Life is a lesson of light. Making autumn beautiful does not come to mind easily, because one wishes for summer to remain and autumn to pass, but nature gives an autumn to everyone’s heart and a beauty to suit everyone’s eyes…
what is life, life lesson, painting, painting watercolor, narrowing the soul, eye of spring, picture of spring, picture of autumn, picture of life, lesson of light, life and light, bright evenings. remembering summer, winter revolutions
Our lesson: Painting
Our topic: Watercolor
As soon as spring prepares something, it opens the door and knocks on the broom! It’s spring, it’s looking out, it can’t sit still, it’s provoking everything that invades the house, narrows the soul, suffocates our hearts, with a broom, maybe a witch’s broom! He’s saying, God willing, get out, don’t let my eyes see you, get dusty, etc. That institution has been established, it’s turning gray and dirty, it’s turning into dust and excess…
How one misses such a picture, when one comes to see it, all the houses of the country, all the houses, have opened their doors, the windows are open, there is cleaning and cleaning, women and children are throwing everything out with brooms in their hands!
It is not always going to be things, dirt, dust that are swept away, dark things, bad thoughts, dirty looks, evil eyes, garbage ideas, slobbery mouths, hostile words, superstitions, ignorance and everything else that weighs on the house, the soul, the idea, the word, the eye. Those who give trouble, cause a rift, spoil the mood, and darken the day should all be expelled and out of the country, so that they do not put a pinch of joy in the country again, and they do not try to impose prohibitions that do not suit humans and nature, saying that this is a sin, this is forbidden, that is haram! What is forbidden when there is spring?
I love the eye of spring, it has a way of throwing itself from houses to the streets, which is the same thing that comes to my mind when I think of revolution. What if it wasn’t spring? “Who else would we have?” There is also Ahmed Arif’s poem, of course, and it is a poem that shows how much the pleasure of thinking can reach.
Contrary to the folk song “You Turned My Summer into Winter”, it turns winter into spring: “I think of you as if you were spring / You as if you were Diyarbekir / What can’t be overcome by thinking about you?” “The taste” he will say. The light of spring will appear before the lines in a poem, more dazzlingly than the paints in a painting, and will even explode. Do I call the light that doesn’t explode spring? We wouldn’t say that, would we? It’s like the sun rising within us before the earth.
This is the picture of spring I have, the kind painted by naive painters. Let’s not go into winter at all… I can’t even say it! Winter is the noblest of pictures, it is proud, arrogant, it has silently declared its sovereignty and it is a picture that does not understand why it is called “dark winter”, but even if it does not understand, it does not ask, otherwise it looks like it is wondering, and it stains the whiteness of winter.
Winter is a picture that snows the more you look at it! But what happens when you read Dıranas’ poem, which comes to the mind, not to the mind, not to the tongue, but to the eye, just as gently, subtly and without skipping a beat when it comes to snow, happens when you look at the painting called winter. Perhaps this poem is our poetic memory of all the creepy snow pictures: “Snow is falling on us from the night / from a rainy dark thought / Along with the hum of the forest / and galloping in a straight blue / snow is falling gently on us”.
Winter is a noble and wild season that covers its wildness with its beauty, and we cannot take our eyes off its long light for a lifetime. Especially the children who grow up in the snow districts accumulate the steepness and ruggedness throughout their lives, those whose winds are stolen run to them, they stay in their determination, winter revolutions are prepared in their hearts, and the rest are snowy stories, mostly written in the winter palace of the tsar during the northern revolutions. The light of winter is harsh, like the wild sun, it is unknown where and when it will appear, it requires courage to look, but most of all it requires compassion first in the heart, then it requires mercy so that both eyes are full of two lights.
I saved autumn for last, in recent years we have been saying “what did this autumn write?”, the days are near when we will say “what summer did this autumn” as if we were talking about crops and products, summers have become longer, autumns have become shorter, the reason for this is undoubtedly not the storks, not the cranes at all. “The Old Men of Kanlıca” has already been withdrawn, the chairs in the cafes are waiting for the day when they will be pulled in.
When they see the old ships being pulled up, they say “look what happened!” It can be heard even from here that they are feeling sad. This means that remembering the past autumns, one by one, is no longer the art of old age, but is now part of the art of words. Let me call it autumn, at least it doesn’t feel like the end, it makes me a little sad, but it is better than the feeling of the end, autumn is like a watercolor season when you are young.
Those who call us to watch the red skies and those who fill the soul with sadness want autumn to be an oil painting and never be erased from our horizons, but there will be evening in the waters of our hearts and souls will lie down to the windows with the calendar of “fill the day that is gone from life, my faith”.
Maybe wine gives the feeling of oil painting, red grapes in the vineyards, the sun trying to show itself from behind the shadows and the redness in the feeling of melting and disappearing in summer and autumn leaves itself in the solid and reassuring embrace of oil painting, again borrowing from Dıranas’ poem “Snow”, “in the white texture of this pure dream” The mist we call will first touch the words, sounds, silence, and then the lips, with a fleeting beauty, just like the self of a traveler who dives into the fog disappears in the glass. What can we say, “Gentlemen call this a republic!”
So “good luck!” Autumn itself is not a picture, it is many pictures! Everyone thinks their own beauty is unique, and in my opinion, this is the most beautiful and purest deception. Making autumn beautiful does not easily come to mind because one wishes for summer to remain and autumn to pass, but nature gives an autumn to everyone’s heart and a beauty to everyone’s eye…
We said and let’s say, “Autumn is still a repetition of leaves in pictures” and the light of autumn is not directed directly to the eye, but to the sun. It is not, it is a light leaking into the past. It leaks the autumn light and acquires many colors until it reaches us, fascinated by them, and seeps into our soul. It is written.
No room for summer? Summer never ends, it doesn’t go anywhere, look, next year’s summer has already arrived, why, because for those who miss it, existence is always here, where it is missed, in the heart. Neither autumn nor winter, in fact, our last season is summer; when we die, our summer ends. Print life. Summer is nothing but light, light wherever you turn.
In summer the waters are luminous; its mountains are illuminated; His nights, his sleep, his dreams are luminous. Even the words we write are exposed to light from end to end. Its light is within you, its heart is in its bright evenings. Summer is watercolor, because childhood is summer, remembering summer, feeling that light, not forgetting. So, in memory of last summer, write write write three times!
Main Ideas: Life is a lesson of light!
Support Book: Landscapes, John Berger
Views: 190
