I am haunted by textile images  which float in my mind.  Men on horseback. Throned figures.  Phoenixes and Sphinxes.

Last month in St Petersburg on a visit to the Hermitage I anticipated seeing the much published Pazyryk carpet – the earliest knotted example dating back to the 4th century BC.

What I didn’t anticipate was having my heart and soul invaded by the beauty of a monumental felt (4.5 m x 5 m) from the same archeological find.  I had seen images of this felt published in Hali – the quintessential publication for carpets, textiles and Islamic Art but somehow particularly the scale of this piece of artwork had escaped me.  With the scale came the powerful presence of representational images and graphics that melded into the ‘powerful beast’ that has inhabited my mind. These artifacts from the Scythian Pazyryk tombs were unearthed in the Altai Mountains of southern Siberia in the late 1920s.  The amazing preservation of the textiles is attributed to the frozen condition in which they were found protecting them from the normal ravages of time, light and vermin.

If you love horses you would desire to jump on the back of the magnificent beasts of the felt. If you love men you would long to meet the jaunty moustachioed riders with their erect posture and flirty capes or scarves flying.  If you have had any desire to bow before the throne of a deity or meet with the ruler of this world and perhaps a world beyond enter into this felt and experience the majesty the scene.

Beyond the figures the borders that break the felt into bands have such distinctive design motifs that millennium later are referenced in Central Asian textiles.  I am looking at the greatest of grandmothers of in a lineage of beauty.  Here in my home is a late 19th c Central Asian felted wool bagface with quadrants housing the ‘grandchildren’ of the Pazyryk motifs.

The appliqued felt on felt process with exquisite workmanship, great dyes, and motifs outlined with a stem/chain stitch and dark corded wool all combine to transcend the centuries/millennium. Beauty from 2500 years ago is communicated in a powerful way connecting what is human in all of us as our being responds to images, colour, graphics and the creative force that connects all of humanity.

If/when you are in St Petersburg and visit the Hermitage – take a pilgrimage to the small dimly lit gallery housing these artifacts – well worth a visit and some time travel back to a culture to fire the imagination.

We started with two terrific architectural stops both great contemporary design and both located on the edge of city canals.  The state Opera house has a huge presence with views across the canal to the Royal Theatre.  A cooperative young woman was responsive to Jack’s pleas in rusty Danish to gain access and so we had the building to ourselves for half an hour or so and took a ‘self guided tour’. 

From there we made our way to the Black Diamond – a contemporary addition to the Royal Library.  Home to 21 million books the library is the largest in Scandinavia and the 1999 construction of the canted black glass addition affords great views from the interior of the building of the canal and skyline.

From divine design to froth and festivity – we strolled through the Royal Gardens to the craziness of Carnival – a street parade with mainly percussion instruments and dancing humanity pulsing to the rhythms of the Caribbean and South America.  Infectious fun and certainly a different type of textiles than I anticipate encountering next week at the conference.  Jack and I were so swept up in the party that we took ourselves to a large park that was hosting an extension to the parade with live music being enjoyed by literally thousands of people all out to enjoy the sun, each other and the music.  So a day of diversity – sore feet but stimulation galore.

This spring I toured Eastern Turkey with a delightful, small group of Canadians.  Jack and I had visited the East the previous fall with travellers from Melbourne, Australia.  There is no end of beauty to be found in that part of the country and for me particularly it is a great joy to visit areas where I am familiar with the weavings.  It was Josephine Powell, the late ethnographic photographer and kilim scholar who raised my consciousness around seeing beyond the weavings to the tools, traditions, culture and people who put their hands to the task of creating the functional art of their lives.  In the East of Turkey on many levels life has changed dramatically from the late 19th, early 20th centuries but there are traces of the ‘old life’; places that seem unchanged and people who one sees shadows of the earlier ways in their being.

On one trip to Mardin, an ancient city a stone’s throw from the Syrian border, we visited a weaving school being supported by a partnered effort by the Istanbul Soroptomists and their sister organization in San Diego.  I was invited to ‘cut a carpet from the loom’.  A young woman in the school had finished her weaving of a rug and it was ready to be removed from the loom.  As I cut the warps, I was keenly aware of women through the ages who have after hours and hours of relentless weaving reached the time when the piece is complete and it was to be removed from the loom.  I felt touched and honoured to be given this opportunity to put my hand to a task that was the culmination of one young woman’s hard work and steep learning curve.

As I prepare to enter in to the events of the ICOC conference here in Scandinavia and Russia I am mindful of the exhibit I saw just when leaving Istanbul in May.  The evening before my departure was the opening of an exhibition of Anatolian Kilims from the collection of Dr. Ayan Gulgonen at the Turkish and Islamic Arts Museum.  I was able to attend and was aware had the timing been one day later I would have missed the opportunity to view these outstanding pieces on display. The venue for this exhibit was an enormous room which usually housed the larger carpets from the permanent collection. It provided all the necessary space for one to be able to back up and view the pieces from a distance – a visual delight and a testament to the fine ‘eye’ and aesthetic of Dr Gulgonen but also a great tribute to the nameless women who wove these extraordinary pieces of art.  It was the perfect end to another wonderful Turkish visit – leaving my head dancing with the vision of a grand room of kilims all singing the praises of the hands and spirits that infused them with such lasting beauty.

All this to say… I am keenly anticipating seeing, learning, discussing and moving ahead in my carpet and textile studies and business in the days ahead here in Europe.

Small Helper

On the road, heading south from Van and fast approaching a new tunnel opened in a timely fashion by the government of Turkey just prior the National Referendum. At the entrance to the new tunnel a lone flagman waves us down and indicates that we cannot proceed through the tunnel but must take a detour. A dirt road snakes off to the right, potholed and rough. Our van is followed by two trucks that we passed just prior to arriving at the tunnel. They are packed to the gunnels with family members, animals, household possessions and farm implements. Either they are returning from the yayla (summer pastures) or in fact are itinerate workers off to the next crop waiting to be harvested. The detour leads us into a back street of the village of Bitlis. High above the small city we are overlooking an ancient fort, mosques and the sprawl of old buildings surrounding the more recent apartments. We disembark the minibus for a view over the city and then proceed to walk down the hill entering the city by a back door. The street is lined with old homes and we are in women’s territory. There are women hanging the wash on the outdoor laundry lines, another woman in a courtyard cutting up chicken parts, a young boy wobbling along on what is obviously a very new bike. An elderly man is climbing a hill beside a graveyard his hands open, palms raised in a posture of prayer. Women watch the street from their windows and doorsteps and children run and play. Several women and children sit on a curb outside of a small corner store. One couple in our group is travelling with a sack full of small koala bears and the small children in the group are delighted recipients of these cuddly small foreign creatures.

At work in the courtyard

Cuddly Toddler and Koala

After loading back on the bus at the bottom of the hill we connect with the main thoroughfare going through the town. The bustle of this street is all about business and men outnumber women one hundred to one. Tea houses, mosques, shops of all descriptions; a great hustle of mankind coming and going through the traffic snarled street. In but a hour we have crossed from what felt like women’s domain into that which is populated by the male population. A very different scenario, here in the East of Turkey, than many western cultures where house husbands abound and women live their daily lives in the public workplace. My childhood years in Canada in the 50’s would not have been too different from the culture of Bitlis. My Mother worked in the home and socialized in the neighbourhood and my Father worked in the downtown core in what was a male dominated culture. Our culture has had a gender and role makeover in the pastdecades

For me one of the perks of traveling with Mehmet, the historical guide whom I have partnered with, is his keen eye for stops of interest along the way. These stops are unplanned happenings. In the past we have joined women working outdoors as they prepare foodstuffs; a nomadic family in their black tent; the woman at her loom and the man hand shearing a sheep; kids in schools, and a village of young and old as they milked their flock in a box canyon.

Milking in Canyon

Straining the MIlk

Working Together

Today as we traveled along the road west of Mardin we were asking questions about the cotton crops that were lining the road. How many crops per year? How are the crops picked? Marketed? Mehmet directs our Kurdish driver Ahmet to pull over and there in the fields are a group of 6 or 8 women picking the cotton along with two males. The women indicated that they do not want their photos taken and we respect their wishes. As we stand and interact and ask questions the women undergo a change of heart with me. Will I please take their photos? Will I send the photos on to them? As they are picking the young women have their faces covered with their scarves protecting them from the sun and dust and also are wearing work gloves. There is a unwrapping and the bright young faces emerge. I am thankful that I am a woman with the camera as I know that their shyness would not allow them the same freedom with a man. One of the girls has incredible ‘attitude’, one hand on a cocked hip and a delightful swagger – she obviously has seen some fashion magazines or at the very least women posing ‘with presence’ on TV.

Figures working in a field have become individuals full of life and personality. When I return to Istanbul I take the digital info to a photo shop and then into the mail with the images of these young women who I connected with across cultural differences to the shared ground of human commonality. At dinner with a friend of Leah’s who is a linguist I have her write a note of thanks and greeting to the girls in Kurmanji, the Kurdish language of the region.

The Crop

Pals

Timeless Beauty

Great Attitude

Mount Nemrut. Images featured on tourist brochures for Eastern Turkey often feature images of the large stone heads that are on this tumulus topped peak. Originally the heads were on seated figures on thrones but the earthquakes of the ages have beheaded the main five figures, mythological and human and now the heads stand below the headless seated figures at the base of the tumulus.

Mountaintop Tumulus, Thrones and Statue Heads

2nd c B.C. Images of Power

We set out from the hotel at 2 am for a two and a half hour drive to the base of the mountain to hike up and to arrive in time for the sunrise. As we leave the hotel the sky is lit up with sheet lightening and the thunder is rolling in the distance and the rain is pelting down. Our first attempt of the day to get to the base to hike up ends up being thwarted. We come to within several km of the base of the mountain but the mountain road has previously had some road construction being done on it and it is a mire of mud. The small bus at one point cannot go forward and only backwards in the pitch black with the most extreme difficultly. The mud is like ice, so slippery. We all disembark while Mehmet and Ahmet struggle to find a spot to turn the bus around. Thirty minutes later we have the vehicle pointed downhill, each of us has at least an inch and a half of mud glued to the bottom of our boots and we head back to the hotel. Defeated? Not, Mehmet. Right after lunch Mehmet urges ‘let’s try again!’ It is not in his plans to have guests come from half way around the world and not be able to see this site. For the Austalians who are keen, off again and of course sheer determination wins over the obstacles and the group stands atop Nemrut in the midst of the 2^nd c BC statuary of the Commenge kingdom. The wind is blowing a fine gale but tea is served by the guard in his hut up top and there are Aussies that are feeling delighted to have put their feet in this ancient spot.

Two Bazaars.

Our travels include stops in two small cities each with a very distinctive Bazaar. Mardin is a hill town located on the Mesopotamian plain a stone’s throw from the Syrian border. The is a main one way road that encircles the town and other than that the old streets above and below are accessed by donkeys carrying loads to the stone homes in the old part of the city. Dropping down stairways along the main road spills you into the bazaar which stretches a couple of kilometers around the hill. It is a bazaar of my dreams. Descending the steps seems a type of time travel, back, back and further back. Those working in the bazaar are unchanged by modern times. Men at their forges making tools, saddle makers hand stitching saddles for donkeys. Chickpeas are roasting , butchers are carving, and vegetables are being sold from huge piles of produce heaped on tarps. A soap maker has a shop with olive oil based soaps all fragrant with various herbs and local remedies. The people shopping in the market are equally interesting. Local tribal women with blue facial tattoos, moms and children, local men drinking tea on low stools set along the sides of the alleys. Everyone keeps an ear pealed and makes way for the donkeys that loaded with their burdens come clippity-clopping along as they fulfill their duties in the bazaar.

Abundance!

Fleeces Galore

Saddle Maker at Work

Recycling Adds Colour

Detail of Constructing a Donkey Saddle

Another Nana

Tea Time for the Old Timers

Tea without a smoke - I don't think so....

Relaxed in the Bazaar

Two days later we enter the old bazaar of Sanliurfa. The name of the city means literally ‘glorious Urfa’ a title granted after the city defended itself from the French occupation of the early 20^th century. Even further back in history Urfa is know as the ancient city of Ur, birthplace of Abraham .

The bazaar in Urfa is a typical design for those bazaars on the Silk Road. It has a large interior han, an open courtyard surrounded by a second story. These hans were traditionally used as shelters for the traders, their animals and their goods as they moved across the Silk Road from China into Asia Minor. The open courtyard housed the animals, the surrounding rooms stored the goods that the caravan was moving and on the upper level there were small rooms that served as accommodation for the traders themselves. In Sanliurfa today the central han has been transformed into a tea shop/meeting place for men from the area. Low tables and stools accommodate groups of 5 or 6 men drinking tea together and playing an assortment of games. There is a constant click click as men slap down small brass dominos, other tables have card games under way, tile rummy and a form of chess is being played. Most of the men appear to be of retirement age and this is obviously a social hub for them.

Next Move?

Rummy anyone?

Staying Connected

Domino Dilemma

In Sanliurfa many of the people are of Arabic ethnicity and their dress is different than surrounding cities. Traditional women wear brightly coloured long loose dresses decorated with sequins and all manner of glitz. Men wear the traditional shalvar, the baggy pants with the very low slung crotch and turban like head coverings. Both men and women favour a head covering of a very distinctive lavander colour.

Traditional Regional Lavender Head Covering

Retired Imam Visiting with us outside of Mosque

The Bazaars of Mardin and Sanliurfa are very different but hold the same delights of colour, smells, calls of vendors and the energy of men and women living and working in close quarters. Commerce is age old and to walk in these unchanged alleys for me provides a sense of connection with such basic human activity – a delight.

A roadside stop high in the Kacgar Mountains. Mehmet has called ahead and the coals are hot outside on the BBQ. Indoors in a corner of the low building, a small room; a butcher shop, with a cooler. The one man who is working here takes a side of lamb from the cooler and proceeds to butcher it. A cleaver makes short work as the bones and joints are separated one from another. Deftly he uses his razor sharp knife to trim and cut the pieces into small bits and follows along with a flat metal implement to smack them flat tenderizing them in the process. In less than 30 minutes we are seated to a simple but absolutely delicious meal of grilled meat; chops, kofte (meatballs), a little kidney and liver and green peppers and a simple salad of tomato, cucumber and peppers. Bread is a constant at a Turkish table and baskets of fresh white bread are the perfect compliment to soak up juices and flavors that might otherwise escape. Amazingly, a few around the table have room for rice pudding (sulac) another standard Turkish sweet, second choice only to baklava. Here in the Black Sea region the rice pudding is served topped with a mound finely chopped hazelnuts adding yet another layer to an already decadently good treat.

From the cooler to the table - in process...

Across the valley from our humble restaurant is a white memorial erected in the memory of thirty-five student from Trabzon who tragically lost their young lives in an avalanche. Other than the memorial there is no other manmade structures in sight, we are surrounded by mountain slopes and crisp mountain air.

Well fed in the simplest of circumstances we head off on what is our longest day of driving with our destination being Erzurum, Turkey’s highest city located at 2000 meters – we are prepared for a cool evening while staying in a resort hotel located at the ski hill. We are not the only guests at the hotel. There is a large contingent of participants in the Peking to Paris Rally. The parking lot is full of wonderful old cars ‘at rest’ until an early departure for the next leg of what is a 36 day rally. We are not Paris bound so start our day locally visiting a 12^th c Selcuk medresse. The geometric designs on the columns of the building are extraordinary and so reminiscent of Celtic design with the interlaced patterns expertly carved in deep relief.

Design detail surrounding main gate of the medresse

A great vast plain sprawls east towards Kars and our destination later this afternoon. Along this fertile stretch there are fields of sunflowers to feed the endless appetite of the Turks who chew and spit the seeds as a national pastime. Sugar beets, potatoes, turnips and cabbages of gargantuan proportions share the fields with the sunflowers. Kars literally translates into ‘snow’ in Turkish. Snow the name of Orhan Pamuk’s novel which is set in Kars which was occupied by the Russians over a period of forty years until 1918. Pamuk was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for his writings but remains unpopular with many Turks perhaps because of some of the issues he has tackled and also his rather morose portrayal of the culture and society.

Cabbages - guest from 'down under' compares head sizes

We visit Ani, the former capital of Armenia. Located on a river which is the border between Turkey and Armenia, Ani is a walled city with a collection of ruined Armenian churches some of which retain lovely old frescoes. It is a beautiful site with mountain peaks off in the distance and the river valley providing a natural defense for the city. The visit is a mélange of complex emotions. The beauty of the site is magnificent but the history so tragic. The losses are so great for the Armenian people and there remains such a burden of unresolved tension for the Turkish people. I find myself longing for resolution that would lead to an open door for both nations to move ahead as neighbors.

Church interior with remaining frescos

Church ruin in Ani

A cloudless morning in Kars – we will head on to Mt Ararat later today but first thing before breakfast Jack and I head off on foot through the town. Seven a.m. and already the tea shops have a collection of elderly men ensconced out front – not exactly a Starbucks but a parallel universe with the regulars clad in sports jackets, wool pants and leather shoes.

Towards the end of the commercial establishments we come upon a small group of men driving two cows and a bull. Jack comments on the animals and the man in the lead makes a universally recognizable motion by drawing his thumb across his throat. They are off to slaughter. The man at the rear of the group motions with his raised open palms heavenward – it is the will/provision of Allah. I comment that there will be pots full of ‘guvec’ the traditional Turkish stew in Kars soon.

Early morning in Kars

Walking back we stick our heads in a shop doorway attracted by a mechanical din. A simple mill is processing grain into bulgur. So many small agrarian ventures exist at every turn. People are in ‘hands on’ occupations gaining simple livings from the land.

Turkish people, historical sites, cultural encounters, our curiosity and the curiosity of those around us all combine to fill our days with great fodder for discussion and the internal processing that one does as life encounters the variances of our world.

Located 1000 m above the Black Sea, Sumela , a 9^th c Greek Orthodox Monastery is mist shrouded and surreal on our arrival.  We had arrived by plane from Istanbul mid morning, descended into the clouds and landed in a downpour at the airport of Trabazon.  The Black Sea Region of Turkey is renown as having the highest rainfall in all of Turkey and on our arrival this fact is attested to as the rain pours in sheets from the overpasses and the city is awash in water.

At Sumela in the Kacgar Mountains the rain has subsided to a misty cloud and my moisture deprived skin from  life in Calgary is drinking in  the nourishing humidity.  Our group is comprised of a Turkish historical guide, a Kurdish driver, the Canadians (Jack and I) and the seasoned travelers “The Aussies”.

There are two possible approaches to the monastery of Sumula.  One can walk up a path that switches back and forth climbing  for 30 to 40 minutes to attain the entrance to the monastery that clings to the cliff or there is a parking lot up lot where one can access the monastery on a fairly level path.  I choose to hike up with a part of the group and the undergrowth along the side of the path is full of small wild plants hardily thriving in these Kachar Mountains.

A legend of a lost icon that was discovered in the central cave that the monastery grew around accounts for the isolated location of this place of refuge.  For one seeking the contemplative life it is challenging to imagine a place more perfect in terms of being far off from the hubbub of the human interaction.  In the central place of worship the frescoes remain as intense in colour and power as the day that they were applied to the walls.  The central figure, a portrait of Christ looms at the apex of the dome.  To my eye the style of the iconography is reminiscent of Ethiopian frescoes that I have seen.  Is it possible that these monks had any connection with the Coptic Christians of Ethiopia?

Our time in the mountain village of Uzungol (Long Lake) is enveloped in a sense of extraordinary hospitality.  Staying in a small local lodge at the edge of the lake all that happens seems so carefully and thoughtfully offered.  As we enter the fire in the main reception area is being lit and we are drawn to its warmth.  Our rooms are simple but immaculately clean and the bedding crisp white linens with duvets that can do battle with the chilliest of mountain nights.  Our meals are accompanied by local specialties one being a fondue like  substance of cheese, butter and cornmeal served in shallow copper pans  – the comfort food of the mountains.  This dish not only appears at lunch but also is served again at breakfast the following morning.  As a first course at dinner we are served black cabbage soup.  Mehmet points out that the local plant is not black nor is it like any cabbage any of us have ever encountered but it is a flavorful  mix of greens and spices, hot and satisfying.

Our daytime rambles take us high above the village with Dorsun, the owner of the hotel acting as our guide.  Dorsun, a man of 50 or so was born in this village and knows every hidden path and valley of the surrounding countryside and mountains.  We hike in a fine mist that gives an ethereal veil to the village and lake as it recedes as we gain elevation.  The cows in the fields become tiny and the road snaking into the village appears as ribbon tossed upon the landscape.

We hike through a rhododendron forest which blooms in May and encounter bushes laden with berries, mushrooms sprouting in the damp and lichens decorating the rocks with abstract patterns.  The mountain air is crisp and clean and it is hard to remember that but 48 hours ago we were on the streets of Istanbul dodging cars and sharing the walkways with streams of humanity.  Beauties in both places but today this feels very restorative for my soul.

While hiking above Uzungol the call to prayer echoes from the village below.  Our local guide Dursun picks up his pace and distances himself from the group for five minutes or so.  In this interval Jack shares with Mehmet how at the ‘call’ he has been praying for our friend Peter who is ill in Canada.  For both Jack and me the call is such a great audio interruption into the day reminding us whatever our circumstances that to turn to God in prayer is time well spent.  As Dorsun slows his pace and the groups join again Mehmet tells Dorsun about Jacks practice to pray when he hears the call.  It is a moment of commonality amongst those three men realizing that they share the same hearts and the same pull to God seeking Him in their daily lives.  Separated as they are by language, culture, and religious identities it is heartening to stand together on common ground.  The shared commonalities unite and it is good.

Fresh air, good company, new friends and safe travels.  It is good to be roaming through this north eastern corner of Turkey.