17 January 2018

Sleep cleanses everything. It takes all the troubles of the night, and gives us back a new start, or something close to one. When she wakes up happy in the morning, she usually listens to ‘Kumralim’ by Yasar, his guitar and his voice would fill the entire room just by thinking of the song. Even though she could not sleep last night because of her haunting past, she still woke up that day singing a song she hasn’t heard for a while.


She walked around the room trying to recognize herself before she leaves for work. There is nothing  there to remind her of herself except a few postcards she sent herself a while ago, some books on a shelf full of dust, and a pillow on a bed that is not hers. There on the shelves, lie books that have an endless effect on her. Before she reaches to read any of them, she decides to eat.
The rest of the house is not hers, the old furniture sits alone in the living room collecting dust and loneliness. The drawings by her amateur roommate that have no meaning at all, that hang on the walls as a futile try to own some art in the house, aren’t hers. The walls that guard the house from noises coming from the street as the morning starts to spread its sunlight, aren’t hers.

As she was having her breakfast that morning to the sound of the song playing in her head, a thought occurred in her mind: food and sex are one to her. A fascination of nature; how we evolve but these two instincts remain the same. It seems like the source of the desire is one but it feeds the body in different ways. There is a visible line that sits idly between them to the point that sharing food with someone is enough to allow an honest conversation to flourish, similar to the nakedness of sex. As Paulo Coelho mentioned in his book Brida, sex is almost the same as art; it has to be done with such devotion that one feels immensely with all five senses until they become six, and to feel everything through that sixth sense. In the book, Brida was a witch who was able to feel the love she was looking for through her sixth sense. She made art, not love, on one cold night in the frost of the snow.  

Klimt, Three Ages of a Woman detail (mother and Child), Oil, gold and silver leaf on canvas, 180x180cm, 1905 (athenaposters.co)

Brida circulated through her blood when she made love to the Mad Man, the man that invited her to his music studio where there hangs a swing that was swaying gently in the fragile wind of the room, near his instruments and various CD shelves. She saw the detail image of a painting by Gustav Klimt entitled Three Ages of a Woman showing a mother and her child. She saw what would be their daughter, sitting on the small swing made of tangled robes, and the Mad Man teaching her a piece of the music he wrote. The painting came to life in that music studio, and she wanted to live within its vibrant strokes, hold on to him and his madness, live through Brida every day with him.

Klimt, The Kiss, Oil, Gold and Silver leaf on canvas, 180x180cm, 1907/08, Vienna

As she left her house, walking down the narrow Turkish staircase that goes round and round down to the ground level, she thought of the last night she spent with the Mad Man, the night she was fully fascinated with him. In the bedroom, another painting by Klimt came to life. His famous The Kiss, where two bodies melt into each other, the warm pastel colors colliding on canvas. She remembered lying in bed next to him, not touching him, just staring at his bones and flesh, and feeling as if she was a statue. More specifically, the sculpture of Aphrodite, with her heavy tummy, and timeless curves, a similarity she was told she had by an old lover. By the Mad Man’s side she saw herself through Aphrodite’s eyes, with silky skin smooth as snow. She was a piece of art herself, living in the moment, a prisoner under the influence of love and art. She was fully herself, captured within herself and within Klimt’s painting that came to life in the dim yellow light of the bedroom.

She walked out of the house into the warm rain, and made a decision inspired by all the books she ever read; she will get drunk on wine this Friday, and go knock on his door.