ARTEMIS
Artemis was studying a photograph in a large art book. It depicted the Creation
of Adam fresco in the Sistine Chapel: a bearded, elderly figure—surrounded
by angels—reaching out his hand toward Adam. As Artemis ran her fingertips
lightly over the photograph, she heard a deep male voice: “You cannot touch
God!”
Artemis smiled. The man approaching with a cane was Musa, the country’s
eminent art historian. With his white beard and austere countenance, Musa
rather resembled the common church depictions of God—save for the angels
missing at his side. Artemis began to say, “You look like Him,” but her words
faltered midway. Musa replied curtly, “No one can resemble Him.”
Despite his advancing years, Musa was a strict, disciplined professor,
still teaching at the university and hosting student gatherings in his home. He
often said, “You cannot secure a place for yourself in the future without
understanding the past.” After speaking with Artemis for a while, he decided
she would be the perfect intern to transfer his handwritten manuscripts to the
computer. Artemis, in turn, was delighted by the idea of spending time in this
professor’s home—steeped in the scent of old books. Little did they know that
this brief meeting, which lasted scarcely eight minutes, would change both
their lives.
LISSA
It had been five years since Lissa, a young woman from Africa in the prime
of her youth, found herself in the Zeytinburnu district of Istanbul. Every
birthday, she would celebrate alone with a single-serving, frozen cake
purchased from a cheap grocery store—until she met Akuji. They fell in love
while working together at a textile workshop. Akuji had only recently arrived
in Turkey, and his sole aim was to make his way to Europe. Lissa, however, had
grown fond of Istanbul, yet the prospect of losing Akuji terrified her.
Akuji spent his days collecting paper waste and his nights laboring in the
workshop until morning. He had nowhere to stay. Lissa never invited him to the
basement flat she shared with three other women. Instead, they usually met on
Istiklal Avenue, a place that made them feel as though they belonged to the
wider world. Lissa would often go to church to pray, while Akuji waited
outside. For him, there was no God; if there were, neither of them would be
living in such circumstances. One day, Lissa lit two candles—one for each of
them—only to see one candle topple into the water before she had even turned
around. She went back, relit it, finished her prayer, and then left the church.
Later, as they strolled toward Tünel, it came time to say their farewells.
Akuji took a small cake out of his other hand and wished Lissa a happy
birthday. Surprised, she told him her birthday was still three days away. Akuji
explained he would be leaving the city the next day and would not be there on
her actual birthday. Overjoyed, Lissa posed for a photo with him, both holding
the tiny cake. Akuji looked as if he were about to kneel before her, but his
hands trembled. “You and me,” he said. “From now on, we’ll celebrate together.”
Then, blushing, he dashed into the metro. Lissa stood there, bewildered. That
was, unmistakably, a marriage proposal.
EFIL
Approaching middle age, Efil was the country’s most famous curator.
Aspiring artists and art students alike did whatever they could to get their
works seen by her. Born into a wealthy family, she cared little for money; her
influence in the art world satisfied her ambitions. Her goal was nothing less
than to shape the future of Turkish art. For eight years, she had overseen the
art collection of the final heir to the country’s largest conglomerate. She
relished city life and took frequent trips to Europe, where she discovered new
artists—a priceless pleasure. Thanks to Efil, five of the nation’s top
sculptors, three painters, and eight performance artists had made names for
themselves.
Efil possessed a phenomenal visual memory; she never forgot an artwork or
an artist she had once seen. At times, she might admire a piece but take a
disliking to its creator—and in such cases, she had the power to all but erase
that artist from the scene. Efil was both talented and dangerous, which was why
she dedicated herself to her patron—his dream had become theirs in unison. The
notion of sparking a new movement in art was, for Efil, the ultimate pinnacle
of success. She had vowed she would do anything to experience that thrill.
PERTEV
Because Pertev, now around fifty, remained single and childless, and
because he bore no real burden of running the family conglomerate, he easily
passed for a man in his mid-thirties. He had three brothers. The eldest, who
had been at the helm of the company, suffered a fatal heart attack on his
yacht. The middle brother was still part of the management but was steadily
driving the brands under his control into decline. Their father used to say,
“Whatever this boy proclaims, the opposite happens!” Consequently, although the
middle brother seemed to lead, a handpicked team of five experts discreetly
reined him in from behind.
Meanwhile, Pertev enjoyed a carefree existence. So long as his middle
brother lived—and had a team to curb his missteps—and so long as his father had
not insisted, “You must take over the company,” Pertev was left in peace. He
had, however, a lofty ambition: “to become the God of Art.”
Pertev completed all his schooling at England’s finest institutions. He had
every privilege at his disposal. Though he wanted to study art, his father
forbade it. After all, would anyone take the scion of a massive conglomerate
seriously as a business leader if he had an art degree? So instead, he enrolled
in a program combining economy, business, and management. His mother was proud;
he encountered his father only at graduation, for the father led a separate
life in Europe, far from prying eyes—a choice everyone seemed to respect.
One trait Pertev disliked about himself was his inability to respond quickly
in a conversation. He would freeze, left momentarily speechless. This was
something he would eventually explore with a psychologist.
Every five years, Pertev opened his private collection to the public at his
family’s own museum. Initially, it focused on old images of Istanbul, but over
time the exhibition grew more specialized, largely thanks to Efil’s influence.
She brought Pertev artworks by the world’s most distinctive painters. Recently,
performance art had caught his eye as well. He began hosting performance nights
at the family’s ancestral mansion, dazzling the city’s elite. Brandishing a
champagne flute, Pertev would exclaim, “Now this is art!” and the
onlookers would applaud Efil: “You discover diamonds in the rough!” Both of
them thrived on this attention, reveling in the pleasure it brought.
But there was another form of pleasure that loomed even larger: BDSM.
In her casual affairs, Efil toyed with mild sadomasochistic fantasies. She
felt curiosity about Pertev’s solitary, inscrutable private life. Subtly—never
directly—she began presenting him with works by LGBT artists. Intrigued, Pertev
started with charcoal drawings depicting gay and lesbian fantasies and
eventually progressed to buying the artists’ videos. Sensing his enthusiasm, he
asked Efil, “Could we stage these performances ourselves?” She replied, “Why
not?”
They began with a ceremonial washing and kissing of the feet—like a papal
ritual. Pertev performed this in a white robe and mask, not wanting to be
recognized. Even Efil was uncertain whether it was really Pertev, for the room
was kept quite dark. The performance took place in a secret chamber in the
mansion’s basement. Efil had found five young women studying art, and at
Pertev’s command, she paid them handsomely to ensure their silence. Pertev then
left the city on his private plane immediately afterward. Was he remorseful
over what he had done, or had he secretly enjoyed it? He himself could not
decide.
Efil regretted that she had not been able to record the performance. “Live
art” had vanished into thin air, leaving no trace. She dared not make another
proposal to Pertev right away; she needed to contemplate how to keep him
happy—and how she might continue working with him in pursuit of that elusive
gratification.
In his journals from
youth, Musa had kept short notes about their school days and about the father’s
way of life. Long ago, Pertev had asked him, “Would you write my life story?”
and Musa had answered, “I’ll have to begin with your father.” Unbeknownst to
Pertev, Musa possessed a complete inventory of his entire art collection. In
fact, he knew the father quite well, too. What truly worried Musa was the
possibility of Pertev shaping the nation’s art scene. Money and fame could
overshadow an artist’s pure creativity. Thus, Musa arranged a meeting with his
old friend’s son, intending to warn him.
Pertev, however, had long since realized his own potential. He even
wondered how he would feel if the next performance ended in someone’s death.
All rights belong to the author Evrim Ozsoy. No quotation allowed.
Seven episode series project. God of Art
Yorumlar