As I was packing for my trip from Istanbul to Philadelphia this January, my mother and I found ourselves staring at the bulky luggage that was essentially filled with thick, heavy books, which, ironically, was a situation I had been trying to avoid.
I was very motivated by this ambition of becoming a “paperless” student — I would ditch all those heavy textbooks and unindexed notebooks in favor of my iPad that I could carry anywhere. I turned this premise of not having to carry around books or journals into a source of pride, as I procrastinated while watching all the YouTube videos about how college students go paperless with their iPads, to-do lists, calendars, and neatly organized Notion wikis.
Yet there I was, quite ironically, trying to figure out how to fit most, if not all, of my heavy art books in my luggage to bring to my new home at Penn. This huge stack of heavy, colorful, and beautiful art books (also characterized as “coffee table books” by many) is a result of years of collecting due to the allure of one bookstore at the heart of Istanbul.
I have found myself in the particular situation too many times in which I’m running out of time to find a “fun fact” for my introduction in a Zoom call full of students with genuinely interesting facts, and I have no choice but to resort to my trusty fun fact that naturally comes with being a highschooler in Istanbul.
“Well, the city of Istanbul actually spans both the European and the Asian continents with bridges in between,” I gleefully (and somewhat flauntingly) announce. “And because I live on the Asian side but go to a school on the European side, I have to take this underground metro-train-thingy along the Bosphorus every morning and afternoon to switch continents.”
Works like a charm every time! Many peers look impressed by the sheer exotica that this casual account of my daily intercontinental commute exudes—to the point where I actually convince myself that it is, indeed, an interesting fact.
Though, as I reflect on my last couple years of high school as an Istanbulite, I feel like I stepped out of my routine of going back to the Asian side right after leaving my gymnasium building located in the historical district of Fatih, where Byzantine ruins and Greek/Roman architectural hints remind the Istanbulite of yesterday’s Constantinople.
But instead of my usual route back to the Asian continent, I stay in the European side and take the metro from the Fatih district to Nişantaşı, which is usually known to be one of Istanbul’s fancy, hip districts. As I exit the metro station, I pass by Mhitaryan Varjaran Armenian School and the neighboring Anarad Hığutyun building that hosts the Hrant Dink Foundation and the late journalist’s daily Armenian-Turkish newspaper.
Right down the street I pass by the apartments, cafés, and boutiques housed in the Art Nouveau buildings that contribute to the European aura but also feel very Ottoman for some reason. And finally I arrive at the bookstore, the subject of my sacred ritual.
What sets the bookstore apart from others is that it’s filled with thick, colorful art books, usually imported from Europe, filled with visuals and text about art—anything that might relate to art and artisanship. I usually sit on their comfy sofa and pet the in-house feline shopping assistant (if I’m lucky) while spending hours browsing the impressive catalogue of books published by Phaidon, Taschen, Thames-Hudson, and indie publishers, of course.
What has an attention-grabbing cover might turn out to be an extensive account of Yves Klein’s monochrome paintings, a collection of Ren Hang’s works of photography that shed light on Chinese eroticism, a visual account of the evolution of Mickey Mouse, photographs of flowers that capture “the world of bloom”, archives of haute couture collections, a super-colorful chronology of David Hockney, or almost anything you can manage to print on reasonable sizes of paper.
As I leave the store with the newest additions to my collection, a sense of guilt reigns in, as I start worrying about where to store them. Ostensibly, these “coffee table books” are supposed to decorate the table in the living room, but this was right before I was headed to Philly for the spring semester in the coming months.
I think I especially value having those large chunks of paper around because there is this sense of ownership and appreciation of the books’ art and artistry that comes with their weight and volume and overall physical presence, and not only because they’re nice to decorate a fancy “coffee table”. Or, maybe, this emotional connection with these chunky books is linked to my unwillingness to let go of physical books in spite of my desire to go digital and move away from the lazy I-can-just-look-at-these-on-the-Internet-for-free excuse as I do with textbooks for my classes.
Aside from the allure of having the books in my living space though, I love visiting the small Nişantaşı bookstore, have a little chat and çay with the owner, learn about publishers I haven’t yet heard of and their releases on art and architecture, while I support small business(es).
And that organic connection in the appreciation of printed art, I think, will never be replaced no matter how advanced digital publications become or how attractive innovations in the art market seem (and yes, I’m talking about NFTs).
I know I sound like an 80-year-old finding excuses to resist the modern world by talking about analog connections and whatnot, but I actually didn’t bring any of my paperback novels or textbooks with me to Philadelphia, because I use a Kindle for books without pictures and an iPad for any textbooks–both of which I love using.
But I encourage you to go to your local bookstore or library, talk with some people about what you enjoy, maybe buy or rent a few books either just for decoration because it has a pretty cover, or because it’s a chronicle of your favorite artist or an era within art history that you enjoy, or because you think it would be a nice gift for your friend that knows too much about the history of industrial design (trust me, it will be). And, hopefully, you will also find yourself in that stressful situation of luggage filled with chunky books.
