"...the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature..." -Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2.
Why do people write plays? Or operas?
Why do people perform these plays or operas?
Why do people go and watch other people perform these plays or operas?
I think the reason is clearly stated by our most dear Hamlet; because, plays hold a "mirror up to nature", up to us, so that we can see ourselves and watch ourselves from outside - something we don't get to do on a daily base.
And the people who don't like plays or movies or operas or musicals, who find them "boring" or a "waste of time"; they are the people who don't want to "waste time" facing themselves. The spotlight of theater hasn't lit up their souls just yet.
Plays are spectacular slices of life and succulent specimens of human nature. Even if the play is about witches, vengeful spirits or merchants trading money for flesh, we can always find some of ourselves in it. Actually, the context and what you find from yourself in it doesn't really matter, what really matters is if the play can take you into its world and make you believe in witches or spirits from the world beyond. The same also applies to novels and movies.
But what is it that makes theater so different from the plain book or the movie? Why did I wait at -5 degrees Celsius at 9.30 am on a Sunday morning in front of the theater to get seats to Hamlet, a play I've already read -and analyzed- thoroughly? Why did I walk in the pouring rain, coughing and sneezing, to the theater, to see a guy play Hamlet? Why were all those people there, instead of at home, watching the movie?
What makes theater superior to movies and books is the fact that it is live. That's what has always amazed me; that someone, 20 meters down the row, is on the stage, talking to, or singing to lots of people, creating a pocket-sized universe on that enormous stage. Someone, just like you and me, is up there, doing something called "acting" (how crazy would it sound to a stranger when you told them about how on Planet Earth people got up on stages and pretended to be someone they're not), inviting you, and, if successful, drawing you into their own, little world.
And the splendor! The costumes, the exaggerated actions and expressions, the intoxicating tragedy or comedy... Plain theater can only take it so far, and that's where operas come in. The music, combined with the "live" factor and the splendor, provides the audience with an addictive dose of drama that cannot be obtained anywhere else. I have not seen a scene more epic and glamorous than Don Giovanni's last scene;
Il Commandatore's statue spurs to life, the orchestra screams the D minor chord, the lights fade, the angels of death come onto the stage-Il Commendatore lifts his white, cold arm, and sings "Don Giovanni!"...
So I will see Don Giovanni for the fourth time. And I will go to Hamlet or any other play if I have the chance, even if I'd read it before. And I will be amazed again and again at how those people on the stage perform and manage to envelope the hundreds of people in front of them into their own fictional world, and I will, at some point, forget that I'm watching a play or an opera-and I wouldn't mind it. Because getting out of this cramped up monochromatic world of ours and leaping into Denmark's "prisons" or Don Giovanni's castle every once in a while is not such a bad idea.
Sunday, January 26, 2014
Sunday, January 19, 2014
Another Day in Paradise
Every time I walk to my Dershane, private teaching institutions in Turkey which prepare students for the university exams, I take the same route. I go down my street, take a right, cross the street, go past the white and graceless cab stand, down all the way to the park, float down into the underpass and surface on the other side of the road, walk straight down, go past the lottery stand, the begging children on the left and Levis on right, turn right at the intersection, get through the huge line of people waiting for the bus to arrive and cross the street, turn left at the corner, being careful not to step on the peddler's goods, go past the little children playing harmonicas and begging, and, voila, I'm there.
My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.
Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.
That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.
That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in. Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.
So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".
The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.
My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.
Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.
That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.
That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in. Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.
So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".
The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
Changing Photographs
Year 1999
Lots of food on the table. The house is decorated with cheesy, shining ornaments soaked in glitter. Smiling faces. Many faces. The little girl at the center, putting up her act, laughing because she knows she should smile when someone stands in front of her with a camera. Her brother is at the back, acting cool, displaying a crooked smile, anxious to get into the Santa Claus suit and surprise his little sister. Who they call "mom" is on the left, with tired eyes but a true smile. She's happy to be there and to have been able to cook the turkey in time for dinner. Her mother is sitting at the head of the table, with blue eyes and a sincere smile. She wishes her husband could be there, and puts her arm around her other, older daughter. She, the aunt of the children, makes sure there is no lipstick on her teeth and cuddles in with her mother. The uncle of the children and his wife are on the sides; they, too, are smiling. They wish their children, who have long left their nests and have started to build their own by themselves, could be there with them, like the old days. The father of the children, with the dark, black mustache is behind the camera; you can't see him, but you know he's there-smiling, and fidgeting with the camera. His mother is sitting next to his wife's mother, with her husband, who has grown old with her. Their eyes which have seen much, much more than anyone at the table glimmer with their small smiles. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together.
Year 2013
Lots of food on the table. The house has some ornaments hung up here and there, but you can see that they're out-of-date. Smiling faces. But not a lot of them. The father on the far left hand side, smiling, his black mustache now gone gray, sits next to his wife. She has tired eyes, and is glad she's managed to make everything she'd planned to make. She is smiling, her head cocked to the side, thinking of all those people who aren't there that last night of 2013. The little girl has become a teenager and is spending new year's eve at home for the last time; she doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. She has just set the camera's timer and has raced to her designated spot; she's smiling, but she really wishes her brother could be there. Her brother, now 25, is off in some forgotten little town, serving the army, completing his compulsory army service. Their grandmother, on the mother side, is sitting at the head of the table on her own. Her smile has somewhat faded, she misses her husband and her older daughter who don't have an excuse for not being there, she has lost too much to a disgusting, dire, despairing disease. The grandmother on the father's side isn't there; she's gotten too old to climb the stairs to her son's apartment, and has chosen to spend her 95th new year's eve at home, alone. The uncle and his wife are in another town, with their children and grandchildren. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together. Everyone thinks of all the people who aren't there that night, especially the ones without excuses-tears well up in their eyes-they blink them away, because they know you're supposed to smile at the camera...
***
The one thing I don't like about new year's eve, exaggerated by profit-seeking entrepreneurs and foreign traditions, is that you get to- actually, you're forced to- reflect on the previous year; and it may not always hold nice stuff. The photos from these evenings are slices from your life, the perfect snapshot to sum it all up; every 31st of December, we do the same things: the menu is mostly the same, the purpose is always the same, but the people in the pictures change- and disappear, some, forever. So be happy with what you have now, because you may not be able to find it in next year's photo of new year's eve.
Lots of food on the table. The house is decorated with cheesy, shining ornaments soaked in glitter. Smiling faces. Many faces. The little girl at the center, putting up her act, laughing because she knows she should smile when someone stands in front of her with a camera. Her brother is at the back, acting cool, displaying a crooked smile, anxious to get into the Santa Claus suit and surprise his little sister. Who they call "mom" is on the left, with tired eyes but a true smile. She's happy to be there and to have been able to cook the turkey in time for dinner. Her mother is sitting at the head of the table, with blue eyes and a sincere smile. She wishes her husband could be there, and puts her arm around her other, older daughter. She, the aunt of the children, makes sure there is no lipstick on her teeth and cuddles in with her mother. The uncle of the children and his wife are on the sides; they, too, are smiling. They wish their children, who have long left their nests and have started to build their own by themselves, could be there with them, like the old days. The father of the children, with the dark, black mustache is behind the camera; you can't see him, but you know he's there-smiling, and fidgeting with the camera. His mother is sitting next to his wife's mother, with her husband, who has grown old with her. Their eyes which have seen much, much more than anyone at the table glimmer with their small smiles. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together.
Year 2013
Lots of food on the table. The house has some ornaments hung up here and there, but you can see that they're out-of-date. Smiling faces. But not a lot of them. The father on the far left hand side, smiling, his black mustache now gone gray, sits next to his wife. She has tired eyes, and is glad she's managed to make everything she'd planned to make. She is smiling, her head cocked to the side, thinking of all those people who aren't there that last night of 2013. The little girl has become a teenager and is spending new year's eve at home for the last time; she doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. She has just set the camera's timer and has raced to her designated spot; she's smiling, but she really wishes her brother could be there. Her brother, now 25, is off in some forgotten little town, serving the army, completing his compulsory army service. Their grandmother, on the mother side, is sitting at the head of the table on her own. Her smile has somewhat faded, she misses her husband and her older daughter who don't have an excuse for not being there, she has lost too much to a disgusting, dire, despairing disease. The grandmother on the father's side isn't there; she's gotten too old to climb the stairs to her son's apartment, and has chosen to spend her 95th new year's eve at home, alone. The uncle and his wife are in another town, with their children and grandchildren. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together. Everyone thinks of all the people who aren't there that night, especially the ones without excuses-tears well up in their eyes-they blink them away, because they know you're supposed to smile at the camera...
***
The one thing I don't like about new year's eve, exaggerated by profit-seeking entrepreneurs and foreign traditions, is that you get to- actually, you're forced to- reflect on the previous year; and it may not always hold nice stuff. The photos from these evenings are slices from your life, the perfect snapshot to sum it all up; every 31st of December, we do the same things: the menu is mostly the same, the purpose is always the same, but the people in the pictures change- and disappear, some, forever. So be happy with what you have now, because you may not be able to find it in next year's photo of new year's eve.
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