Sounds and Sensations as my Intuitive Guides In Drawing
The metro reached precisely when I needed it, a cool, dark breath in the suffocating summer afternoon.
Outside, the sky shone brightly with an intense glare, and the heat seemed almost tangible, as if it might dry my throat to dust. It was one of those days that made you appreciate the comfort of shade and a cool drink.
I was wearing a flaming red top and beige trouser, my cane-weaved bag slung casually over my shoulder.
In my hand, a green lemon soda bottle, its condensation clinging like a memory.
I caught a few glances as I boarded, a fleeting acknowledgment of my foreignness, perhaps.
Or maybe it was just the newness of the outfit, the strange city, the way I clung to a fragile sense of ease. I leaned back into the seat, the chilled lemon soda bottle, a small comfort against my flushed cheek, and wondered, not for the first time,
‘’What current had deposited me here, in this unfamiliar corner of the world, on this particular afternoon? ‘’
What unseen thread had led me to seek out a random Cafe Nero, a sketchbook my only compass?
The train surged across the Bosphorus, the water below a blue metallic sheen.
Apartment buildings with slanting orange roofs drifted by, their weariness etched by time and salt air. Yet, on every balcony, vibrant flower pots defied the decay, and laundry swayed on railings like forgotten signals.
For a moment, framed in one of those windows, I saw an old woman.
She stood by a line of airing clothes, a cigarette held delicately between her fingers, her gaze fixed on the indifferent expanse of the sea.
My station arrived.
I stepped out onto a road lined with full green trees, beginning a walk that stretched for over twenty minutes along Istanbul’s cobblestone streets.
Ceramic shops appeared, their windows glowing with cups that seemed less like pottery and more like frozen dreams — glazed perfection, a vibrancy of color that whispered of hidden skills of devoted artisans.
They hummed with an almost silent beauty.
I inquired about workshops, the idea of shaping such beauty with my own hands briefly tempting, though the prices spoke of another world entirely.
The cobblestones continued, leading me past an ancient church, its stone worn smooth by centuries, a wild creeper embracing its neglected garden walls.
Then a little apartment, its red door a startling splash of color, a wrought iron window like a silent, geometric secret.
Istanbul, I realized, was a city where love seemed to blossom effortlessly, in the casual intertwining of lovers hands, the whispered secrets, the smiles that floated like dandelion seeds on the warm air.
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In the cafes, the air thickened with Turkish chatter, the distant strains of Santana, the mingling scents of coffee, citrus, and the strangely alluring haze of cigarette smoke. I watched a wisp of smoke curl from the full, red lips of a young girl, another striking a flame from a zircon-studded lighter.
A quiet beauty, almost a spell, seemed to reside in these small, female gestures.
I ordered pineapple parfait and an espresso at cafe Nero.
I found a nice, comfy seat and brought out my sketchbook.
The plan was simple: draw intuitively. With the music playing, the sound of strange languages, and that indefinable feeling within me, I let my hand move. It was a line drawing guided by the pure sound of my surroundings, my eyes not even looking at the page.
Satisfied?
I don’t know.
But I had fun.
Yes, I enjoyed the presence through drawing like this.
Yes, I enjoyed myself.
And the tangy pineapple parfait, with its broken pieces of lotus biscuits, tasted like the best summer dessert I’d ever known.
The espresso, enjoyed like never before. An afternoon well spent.
I’m still enjoying writing about it.
Later, still holding the taste of that tangy parfait and the ghost of the best espresso, I knew this afternoon, this strange, unscripted pilgrimage, was already etched.
When the world outside grows flat and dull, these fragments of pure being are what tether me to the vibrant pulse of existence.
Life, I’ve learned through spiritual perspective, isn’t about waiting, or hoping, but about these singular moments of: intense love, the sudden clarity of faith, a deep, unexpected kindness, the quiet reshaping of one’s own universe.
They are the true meaning, the cream that rises to the surface.
The rest?
Perhaps just the necessary background noise to divide ordinary from extra ordinary.
When the internal clamor becomes too much, I find myself drawn to a new cafe, a foreign corner, losing myself in the surroundings, only to stumble upon the sharp, quiet presence of ‘now.’
For me, presence is a kind of absence — an absence of time, of worry, of the relentless internal critic.
It’s when a fleeting encounter, a stranger’s gaze, or the simple act of drawing leaves a lasting peace, a strange, profound calm I crave.
Very well written. Your imagery is so vivid that I could actually feel the scene and imagine myself there.