September 24th 2011 4.00 – 10.00 pm

12924 54A Avenue, Surrey, BC V3X 3C9

Email: moira_elliott@yahoo.co.uk
I am holding an Open Studio event and you are all welcome! Originals and reproductions available to view. Bring your friends.

Wine + light refreshments!!

Look forward to seeing you.

Moira

Labour Day already! For me this weekend has a sense of unreality. It is the first Labour Day Weekend, since 1982, that I am not associated with the start of a new school year. This weekend always filled me with a mixture of excitement and anticipation as my own children prepared for the academic year ahead, clinging to those last giddy moments of summer delight. Later, as a secondary school art teacher, I would ponder the events of the coming year, keen to explore the creative thoughts of each student, but nevertheless I was always sad at the loss of summer freedom.

Teaching, within the school system, is now part of my past, and although I shall continue to maintain a special affection for the students, colleagues and parents that I met along the way, I am eager to concentrate my efforts on my own work.

However, I intend to continue to devote some of my time to teaching, and to this end, I am holding a one day workshop in my studio on Panorama Ridge. Details below:

ACRYLICS FOR ALL
LANDSCAPES AND FLORAS – OR SOMETHING OF YOUR CHOICE:
It’s amazing what you can achieve in just one day!

Have you ever wondered whether you can paint; felt a little awkward about going to classes? – “I’d love to learn to paint, but everyone else will be better….I mean, no one ever thought much of my art when I was at school…..”

OR – Are you someone who has painted with acrylics before – perhaps even in one of my classes? Are you familiar and confident with acrylics? Either way, this course is for you. Everyone ( over 14 years) is welcome. I teach to the individual, and I can honestly say that no one has ever left my class feeling disappointed. My success is in discovering the best in each student, and ensuring that they can put into practice their ideas to the best of their ability. You will learn colour mixing, washes, textures / impasto painting, brushwork techniques and composition – plus a few tricks of the trade!

WHEN Saturday September 17

9.00 am – 4.30 pm
FEE: $ 190.00

SUPPLIES: Paint brushes and acrylic paints ( I shall Email the specifics on enrollment.) A canvas – approx. 18X24″

Please bring images of landscapes or some floral imagery that you may be interested in working from. Alternatively, you may wish to bring a subject matter that you especially want to paint – or even a half finished canvas that you have always been intending to complete!

WHERE: My studio (Panorama Ridge) 12924 54A Avenue, Surrey BC
Email: moira_elliott@yahoo.co.uk
778 899 5116
www.moiraelliott.com

The Art of Moira Elliott
Newsletter #3 January 18^th 2011
Happy New Year to you all!

Now that the festive glow has paled and practically disappeared, dormant ideas, creative impulses and the images that excite my imagination are emerging from dormancy ready to ignite.

I plan to expand The Lady Moon Collection, and research further into Madonna and Mother Goddess imagery. These images will merge with my fascination with whimsical flow, delicate foliage and the startling impact of vibrant floral colour.

Please call me for a studio viewing at 778 899 5116, and I will be happy to show you my art.

My art is presently displayed at Blushing Boutique, 579 Richards Street, Vancouver until the end of February. Blushing Boutique is the flagship store of Shelley Klassen. This is a unique designer store where designers are on site to ensure the perfect fit for all clients. Blushing Boutique is Vancouver’s hot spot for ladies who appreciate timeless couture presented in a chic approachable setting. Blushing Boutique hosts an atelier and design studio.

You are invited an exhibition of:

The Art of Moira Elliott

At: Blushing Boutique

579 Richards Street, Vancouver BC

info@blushingdesigns.com

5.30 – 9.30 Thursday January 27^{th 2011}

Enjoy an evening of excellent conversation

Unique fashion and exquisite designer jewellery

Wine and cheese!

Bring your colleagues and friends!

With every best wish,

Moira Elliott
The Art of Moira Elliott
moira_elliott@yahoo.co.uk
www. moiraelliott.com
778 899 5116

Well, things are moving  along quite nicely, and there are a variety of places were my work will be shown – either the original work itself, or top quality reproduction will be exhibited. (I cannot speak highly enough about the remarkable room sized scanner from Germany that makes it near impossible to differentiate an original  from a reproduction.)

So, here we go for the remainder of this year:

Saturday November 20th 2010:

I have donated, for auction, a life sized reproduction of , ‘Flowers of Life’ to The Southpointe Academy School Gala, South Delta, BC, Canada.

Friday evening, Saturday and Sunday November 26 -28 2010:

Several reproductions of my work will be made available for sale at The East Cultural Crawl – I am displaying with MAB VENTURES at 1310, William Street, Vancouver, BC, Canada.

December 1 2010:

I shall be exhibiting both original and reproductions of my work at ‘Blushing Boutique,’ 599, Richards Street Vancouver, BC, Canada.

I am presently involved with  providing more opportunities to view exhibitions of my work  in the New Year.

For studio visits, please call: 778 899 5116

Book Two Chapter Two: Turkey

A descriptive scene describing a primitive café and the protagonists’ reactions

After Boyabat, the road narrowed and became little more than a dirt track. They began to climb up a mountain pass towards the Black Sea coast. About an hour from Boyabat, they stopped at a foul place for lunch. The floor was nothing but hard packed earth, on which was centred an entire lamb, roasting on a spit. Fat hissed noisily as it dripped onto the flame beneath. They seated themselves at a table covered with a greasy oil skin cloth incongruously printed with a gaudy picture of the Eiffel tower. The unevenness of the earthen floor caused the table to wobble precariously and a grubby cook sat on a wooden bench repeatedly stirring a cauldron that was placed on the table in front of him. He put his ladle down for a minute and  gestured to them. His face was expressionless and had not altered since they walked in. This gesture was his method of finding out what they wanted to eat – not that there was a choice. There was no necessity for a menu.  The selection was right there. The contents of the cauldron or… the contents of the cauldron.

“Wes, why does he keep stirring over and over again? The pot isn’t even being heated by anything?” whispered Sally. She was feeling peevish, hungry and a little tired of the grubbier side of life.

“I can only say that if it doesn’t seem to bother him, why should it bother us?” he responded, amused by Sally’s question.

“Look at all the dead flies stuck to that lamp cord! Ughh! This is horrible. Isn’t there anywhere else?”

“Like where exactly, My Lady? I’m sure that every restaurant on this dirt road has been vetted by Egon Ronay. If you don’t want to eat, it’s up to you, but don’t expect the food to get much better and anyway who knows when we’ll find any place to eat at all in the near future. What’s the worst that can happen if you eat this? Anyway, our hesitation is insulting the guy.”

Wes seemed to be irritated by her. Maybe he was simply hungry; she wasn’t sure. She instantly questioned herself, “Is he tiring of me? Does he wish he’d picked a heartier girl to accompany him? She was envisioning a hefty female mountain climber dressed up in whatever was needed to take-on all possible threats to survival, when a rooster and hen noisily squawked as they ran across the dirt floor close to her feet.

Hearty mountain climber or not, Sally muttered, “Oh God! Now that’s disgusting!”

Wes laughed, “Spoken like a true English lady!”

She sat down beginning to eat her stew. After a short while of picking at the luke warm lamb concoction, avoiding lumps of congealed fat, she looked through the window and noticed a red car pulling up.

Book Two, Chapter Three, Tabriz

Insight into Sally’s fearful nature and description of her reaction to a superstitious moment:

Flies and wasps buzzed above the vegetable stand. A couple of flies crawled over the vendor’s face. He did not seem to notice, or maybe he just didn’t care. There was a stench of rot about the place. To the side of the stand, a heap of decaying green vegetables – slimy and brown was piled. Flies and wasps gathered there in such numbers that it was hard to see the vegetables at all. Sally thought of brochures she had seen – exulting in the charm and exotic abundance of untraveled pastures in the East.

Make a change….Experience the enigma of the Orient!

Change. A desire to know. A desire to be seen to have experienced something beyond the experience of another. A kind of wisdom?

Wise men:

“ Three Kings from Persian lands afar

To Jordan follow the pointing star….”

Peter Cornelius

A yearning to find the different, the true – the full extent of one’s spiritual depth, connection and understanding. What is real? What is myth? what makes us cry out with joy – with pure bliss, overcome with the sensuality of our surroundings? Breathing it all in with prolonged deep breaths. The breaths of recovery and life. Now we may note the small things with a clarity of vision. Those deep breaths that submerge our soul into the natural world. Pantheism.

A sense of sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round oceons and living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man.

William Wordsworth

Those rare times when we really connect with someone in conversation. When we know that they, too, see deeply inside us, – to what really makes us tick, feel, believe. Yes! They know! They comprehend all that is me! That base human essence:

“It is I! It is I. It is me!!! Oh yes, yes.  It is me before you- naked as the day that I was born, – but you see me. You bore into my thoughts. You know me!!!!”

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his,
By just exchange, one for the other giv’n.
I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;
There never was a better bargain driv’n.
His heart in me keeps me and him in one,
My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides;
He loves my heart, for once it was his own;
I cherish his, because in me it bides.
His heart his wound received from my sight:
My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;
For as from me, on him his hurt did light,
So still me thought in me his hurt did smart:
Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss:
My true love hath my heart and I have his.

Sir Philip Sydney

A tap on the shoulder. Sally, started from her reverie and turned to see the old lady from the coffee shop. She signaled impatiently for Sally to follow her back to the little store and into the back room. She still held Sally’s coffee cup in her hand. Open hessian sacks, were stacked toward the far corner of the shop, full of the spices that scented the place -  reminiscent of stories from “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights” – allspice, turmeric, sandalwood and senna – smelling like brewed tea. A thin cloth curtain, patterned with fine designs inlaid with gold thread, hung from a wire that stretched across the width of the store to separate off a confined area filled with trinkets, hanging baubles and elaborately framed small photographs of people from the past, unsmiling in traditional cultural clothing. Forever watching with sepia and faded black and white formality.

The old lady pulled up a rickety chair that had once been painted gold but was now a sad remnant of its grand self, for the paint had largely peeled off to reveal a chair of humble origin. She indicated that Sally should sit down on this chair, while she settled herself on a similar one. Much to Sally’s surprise, the old lady suddenly pulled back the curtain, that she had just drawn, threw back her head and yelled sharply,

“Mahmud!”

A lanky teenage boy appeared, wearing a sulky expression, his feet thrust into broken plastic sandals. He wore the pajama like clothing that was common among the men folk. His sullen eyes studied Sally for a moment, but beneath the resentment she detected in those eyes, there lurked a canny intelligence.

The old lady muttered something to him and pointed back and forth from herself to Sally.

“I translate for you, Mrs. I speak very good English. My grandmother. Her. She think it important read your fortune now.”

Sally felt a bit unnerved, yet she found herself accepting quietly.

“Tell her to go ahead.”

“A head?”

“Tell her, yes, read my fortune.”

The old lady smiled slightly in acknowledgement and looked into the cup.

“I see rings – here” Mahmud translated “Could mean a marriage” he whispered to her.

“There are lines – you go a long, long way from your home. I see an open window, should be lucky, but the line is not clear.”

Then she stopped, looked earnestly into the cup again and then raised her eyes, leaned forward so that Sally could feel her breath on her face as she looked  intently into Sally’s eyes and muttered something with a low voice.

Mahmud translated for her.

“You do not know who you are…..You do not know how to be…”

Sally froze. It felt as though a heavy weight had dropped deep into her stomach. The old lady gave a sharp nod of her head and continued:

“You have the strength of warrior woman. But you are afraid.”

She turned the cup and looked a little deeper, “You make too much of your love. You fear it. You do not know that you have rare power. People will fight for you. People will follow you. You have….”

Here Mahmud began to struggle, “I do not know how to say. Here we say ‘people see you shine like the sun. They see you when clouds come.’ It is no matter, she says people look to you but you do not see, but you will and you must.”

The old lady was becoming agitated, “…No more fear!” she exclaimed so earnestly that her spittle landed on Sally’s cheek. Sally daren’t brush it off, but sat there alarmed and aware of the feel of the wet saliva as it cooled on her face.  “People with power,  No fear. Your man is a good man, but he must let you be what you need to be.”

Muhmad paused waiting. She muttered something low and her gaze penetrated deep into Sally’s soul. “Always think, I am warrior woman, and who the devil are you. That’s all,” she nodded sharply.

She put the cup down, looked up one more time at Sally and added.

“You must remember always this, and speak it to yourself: ‘As long as I can breath, I am alive,’ you must say that, if you are lost in the desert or surrounded by eskiya, bandits, in the mountains:

‘..as long as I can breath, I am alive.’”

Sally felt dazed, the smell of the spices, the droning of the flies and wasps, the heat. It was stuffy, the air was close. The old woman continued to stare. Mahmud was looking at her strangely – a kind of new respect. Sally saw the glimmer of intelligence once more in his eyes. The old woman leaned forward, her face was blurring, she was saying something, Mahmud’s face was close before her.

“You OK? You need water?”

Sally felt muddled; a need to sink. Sink into a deep indigo void where the mass of the sea felt strong around her. Bearing her up.  Solid  – like hugging an exercise ball bloated with air.

“….All I need is the air that I breathe.” The song.

“As long as I can breathe, I am alive.” The words.

A need to sleep. A need to remember – but what was she to remember. She remembered crowds of people outside, packed together around her. A sense of tightness, faces twisting and turning as they closed in on her. Distorted.  Arms reaching upwards and outward. Waving with panic, an hysteria of wild dancing that has gone beyond control. The dance has gone beyond the human. The dance of spirits, otherworldliness. Cries of despair. Wails from the lost, the seekers…

“We are the dead

Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow…..”

John McCrae

“We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!”

T. S. Eliot

War. The dance cries out for more! A frenzy. Mouths distorted into screams. The shape of Edward Munch. The swelling of music and the flow of that all enveloping Francis Poulenc music…… again! “Dialogue of the Carmelites” Here she was. Yes she was Blanche, pathologically timid, afraid to leave the convent. Afraid to stay. Afraid to be afraid.  Afraid of fear itself.

In the early eighteenth century, No dancing was one of the conditions that applied to freed African slaves if they wished to be part of Freetown in the new colony of Sierra Leone. And yet she was “strong,” the fortune teller said so and….

There was something soft beneath her and something heavy but dusty smelling above her. She realized that she was lying down with a blanket of goat skin covering her.

 “….All I need is the air that I breathe.” The song.

“As long as I can breathe, I am alive.” The words.

A need to sleep. A need to remember – but what was she to remember. She remembered crowds of people outside, packed together around her. A sense of tightness, faces twisting and turning as they closed in on her. Distorted.  Arms reaching upwards and outward. Waving with panic like the hysteria of wild dancing that has gone beyond control. The dance that has gone beyond the human. The dance of spirits, otherworldliness. Cries of despair. Wails from the lost, the seekers.

“We are the dead

Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow…..”

John McCrae

“We are the hollow men

We are the stuffed men

Leaning together

Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!”

T. S. Eliot

War. The dance cries for more. A frenzy. Mouths distorted into screams. The shape of Edward Munch.  The swelling of the music and flow of that all enveloping Francis Poulenc music again, “Dialogue of the Carmelites” Here she was. Yes she was Blanche, pathologically timid afraid to leave the convent, afraid to stay. Afraid to be afraid.  Afraid of fear itself.

In the early eighteenth century, No dancing was one of the conditions that applied to freed African slaves if they wished to be part of Freetown in the new colony of Sierra Leone. And yet she was “strong,” the fortune teller said so and….

There was something soft beneath her and something heavy but dusty smelling above her. She realized that she was lying down with a blanket of goat skin covering her.

Book Two Chapter two Turkey:

Sally expresses her religious beliefs – overwhelmed by a monastery high in the mountains of Eastern Turkey

The concierge chatted to them a little in the morning, and told them about an abandoned monastery not far from there.

“The monastery at Sumela,” he said. “The monks lived there until we Turks drove them out, er, some time ago,” he added hastily in case he caused offence to the Westerners standing before him. “It is thirty kilometers to the north of the Kackar mountains.”

They laughed at his awkwardness and good naturedly promised to follow his advice.

A winding mountain road led them near to the monastery, although it was necessary to abandon the land rover and climb a fair distance up a scraggy mountain. To begin with, they followed a wide river bed. The river had largely dried up over the summer leaving a small reminder of the rushing force which would have been daunting in winter months. It was hard work walking on the river rocks, the occasional one would hesitate beneath their weight and they had to catch their balance quickly for fear of spraining an ankle. It occurred to Sally that it would be a serious problem should it really happen. In fact, what if any injury or accident occurred?  Here they were in the middle of nowhere, and in the unlikely event of them gaining help, chances were it would be inadequate, and even a sprained ankle could become more serious and lead to…

“Say. Just look at that!” Wes exclaimed pointing upwards.

What she saw was extraordinary. There, high above them in the evergreen hills, on top of a jagged wall of rocks, perched the monastery. It commanded a panoramic view, partially obscured by intermittent, capricious mists. The climb was arduous, but the smell of the pines and the stunning steep slopes provided the incentive to press on.  Parts of the trail were worn away and more than once the soil collapsed beneath Sally’s feet to reveal a treacherous drop below. The air was cool and smelled alternatively of the sea breezes from the Black Sea and the ponderous aroma of coniferous trees.

They sat down on some springy grass, awed by the powerful structure above them.  Sally picked up a miniscule red flower, hardly aware that she did so. She gently fingered the petals. Above them, was the magnificent symbol of grandeur and religious certainty that the Byzantine Empire had offered the world. No doubts or questions but an empirical reliance on the omnipotence of God.

“What a phenomenal view! How admirable the monks must have been – able to envisage the potential for this sacred place, but also able to carry out their building plan so well. Here we are, hail and hearty in the middle of the twentieth century, finding it a struggle to climb this mountain side when masonry and building materials were hauled up here, often on the workers’ backs.” She stopped for a moment and continued to look upward while the mist descended on the monastery, obscuring it from view for an instant.

‘How moving all this is to her. How much it matters,’ thought Wes. She could change her mood, her entire personality, at any moment for no comprehendible reason, or so it seemed to him. He understood what she was saying – the content. Yes, it was remarkable what people could achieve many years ago with limited technology, and yes it was also remarkable to think how strong the hold of their religion was on them. Religious belief, once common to all, was a hoax, superstitious nonsense. The Catholic Church was indeed powerful and had total control of the minds of the people then and now, utterly ruthless to opposition. He had recently seen “A Man for All Seasons” and was fascinated by the figure of St. Thomas More. Indeed his curiosity peeked enough for him to search for a book about him in Foyles before they left England.

‘How could More, a man of such superior intellect, scholarship and comprehension, be so uncompromising in his stubborn acquiescence to the Church’s teachings?’ he pondered. ‘Was his a “Noble End?”’ He did not hold with Bolt’s representation of More – the steadfast saint and family man holding fast to his principles, fearless of his certain execution and the inevitable abandonment of the family he loved. More was flawed – a bigot. Yet this bigotry was the very thing that made him a saint in the eyes of the Catholic Church.  How could anyone be part of a religion that encouraged ignorance, paid lip service to the poor and forbade the single thing that would alleviate poverty more than anything else – contraception? Sally was bright –even brilliant, but she was able to manipulate her good sense into acceptance of the preposterous. Was every intellectual, with religious belief, suspect? He failed to see any connection between analytical questioning and an acceptance of God.

“You know,” she continued, as if acknowledging his silent thoughts, “This,” she again gestured to include the monastery and its surroundings, “is when any non believer has to question his disbelief. Why would anyone go to such pains and self sacrifice, or even hold to the fervent belief that God is working through them if it is all just a ruse? How can you question whether such beauty is inspired? Is there not evidence enough right here– in front of us that God is working through man to His greater glory?” She paused for breath.

“I can see you’re quite worked up about this. I see another lecture room session coming up!”

“I suppose I am. It’s so hard to explain – to be articulate. Feelings, faith, irrational fears – all of these to you are incorporeal for the most part. In the end it is a matter of faith – especially when trying to explain something that envelopes you in a moment – transcends…”

He began to laugh, incredulously. “Now, I know you’re getting carried away!” He hoped his laughter hid his growing confusion. He wanted to understand. He simply could not.

Was he mocking her? Accepting old clichés that Catholics confessed their sins with the comforting knowledge that they could commit them again?  Just say the word, and a clean slate was theirs for the taking. Forgiveness – one of many strange and appealing lures of the Catholic Church.

“Yes, you may say I’m getting carried away if you like, but honestly, Wes – let me give you an example – an insight into the depths of my deeply dark mind,” she laughed uneasily. “Do you really want to know me? – to understand the core of me – who I am?” she was serious now.

Her words were intense, and her voice faltered. He saw that she was on the verge of tears. Why? Why on earth did all this matter so much? Couldn’t they simply enjoy the beauty of the place? Recognize and appreciate a piece of history – a reminder? The past was ‘past’ because it was no more. Quite simple really. She recovered herself.

“Last year, just before Christmas, the BBC televised a production of Handel’s ‘Messiah.’ It was performed in a cathedral somewhere. Where? I no longer remember, but throughout the performance, the camera focused on some of the greatest religious paintings and sculptures ever created. It was especially formidable when the choir sung, “For unto Us a Son is born.’ The camera lingered on some poignant depictions of Mary, Christ, the saints and those who worshiped at the crib. It was emotionally shattering, actually. The words from Isaiah:

“‘Wonderful, Councilor,

The Mighty God, the Ever Lasting Father, The Prince of Peace…’

It was as though Handel’s music enveloped the artists while they created their work, inspiring them to glorify God in recognition of His divinity – His divinity manifesting itself through the artist’s hands.  And at that moment, hearing those commanding words sung, overwhelmed by the music, visual imagery and sheer beauty; something spiritual, tranquil and pure reached out to me – and I acquiesced. What Evelyn Waugh would call a moment when you are aware with total clarity that sanctifying grace is being offered to you.”

“Dear Sally, come here!” He hugged her, stroked her hair and continued almost as though he were trying to sooth a child. “You know I just don’t buy any of this at all. At all.” He said this gently, but the gentleness with which he said it cut her to the quick. Reverting to his more familiar self he continued, “The church will use any means it can to keep the people bare arsed and pregnant. All in all it’s a numbers game. Last thing they want is for the masses to be educated. Keep ’em ignorant, unquestioning – that’s the way.”

“Oh, Wes,” she sighed softly, “Maybe, I am too serious, and introspective, for your liking, but you should read Graham Greene’s ‘The End of The Affair’ one of these days. There’s a fellow in it that has a large strawberry birth mark  on his face. He is a fervent atheist – to the point where he proclaims his disbelief from a soap box at Hyde Park Corner. Anyway, the point made is – how can someone hate with such passion something that doesn’t exist? If I remember rightly, I think he felt an intense anger that he was born with that birth mark, and refused to believe in a God who would allow this affliction.

Now, after all this heaviness, are you sure you’re still interested in looking through the monastery with me?”

“Only if you promise not to try to convert me – that’s if you can resist” he added smiling. “Could we have a moratorium on religion for the rest of the day? I wasn’t planning to spend tonight with a nun in a chastity belt!”

Stability and consistency of Istanbul / Constantinople, despite constant strife provides background for insights into the protagonist’s instability and vulnerability:

There is a remarkable distinction between Western and Eastern Turkey, clear as can be, when crossing the Galatan Bridge. The bridge length in itself is remarkable, thought Sally – but to think that it was built as far back as the sixth century is beyond belief. This sharp dissimilarity between western and eastern Turkey was one of the most striking contrasts that she had ever seen. She was aware that Istanbul was part of two continents, but the marked difference between the fashionable patrons of the five star Western hotels, and the grim faced merchants who called out their prices in the dusty bizarre, seemed impossible within such close proximity. Yes, Istanbul was ancient as can be, where diverse religions, histories and cultures have always merged – in and out of dominance.

Though not the official capitol, Istanbul was the commercial capitol of Turkey. It was one hundred and twenty kilometers in length, fifty kilometers in width and it housed two and a half million people to boot. Wes pointed out this fact while reading the back of a map that, since leaving England, was coffee stained and torn at the creases. He parked at the side of the road to take in the view.

“Hard to believe that skyline! Pretty cool, eh!” he exclaimed. “Look, there’s the Topkapi palace, Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and the spice market!”

Sally noted the silver gleam on the dark water which had so much history standing grandly above it. Standing firm despite changing tides or changing people. This was magnificence.  A tribute to the ideals and beliefs of people long gone.  The workers who built these splendid buildings and monuments all had lives, loves, hopes and disappointments, as did their superiors who contemplated and designed these edifices. No matter what historical evidence still survives to elaborate their memory, no one now really knows them. She, like them, was a speck in time. Insignificant. Unimportant.  Such lack of permanence – so obvious and overwhelming with these strong symbols of this very thought so well defined before her eyes.

“Silly to say, but it’s all – well,  just so large, so vast, so majestic – while we, well we’re just us, and we’ll fade into nothing – just like the tide, and no one will ever remember us – or that we were ever here.”

He looked at her. He had no idea what she meant, but Sally, gazing at the dark water with the glassy unwelcome gleams of light, felt an all too familiar feeling. It was as though she was standing in front of a tall London building that was about to be demolished. A crane turned on its axis, and a massive, heavy iron ball attached to the end of a Herculean chain swung and slammed itself into part of the building – crushing it into rubble. Years of lives, destinies and conversations had taken place within the walls of that building. People made love there, carefully chose the wallpaper – pathetic strips of which could now be seen unraveling from large masses of plaster on brick. A staircase reached inelegantly towards the sky – leading from and to nowhere. 

Sally observed this massive old city of Istanbul, and felt the clout of the colossal iron ball hit her, directly in the stomach. She was stunned by the blow. All her fervor and curiosity left her. Only emptiness remained. Her lips clenched together, and she found herself mechanically responding to Wes’ enthusiastic explanations, while living within the hollow created by the swing of that iron ball. She closed her eyes. The reverberations of that thud filled her body.

Sally tried her best to tear herself from her feelings. She had had years of practice with this. She mechanically responded to all around her and spoke and acted as though she were in a play. Smiled in the right places. Spoke the right words. Such was the act.

Book Two chapter Two. Turkey

A small incident in the Bazaar in Istanbul:

Wes led her to the Bayazit gates of the Grand Bazaar. Sally looked up at the strength of the structure. It was not ornate, but a “no nonsense” practical entrance to a famous long standing centre of commerce. It was made of square stone slabs that continued to a high archway, the shape of which was repeated above. There were battlements at the top. She was overawed, acknowledging the domed masonry structure of the bazaar and the vaulted ceilings of the walkways.

They pushed their way through crowded streets, past the occasional well dressed tourist, – some a little ostentatious in their ability to buy the treasures of the bazaar – silver and gold gilded necklaces in lacy designs – highlighted with precious and semi precious stones of various colours, earrings of black amber and iridized opal. They eyed bangles and anklets – set with coral and bright turquoise stones, beaten copper and silver ‘cesves’ – the wide bottomed Turkish coffee pots with spouts, narrow necks and long handles stacked high on humble tables piled with Turkish cloths. Each region of Turkey had its own designs and characteristics woven into these cloths with dyes from plant ingredients.

Babbling buyers, women in western dress, women dressed in tesettur – the head scarf and light cover-all top coat, acceptable to Muslim sensibilities since Turkish law forbade religious dress, while bangles glistened where flecks of sunlight occasionally beamed through the darkness and shone on them. Women aggressively gesturing, and simultaneously vocal, demanding their price. Unflappable shop keepers crouched behind their wares, shaking their heads and slowly waving their hand – almost in a blessing, to signify that it would take more than that to make any headway with them.

Sally stepped backwards to take this all in, and bumped into a small child with bare feet and thin clothing running as fast as he could from the looming form of a rotund and angry figure spouting short sharp words while he gasped for breath, his mouth like a fish – words blurting out in short gusts of air and spit. Sally tried to imagine what was happening . Had the boy stolen something? Was he rushing away from a ruthless employer? Relative? Father? School master? She noted the boy’s  huge brown eyes that were darting restlessly and fearfully as he fell to the ground.

“I’m so sorry!” exclaimed Sally as she attempted to help him up. The child pulled himself roughly from her and angrily flapped his arms pointing at her and at the fat man who had since caught up with the young escapee.

The fat man started yelling accusations at Sally. He gestured and pointed behind him furiously. Sally was bewildered. The more she apologized the more fury burst forth from both man and boy.

Wes interjected, “We’re sorry – but you just can’t yell like that at my wife!”

By now a large crowd was gathering, everyone seemed to have something to say. At any rate they were all very serious  and exclaiming noisily. Much head shaking, nodding, tut tutting and so forth. However, when Wes addressed them, they seemed to listen, albeit that they understood little of what he was saying. The man and the boy continued to speak angrily to each other, though a little less vehemently.

“It looks like the boy has stolen something from the old guy,” Wes whispered to Sally, “Who knows if it’s true or not.”

Wes began to speak to the gathering in German, and one or two of them responded. It was only men who spoke, but they became quite amenable and chatty, calling out German cities and towns, some of which Sally recognized. They gesticulated. One of them clearly was referring to something vulgar. Wes and the men ended up laughing. They patted him on the back, the boy and the fat man forgotten. What the circumstances of their quarrel had been, Sally had no idea. She asked Wes who replied,

“Absolutely no clue – maybe he stole something, maybe he didn’t. These guys just love any kind of spectacle and action. Once they gather together, they are all absolutely certain of what took place and the truth evaporates. One thing for sure, the guys have all invited us to their homes – well probably about twelve of them are quite insistent.

Some of these men were guest workers in Germany, so naturally they speak some German. I was telling them about my air force days in Baden-Baden; and they were telling me… ….well, that doesn’t matter too much! I suggest that we decline the offers and continue on our way.

By the way, I suggest that you don’t ever interfere in any dispute between males – young or old in the East again. It is frowned upon for women to take part in any negotiations between males in public.

Come on – there’s lots to look at.”

“Why did you refer to me as your wife?”

“Consider it protection – wise too. They don’t have much respect for western women – especially those who travel around with a man when they’re not married to him!”

Sally felt uncomfortable, a little foolish and very much patronized by Wes. She was indeed vulnerable. She was aware that he was simply trying to protect her, and that he had lived in the Middle East for many years. Yet she felt humiliated and incidental. She reverted to a childish habit of hers and decided that she would not bother to speak to him for a while.

On the protagonist, Sally’s thoughts when leaving England – reflections on the Ford Maddox Brown’s painting, “The Last of England.’

“We are lucky, you and I. There is so much in our life together ahead. Who else has a complete new start like this. Everything before today is ancient history,” he muttered.

 Sally heard the hovercraft speakers pounding out the latest Rod Stewart hit –

I am sailing, I am sailing,
Home again cross the sea.
I am sailing, stormy waters,
To be near you, to be free.

I am flying, I am flying,
Like a bird cross the sky.
I am flying, passing high clouds,
To be with you, to be free.

Can you hear me, can you hear me
Through the dark night, far away,
I am dying, forever trying,
To be with you, who can say.

Sally’s eyes closed. Drowsiness from the gin, and the hedonistic glow of their deepening tenderness seeped with the words from the song into her thoughts. She felt at ease. A rare feeling. Relaxed.

She visualized Ford Maddox Brown’s painting, “The Last of England.” She had written a paper on it. The painting reveals the enigmatic feelings of a young couple leaving Dover on a clipper ship bound for America. Most likely a one way journey. The painting is dated 1885, but that look of despair and finality is timeless. It is understood and thrusts deep into the emotions of emigrants everywhere. It is the voice of the raw loss of family and home. The voice of uncertainty. The determination to cling to what hopes and dreams they had -  no matter how flimsy. What led them to this moment of embarkation?

The couple cling together for support. Their future might entail the founding of a new dynasty of their own, (perhaps that is suggested by the children who appear in the background) but at that moment, they feel an overpowering ache of irrevocable loss – their past and their identity. No matter how long they live, they will always feel apart. Separate beings. They will never belong to the England of the present time. They will always see their country and old haunts as static. To them “home” will always stay fixed in 1885. Those who knew them in their youth and early adulthood, knew them before they learned how to put up the barriers and walls to survive the demands of life.

Henceforth, this couple will always be to others the people they choose to present themselves as. In time, the old country will consider them foreign, yet in their new land they will always maintain their ethnicity, no matter how well they integrate. There will always be an inner loneliness no matter how much they seem to be part of the crowd. Sally did not really understand this then, but later she was to understand it completely.

She was shocked out of her reverie by a sudden, sharp jolt as the hover craft slowed dramatically.

From Book Two Chapter Two. Turkey

Stability and consistency of Istanbul / Constantinople, despite constant strife provides background for insights into the protagonist’s instability and vulnerability:

There is a remarkable distinction between Western and Eastern Turkey, clear as can be, when crossing the Galatan Bridge. The bridge length in itself is remarkable, thought Sally – but to think that it was built as far back as the sixth century is beyond belief. This sharp dissimilarity between western and eastern Turkey was one of the most striking contrasts that she had ever seen. She was aware that Istanbul was part of two continents, but the marked difference between the fashionable patrons of the five star Western hotels, and the grim faced merchants who called out their prices in the dusty bizarre, seemed impossible within such close proximity. Yes, Istanbul was ancient as can be, where diverse religions, histories and cultures have always merged – in and out of dominance.

Though not the official capitol, Istanbul was the commercial capitol of Turkey. It was one hundred and twenty kilometers in length, fifty kilometers in width and it housed two and a half million people to boot. Wes pointed out this fact while reading the back of a map that, since leaving England, was coffee stained and torn at the creases. He parked at the side of the road to take in the view.

“Hard to believe that skyline! Pretty cool, eh!” he exclaimed. “Look, there’s the Topkapi palace, Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and the spice market!”

Sally noted the silver gleam on the dark water which had so much history standing grandly above it. Standing firm despite changing tides or changing people. This was magnificence.  A tribute to the ideals and beliefs of people long gone.  The workers who built these splendid buildings and monuments all had lives, loves, hopes and disappointments, as did their superiors who contemplated and designed these edifices. No matter what historical evidence still survives to elaborate their memory, no one now really knows them. She, like them, was a speck in time. Insignificant. Unimportant.  Such lack of permanence – so obvious and overwhelming with these strong symbols of this very thought so well defined before her eyes.

“Silly to say, but it’s all – well,  just so large, so vast, so majestic – while we, well we’re just us, and we’ll fade into nothing – just like the tide, and no one will ever remember us – or that we were ever here.”

He looked at her. He had no idea what she meant, but Sally, gazing at the dark water with the glassy unwelcome gleams of light, felt an all too familiar feeling. It was as though she was standing in front of a tall London building that was about to be demolished. A crane turned on its axis, and a massive, heavy iron ball attached to the end of a Herculean chain swung and slammed itself into part of the building – crushing it into rubble. Years of lives, destinies and conversations had taken place within the walls of that building. People made love there, carefully chose the wallpaper – pathetic strips of which could now be seen unraveling from large masses of plaster on brick. A staircase reached inelegantly towards the sky – leading from and to nowhere. 

Sally observed this massive old city of Istanbul, and felt the clout of the colossal iron ball hit her, directly in the stomach. She was stunned by the blow. All her fervor and curiosity left her. Only emptiness remained. Her lips clenched together, and she found herself mechanically responding to Wes’ enthusiastic explanations, while living within the hollow created by the swing of that iron ball. She closed her eyes. The reverberations of that thud filled her body.

Sally tried her best to tear herself from her feelings. She had had years of practice with this. She mechanically responded to all around her and spoke and acted as though she were in a play. Smiled in the right places. Spoke the right words. Such was the act.

From “Leavings” Book One Chapter Three:

Reflection, after the first kiss of new understanding between the two protagonists

……the usual internal speculations about how we had measured up as lovers. Did we measure up? Then there were those close enduring hugs – the ultimate in reassurance and gentleness. I held his head in both my hands and kissed him for as long as I could. I just wished him to know how tender he was to me, how excited I was, and how I was beginning to feel that, yes, he probably was the one for me.

A kiss. A message.

A kiss may be interpreted in many different ways. The betrayal kiss of Judas. The kiss of greeting. The kiss of parting. Different, but still a kiss. Klimt’s decorative kiss. The marble kiss of Rodin. A kiss at bedtime. The magic of a first kiss ever – the constantly recalled first kiss of that special relationship. The Middle Eastern kiss of forgiveness – I was to become quite familiar with this foreign kiss in time.

………”You must remember this

A kiss is still a kiss…………..” 

 (I have since heard that this song was voted the love song of the twentieth century.)

But I wanted that kiss I gave Wes to speak what I could not say – what I was too vulnerable to admit. I wanted it to say -

 “Look after me. Protect me. Keep me safe. Give me the security that I have always lacked.”

He was supposed to know what that talking kiss meant.

So the beginning of something was the end of something…..

The end of Jim and me. The end of family life, as I knew it. The end of my life as a teacher. The end of my working life as a single girl. The end of the unconscious knowledge which said I was English. That Radio Four and,  “The Archers”,  William Hardcastle -  “The World at One,”- streets where every house had a front garden with a gate and roses – well mostly, and milk bottles, full or empty, adorned  front steps. This would not be my world in the same way ever again. Business men, business suited, hurrying towards their train at seven in the morning,  a newspaper under arm to read on their journey to London. Same faces on the platform each day, but no acknowledgment – just a secret note to oneself that the familiar stranger has had his hair cut, bought new shoes or seems to be suffering from a hangover. The English way of watching others while thinking up possible stories and lives for “the watched.” The imagined family life – the truly absurd prospect that the business suit and hat were worn at all times. “Don’t get too involved with anyone, – heaven forbid, you might get stuck having to talk to them everyday!”

So this was it. “The leaving.”  Bitter sweet – a clear definitive state. A balance. A future to embrace / a parting to regret.

Long ago I wished to leave
” The house where I was born; ”
Long ago I used to grieve,
My home seemed so forlorn.
In other years, its silent rooms
Were filled with haunting fears;
Now, their very memory comes
O’ercharged with tender tears.

“Regret”  by  Charlotte Bronte