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Dr. Süleyman Çam Photography

Dr. Süleyman Çam Photography



Nikon D700,  Nikon AF-S NIKKOR 24-70mm f/2.8G ED Lens
Exposure time: 1/125 s,    Aperture value: f/5,   Focal length: 58 mm,  ISO: 200

WOULD YOU PLAY WITH ME  Istanbul, Yedikule

I am waking up in my mattress by the small hours on the sofa of a stone house. The house is located on the top of a highland of a hill behind the deep valley.
It is a one-roomed somewhat large mountain house. The roof is covered with tinplate sealed off with tar and a thin layer of planking beneath. In front of the house with a nice view of the deep valley and highland, there is a high wall with a flat top all the way. The wall has a weed-strewn stone pavement and is perfect for watching the scene. On the right side of the door way there is an unsound sink, straight ahead there is a large stone oven with woods and cowpats around ready to burn. On the left corner there is a widish set with wool mattresses and quilts folded and piled carefully. By the light in the small window, their pastel colors resemble a painting. Early in the morning, with the help of the morning light I half-open my heavy eyelids slowly. I hear the birds bustling on the tin covered roof which means it is time for me to leave the wool mattress and the quilt I sink back into. I splash the water in the churn to my face that became ice-cold all night long. My skin is already stretched and the chill water tenses up my skin even more leaving a nice freshness. Then I get out to the doorstep and make my lungs go crazy with the fresh mountain air I draw in deeply. As I remember my childhood here, my heart beats differently. I watch the plumes wreathing from most of the houses. I see a highland girl with a stick in her hand, herding the cows to the meadow. The voices of the sheep herd spread around the foothill can still be heard, holding out a classical music recital to the silence of the highland under the conductorship of the shepherd.
I emblaze the stone oven and steep tea in a flimsy pot. I take out the tray from the stone wall it hangs on and place in front of the house carefully without waggling. Then I place a wooden stool in front of the wall right behind. I gently hold a glass, avoiding damaging the memories of ancestry. A glass telling the past, I don’t know how many times it wounded their hands or lips. I expose them to the light and try to image their fingerprints. I carefully pour my tea to the cup, sit on the wooden stool behind the tray, and lean back on the house wall. I set out watching the sunrise behind the mountain and the waking highland with my childhood memories…