Taksim Square, Istanbul. 21st of April.

Everyone here thinks I am Muslim.

It must be the beard.

Istanbul is definitely one of the most diverse, eclectic, lively, vibrant, aesthetically beautiful cities I've ever been to in the world. As the second largest city on the globe, we cannot deny the empirical evidence that people over the course of history have naturally gravitated to this place. Turkey has been a civilization for the Byzantine, the Persians, the Greeks, the Ottomans and other historically esoteric ethnic groups. All this past gives birth to a present glowing, sparkling, exploding with cultural splendor.

This place also has its retardation. There are many things that are old fashion. On most street or alley corners there are shoe shiners wearing dusty shoes. They've got lustrous golden shoeshine boxes with brushes and sponges sticking out at the sides. They sit on the sidewalk begging people to be their servant. From the eyes of a person conditioned in the West, this is an archaic method at dealing with the merciless, skewed distribution of wealth.

Also, there are men who pick up trash form the streets in a way I've never seen without looking at a black and white picture. They roll these massive carts holding a bag that could double as a parachute up hills, downs, where ever trash lied unattended. This too was old fashion to me. Seeing this triggered thoughts of ancient Egypt, slaves of Ramses carrying colossal stones through the sand. This reminded me of a primary resource I read about Brazil in the 1870s which made accounts of slaves carrying their masters who sat on these chair-like things on their backs into town for an evening of amusement.

I hold no offense to Turkish society. Any society whether American, Israeli or Chinese has its ugly attributes.

On Taking Photos. (Written April 20something 2011)

Walking through Istanbul's windy streets laden with ancient cobblestone overshadowed by mosques, the most magnificent, spectacular architectural phenomena in the city, I feel the urge to take photos. All that which surrounds me awakens within me the obligation to replicate this image for future admiration.

But really, the photograph cannot capture all the splendor, all the surrealism of a mysterious place. The camera cannot grasp the humbling brilliance of the dense orange sunset, the last stand of the sun's enlivening rays behind the silhouette of the mosques sitting on hilltops with distant pigeons gliding over the city pulsating with life. A picture cannot explain the sounds, the smells, the sensations. It can only attempt to remind the photographer. But he, in his focus on aesthetics, can fail to remember that which breathes life into the image.