Ingo is a photographer. He's not so tall, has brown eyes and a nose that is slightly turned up, and hair that's always a bit of a mess that he's pushing out of his face. He loves coffee, humus and zeytin acmas for breakfast and exploring Istanbul. He worked for a while with a traveling theater company, and now has returned to photography school in Germany. He's in Istanbul for six months on a grant from Germany. He's here to photograph. But he's not here to take snapshots – not to take photos of Hayasofia, the blue mosque, or other famous buildings. Not to take photos of the Bosporus, the Sea of Marmara, the bridges and the islands. Not to take pictures of the markets, the taxis, the old men and the young children. He's here to get to know all of that about Istanbul, and then delve deeper and represent Istanbul with his art.
We were living in the same place when I was in Istanbul. Ingo, Kate and I would eat breakfast (at a late enough hour it should have been called brunch, or better lunch) and I would ask him about what he was doing. I thought it was so cool that I was living with an artist. But then I found I didn't understand what he was doing at all. The only small mirror in our house, which was hung in the bathroom would often disappear for days at a time. When I asked Ingo he would bring it out from his room. He was using it, he told me, to reflect the sunlight, so that all angles of the sculptures that he was building would be light. Ingo got baklava which we all gladly ate, but then he wanted to wash and keep the box so that he could use it in one of his photographs. On an exploration to fish market to buy spices, he was intrigued by this massive gourd, and then bought it.
I loved spending time with Ingo, exploring with him. He was an amazingly positive person, with a different perspective on the world, and a huge heart. He always saw different things than I would. One day we went exploring in Uskudar. We visited an old abandoned mosque filled with junk and some old books, and we found the theater. But mostly we just walked and walked and walked, up and down the hills. If I haven't mentioned it yet, Istanbul is full of hills, and I feel like I'm always walking up on, or down one. Sometimes I think going down is worse, because the hills are so steep I feel like I'm going to start rolling head over feet to the bottom.
As we were walking, Ingo mentioned to me and Kate that he was looking for some motor oil, to use in a photograph he was thinking of taking. We passed a car shop, and Kate decided she would go in and ask. I know almost no Turkish. Ingo knows a little bit. But Kate spent time in Turkey before I met her, and she can make herself understood. And I guess this seemed like a fun challenge for her.
When we walked in the man who was obviously in charge was on the phone but he motioned us to sit down. I think he was surprised to see us, two foreigners and a mouse, and was even more surprised when Kate took the chair closer to the desk instead of leaving it for Ingo, the guy in the group. When the guy got off the phone she launched into her request. There was a lot of gesturing with her hands, and I recognized the word motor. The guy looked a little confused and asked her a question. Yes, she said in response. I thought that was it, but then the discussion continued. A few minutes later, after the guy had asked her where she was from, and some other questions I didn't understand, one of the minions of the boss went off.
Then the boss asked us if we wanted to have tea. Kate translated this bit for us. Ingo and I looked at each other, but thinking it would be rude to refuse was said yes. The boss sent another minion to the tea, who looked in it and found it empty. Kate started talking again, I think to try to change our mind, saying tea was not really necessary. But at this point it would have damaged the honor of the boss of this car shop to let the foreigners go without tea. So the minions started new tea brewing. Turkish tea is much different than the tea at home. It's drunk from small tulip shaped glass glasses, with lots of sugar. And the brewing of it is a process. It's nowhere near as simple and quick as to dunk a teabag in your mug of hot water. But I am getting distracted from my story.
While I watched the minions preparing the tea, Kate did her best to make conversation with all the men in the shop. More seemed to have come in to look at us, including a boy who must have been about 8. The topics of conversation that I caught included cars and football, although I'm pretty sure there were others. At one point I kept hearing the word America. Fifteen minutes later the tea was finally ready, and we were ready to leave. But now tea was not enough for us, another minion went off, and came back a few minutes later with two packages of biscuits, which the boss man put on a plate. We then were watched as we each drank two cups of tea out of Styrofoam cups, and ate biscuits. As we were having the tea, the first minion that left returned with a water bottle that was half full of used motor oil. We left as soon as it would not have been considered rude. I am sure we provided the amusement for the week.
A few weeks later Kate, Ingo and I visited Kinaliada, one of the princes' islands, which are about an hour away from Istanbul by boat. Back in the day they were places of exile. Then they were areas for posh people to build summer homes. Now they are a way to escape from the noise, cars and pollution of Istanbul. The only ways to get around are on foot, by bicycle, or by a horse drawn carriage. Of course, the police and fire fighters are allowed cars.
With Kate's backpack full of picnic food, and Ingo's backpack full of camera, we set off around the island. Two hours later, and halfway around the island, Kate decided that it was time we stop for lunch, and so we put out the eggplant salad, lentil balls, chips, bread, fruit, drinks and cookies that we had brought. Our site had an amazing view of the Sea of Marmara, and no city in sight. Just perfect for a half a day holiday from the city.
While we were putting out the food, Ingo went off to look at some white plastic we had found. I found myself thinking snarky thoughts – how can this dirty plastic be something photograph worthy. After we finished the picnic, Ingo started to take photos. Deciding that the plastic, which was attached to a dead tree branch, would look better if it was held up, he asked Kate to hold the branch. I'm a little bit too short, sadly. The tree branch the plastic was attached to sort of looked like a harp, and as Kate held up the white plastic, it started blowing in the wind. It almost looked like she was holding up a wedding veil.
This was still not the ideal place for the photograph though, and so Kate took the plastic and branch and we set off again. We climbed up a slope that was covered in rocks – a place that looked like it was waiting for an avalanche. The rocks were purple, red, striped, covered in lichen, all kinds of rocks imaginable. It was not quite right though, and so we left our backpacks and continued up the hill until we met with the trees. I tried not to think about how we were going to get back down. Ingo wedged the tree branch in another tree, and Kate and I kept the plastic from getting tangled up in the tree. Every time Ingo moved to get a better angle, a small avalanche rushed past. One big rock hit me, and for a moment I thought I would roll head over heals back down the slope, but I didn't. A police car drove slowly past, and we all held our breath and hoped they wouldn't decide to investigate us. They sat and watched us for a minute, but then they went on their way, as we all let out a sigh of relief.
I know it was only torn white plastic, but as I inched my way back down the hill, I kept thinking of how beautiful it looked as Kate held it in the air, and then how beautiful again it looked flying in the wind against a background of trees, rocks and the sea. Looking back up the hill it didn't look like trash, but art, hanging in the trees. And all of a sudden I understood. Not all of Ingo's photos. Not all of what he thought was beautiful. But that maybe the trash, or the baklava container, or the motor oil could be beautiful if I could really see them, see them the way Ingo saw them.
Visit Ingo's website!