially well-off in which we imagined we would wander around viewing the traditional architecture and enjoying the safety and near silence of a car-free environment. We were horribly mistaken. The islanders, overcome by a fit of industriousness, had decided to replace the sewage system. In typical Turkish fashion they had dug up almost every street on the island simultaneously. It looked like urban trench warfare. The traffic hazards of other Turkish cities had been replaced by topographical hazards. The silence was constantly interrupted by guys dicking about in backhoes, or truck drivers enjoying the rare opportunity to follow tourists about in noisy, smoke-belching behemoths. Every time we heard evidence of road works we would strike off in the opposite direction only to be confronted by another vehicle lurching up an incline.

Not to be disheartened we carried on. Dodging puddles, leaping trenches and sliding on clay slips we quartered the town, the delights of which were still evident. All about the place pony drays clip-clopped along winding streets, locals rode their bikes gingerly amongst the mud, school children hop, skipped and jumped hazards on their way home, and labourers trudged up hill pushing hand carts so overladen as to make Sisyphus look like a piker.

The place is covered with that wonderful Turkish blend of architectural wonders, oddities and atrocities. Harsh 60s modernist designs will be flanked on one side by a classic wooden villa, and on the other by what appears to be a mediocre motel. Huge recently completed edifices stand alongside tumbled ruins whose only purpose seem to be a support for satellite dishes. Styles range form nouveau to neo-classical to non-committed. The delightful colour schemes we had come to associate with smaller Turkish towns were largely absent. White seemed the colour of choice for many of the wealthier inhabitants. I took a petty minded pleasure in seeing many had been splattered with mud from the recent road works (some of them, I believe, intentionally). One huge wooden mansion was covered in paint so flaky that it looked like a gargantuan fledgling. The detailing on others was brilliant - Büyükada is home to a maestro of the fretsaw.

The island is also home to an enormous population of cats (even by Turkish standards). This, of course, has repercussions and the only wildlife we saw was smarter, bigger or more vicious than the cats.

The place must be great in summer when the trees are in bloom and the road works complete. For future visitors to Istanbul it would be worth considering staying here and commuting on the ferries into the city.

While waiting for our ferry home we came across their Ataturk sculpture. It is a full figure of the great man wearing a dinner suit with his coat across his shoulders as though he has been asked, at short notice, to stand in for Bela Lugosi. Is there nothing this man couldn’t do?