try not to see the stains on my lens… :)
♦
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
W.B. YEATS
♦
From the darkroom, my favorite photograph of my dear friend, Şahika. Had to be accompanied by this poem of Yeats, which is also one of my favorites…
Again, I feel like I ran out of words… But isn’t he right anyway?
“Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.”
SAMUEL BECKETT
The legend of Romulus, the founder of Rome, and his brother Remus rescued and fed by a she-wolf, is represented by sculptures and pictures all over Siena. Siena is believed to be founded by Senius, son of Remus. This sculpture is right in front of the Siena Cathedral, which is believed to be stolen from the Temple of Apollo in Rome and brought to the city by Senius.
I know I am posting maybe too many sculpture photographs, the thing is I can’t help taking photos whenever I see one especially when it’s surrounded by beautiful architecture, just like this one. I love to learn about the story behind them, I love the way they get old, I love to try and find the perfect background for them just before taking a photograph, I love the pigeons resting on them, I love the fact that they will stand there “for ever” and I will find them on the same spot whenever I wish to return.
Little Tailor
I was sitting in a cafe in Siena and there was this cute little vintage shop right in front of me. There was a little boy in the shop, who I guessed was the son of the owner. He seemed quite at home and knew what he was doing while helping others inside.
I was already taking photographs of the shop and the vintage stuff outside.
Then he came outside and sat on one of the little chairs with a white shirt ( probably an old one ) in his hand. He noticed that I had a camera and was a bit shy about it.
I tried not to make him uncomfortable but I was also curious about what he was up to. I managed not to pay attention to him and I think I was able to make him forget me for a while. He started sewing, probably repairing a part of the shirt. Left handed, he was quite skillful and he seemed like he had done it before.
Most of the time I am also not comfortable on this side of the camera while taking photos of people. Do you think I should practice more?
Chandeliers of Santa Maria in Aracoeli
well I heard there was a secret chord
that David played, and it pleased the Lord
but you don’t really care for music, do ya?
♦
Flea Market / Paris Style
I was in Paris just recently for business. It was a very tiring trip from start to the end and I couldn’t find the chance to see the gems of Paris this time, with only one exception; Clignancourt Flea Market. Maybe I haven’t told you before, but people who know me are familiar with it, I love used and antique objects of any kind. Clignancourt, with its hundreds of antique shops is a real wonderland for people like me. Within a limited time, I tried to see as much as possible with my sister. It is such a huge area, we decided to come back again for a few days only to visit Clignancourt. It has so much to offer, any kind of vintage and antique objects you can imagine…
So here are some photographs I took that day, I’m afraid these will have to do until next time.
Song Unsung
•
The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set ;
only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened ; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice ;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
•
from -my new favorite- GITANJALI, R. Tagore