“Angina Pektoris”

Artist: Shoshannah Brombacher, Ph.D.Oil on Canvas, 36 X 72 inches. New York 2014

Ben bir insan, ben bir Türk şairi Nazım Hikmet ben tepeden tırnağa insan, tepeden tırnağa kavga, hasret ve ümitten ibaret...

I am a human, I'm a Turkish poet, Nazim Hikmet I am from head to toe a human, From head to toe struggle, consisting of longing and hope...

The Turkish poet Nazim Hikmet Ran (Saloniki, 1902 - Moscow, 1963) is one of the most prominent Romantic-Communist poets of the twentieth century. Most of his poetry combines his social/communist views on political situations in a war-torn world with his deep love for his beautiful country Turkey, from which he was physically -but never emotionally- separated for many long years. Nazim died in exile in Moscow. He wrote outstanding, deeply moving and meaningful poetry, which in turn has inspired Turkish and non-Turkish composers and musicians, such as Fazil Say from Istanbul with his classic Oratorio, Zulfu Livaneli, the Greeks Manos Loizos and Thanos Mikroutzikos, the American Rock-band The Byrds, and visual artists such as Dutch born painter and author Shoshannah Brombacher, who made a work based on Nazim’s poem “Ten Years” and one on “Angina Pektoris”, which will be discussed in this article.

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Nazim described his long and complicated life in a very matter of fact way in his poem “Autobiography” (1961):

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I was born in 1902I never once went back to my birthplaceI don't like to turn backat three I served as a pasha's grandson in Aleppoat nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist Universityat forty-nine I was back in Moscow as the Tcheka Party's guestand I've been a poet since I was fourteensome people know all about plants some about fish I know separationsome people know the names of the stars by heart I recite absencesI've slept in prisons and in grand hotelsI've known hunger even a hunger strike and there's almost no foodI haven't tastedat thirty they wanted to hang meat forty-eight to give me the Peace Prize which they didat thirty-six I covered four square meters of concrete in half a yearat fifty-nine I flew from Prague to Havana in eighteen hoursI never saw Lenin I stood watch at his coffin in '24in '61 the tomb I visit is his booksthey tried to tear me away from my partyit didn't worknor was I crushed under the falling idolsin '51 I sailed with a young friend into the teeth of deathin '52 I spent four months flat on my back with a broken heartwaiting to dieI was jealous of the women I lovedI didn't envy Charlie Chaplin one bitI deceived my womenI never talked my friends' backsI drank but not every dayI earned my bread money honestly what happiness

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out of embarrassment for others I liedI lied so as not to hurt someone else but I also lied for no reason at allI've ridden in trains planes and carsmost people don't get the chanceI went to opera most people haven't even heard of the operaand since '21 I haven't gone to the places most people visitmosques churches temples synagogues sorcerers but I've had my coffee grounds readmy writings are published in thirty or forty languages in my Turkey in my Turkish they're bannedcancer hasn't caught up with me yetand nothing says it willI'll never be a prime minister or anything like thatand I wouldn't want such a lifenor did I go to waror burrow in bomb shelters in the bottom of the nightand I never had to take to the road under diving planesbut I fell in love at almost sixtyin short comradeseven if today in Berlin I'm croaking of grief I can say I've lived like a human beingand who knows how much longer I'll live what else will happen to me.

This autobiography was written in East Berlin on September 11, 1961.

Artist Shoshannah Brombacher was introduced to the poetry of Nazim Hikmet Ran by her longtime Turkish friend Aytac Mavruk. She met him in New York where he had an art gallery and she wanted some

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work framed. They became close friends and have an ongoing dialogue since about culture and religion, about their shared love for music, poetry and art and about being an immigrant in a challenging city such as New York. About being separated from one’s country, about what it means to live in a different culture with a different language. Mavruk came from Adana in Southeast Turkey and Brombacher moved from her native Amsterdam to the South of Holland, Leyden (Holland), Jerusalem and Berlin before she came to New York. Brombacher does not know Turkish and read Nazim in Dutch and English. This poses a problem, because how genuine and close to the original text can a translation be, especially of something so inextricably connected to language as poetry? The Italian expression traduttore, traditore (translator, traitor) applies in particular to the field of poetry, because the flavor, rhythm and the ‘atmospheric’ words, the couleur locale and double entendre often get lost. Foreign readers of translated poetry lack background information which the poet simply assumes his native readers posses. However, the contents of Nazim’s work is so powerful that it overrides the loss of linguistic playfulness and qualities inevitably connected to being translated from the original text. Like Beethoven’s work, this poetry has universal qualities and appeal which make it accessible to readers from different linguistic, geographical and cultural backgrounds. Brombacher started painting Nazim’s poetry in 2007 with a large rendering of “Ten Years”:

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(a separate description of this work is available, SB)

In 2013 her friend asked her to paint Angina Pektoris. The result is a visualization of Angina Pektoris with additional elements from Nazim’s other poems and snippets of Brombacher's own experiences, such as a visit to Istanbul in the beginning of 2014, when she already had been working on this painting for a while in her studio in New York. The artist’s solipsistic interpretation of the poem combined with the influence of the (mainly) classical music she listened to while painting and conversations about Nazim implicate the quality of Nazim’s work, which supersedes the confinements of national origins or linguistic boundaries. Nazim’s poems appertain to many contemporary situations, as will be explained below in a detailed description of the imagery.

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Angina Pektoris

Yarısı burdaysa kalbiminyarısı Çin'dedir, doktor.Sarınehre doğru akanordunun içindedir.

Sonra, her şafak vakti, doktor,her şafak vakti kalbimYunanistan'da kurşuna diziliyor.

Sonra, bizim burda mahkûmlar uykuya varıprevirden el ayak çekilincekalbim Çamlıca'da bir harap konaktadırher gece,doktor.

Sonra, şu on yıldan bu yanabenim, fakir milletime ikrâm edebildiğimbir tek elmam var elimde, doktor,bir kırmızı elma :kalbim...

Ne arteryo skleroz, ne nikotin, ne hapis,işte bu yüzden, doktorcuğum, bu yüzdenbende bu angina pektoris...

Bakıyorum geceye demirlerdenve iman tahtamın üstündeki baskıya rağmenkalbim en uzak yıldızla birlikte çarpıyor...

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Angina Pectoris

If half my heart is here, doctor,the other half is in Chinawith the army flowingtoward the Yellow River.And, every morning, doctor,every morning at sunrise my heartis shot in Greece.And every night, doctor,when the prisoners are asleep and the infirmary is deserted,my heart stops at a run-down old housein Istanbul.And then after ten yearsALL I HAVE TO OFFER MY POOR PEOPLEIS THIS APPLE IN MY HAND, DOCTOR,ONE RED APPLE:MY HEART.AND THAT, DOCTOR, THAT IS THE REASONFOR THIS ANGINA PECTORIS-NOT NICOTINE, PRISON, OR ARTERIOSCLEROSIS.I look at the night through the bars,and despite the weight on my chestMY HEART STILL BEATS WITH THE MOST DISTANT STARS.

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(The whole painting) The poet/patient Nazim sits in the middle of the canvas with an apple on his outstretched hand. The apple is shaped like a heart, it is a heart. His heart. He is talking to a doctor in a medical office from the forties. The poem has been written in 1948, shortly after World War II, and embodies all Nazim's pain and anxiety about a world partly destroyed and still on fire. The poet’s hand is disembodied from his arm. He is talking and gesticulating very intensely, the doctor is listening. The clock in his office shows ten, a reminiscence of “Ten Years”.In the top right corner of the canvas the Chinese Red Army marches towards the Yellow River with waving banners. The other Asian scenes relate to different poems and will be explained below. On the left side of the painting Nazim is shot by a group of soldiers dressed in Greek uniforms with tasseled caps. Dawn is represented by the Greek mythological figure of rosy-fingered Eos (Aurora in Latin), who every morning opens the gates of Heaven for her brother, the Sun. Eos has an indifferent expression, whatever happens under her reddish-pink colored sky does not concern her. The red of dawn mingles with the red blood spilled in war, murder and execution. It is difficult to distinguish between blood-red and rosy dawn- red. Ironically, we hear a lot lately of

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the Greek fascist movement called Golden Dawn.

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The prison with the barred window hangs lozenge-shaped between the “dawn” and the doctor’s office. The prisoners gaze with longing eyes into the night, each with their own thoughts of freedom and a free world.

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They are separated from their loved ones, their cities, from the right to walk in the streets, just to mention a few, but they cannot be separated form their thoughts, dreams and ideals. The theme of the prison window has a prominent spot in the work “Then Years” as well.The run-down old house in Istanbul is located in the bottom half of the painting to the right of the doctor. The tranquil nocturnal street with wooden houses is deserted safe for a few of the ubiquitous Istanbul cats. The silhouette of the city with its domes and spires is vaguely visible over the roofs.

These are the scenes explicitly mentioned in Angina Pektoris. They are interspersed with images from other poems. The moon with the halo is an allusion to the name Aytac. It shines in a night sky with the “most distant star(s)” from Angina Pektoris, which appear in several corners of the work. In the sky under the wooden houses the constellations of

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P l e i a d s a n d C a s s i o p e i a c a n b e distinguished between numerous other stars. The dark sky reveals red and crimson patches, a reflection of a world on fire. The singular distant star from the last line of Angina Pektoris shines over the two Turkish flags right over the head of the poet. The moon a the bottom of the canvas is like a white pupil in the black eye of the night. The women on the left side of the canvas, under the shooting at dawn, are insp i red by the fo l lowing poem (specifically the lines displayed in italics):

The Faces of Our Women

Mary didn't give birth to God.Mary isn't the mother of God.Mary is one mother among many mothers.Mary gave birth to a son,a son among many sons.That's why Mary is so beautiful in all the pictures of her.That's why Mary's son is so close to us, like our own sons.

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The faces of our women are the book of our pains.Our pains, our faults and the blood we shedcarve scars on the faces of our women like plows.And our joys are reflected in the eyes of womenlike the dawns glowing on the lakes.Our imaginations are on the faces of women we love.Whether we see them or not, they are before us,closest to our realities and furthest.

The pained expression on the faces of these young and old women has replaced the looks of joy. After all, this poem was written right after a period of wars, revolutions, terror and still the world was far from perfect. Some women carry their babies with them. How will they survive in an unjust world on fire? One woman raises her fist in rage and despair.

In a cornucopia-turned-upside-down surface to the right of the women a procession of protestors with red communist flags marches out of the painting. They might be Russians or people from other countries; after the Russian Revolution of 1917 workers and farmers everywhere protested against terrible social conditions. Communism gave people new hope. They could not know yet how it eventually would work out in different countries. Will the red flags they carry come to represent the red of dawn or the red of blood?

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Embedded in this “cornucopia” are two crescent shaped surfaces. The biggest one illustrates Nazim’s days in exile in Russia. After he was not welcome anymore in his beloved Turkey -for political reasons- and after he had been imprisoned he settled in Moscow, where he eventually died. He was buried under a large stone in the Novodevichy Cemetery which bears his name and the relief of a slightly bent walking figure. A flat stone in front of the grave bears the name of his wife, Vera.That same walking figure is seen trapped in a dark circle surrounded by a lunar halo, leaving snow colored foot prints behind: his memories. He must keep walking, it is the only way to survive. Moscow around him is cold and dark, full of snow, gloom, long winters and nightly houses covered with more snow. The Cyrillic letters CCCP (in English: USSR, the Soviet Republic) are written in snow on the River Moskva. To the right a bare snow covered tree hovers over the gravestone. The white tree to the left, however, looks more like an almond tree in bloom. The colors of the scene change to green, yellow and blue when the memories of the poet in exile take over: the top half of the “Moscow scene” is bright and

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lush. It shows the poet writing his verses, surrounded by books, alive, in a green Turkish landscape,

working on his poem “On Living” (1948), in particular the third stanza:

(...)III

This earth will grow cold,a star among stars and one of the smallest,a gilded mote on blue velvet- I mean this, our great earth.This earth will grow cold one day,not like a block of iceor a dead cloud evenbut like an empty walnut it will roll along in pitch-black space ...You must grieve for this right now

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-you have to feel this sorrow now-for the world must be loved this much if you're going to say "I lived" ...

! The walnut mentioned in the ninth line escaped the darkness and makes a free fall through the right side of the painting between the marching Red Army and the Asian farmers collecting their harvest. The small crescent connecting the prison window and the chair of the doctor contains the skyline of Istanbul, Nazim’s beloved city, at the crack of dawn. Sailing boats are visible on the Bosporus and the golden Horn. In the words of medieval poets dawn is a scarlet thread in the sky, or flees like a dove pursued by a hawk. The artist made a transfer on Istanbul airport on her way to Holland in winter 2014 and saw the city from her airplane at the crack of dawn. A few weeks later she flew back for a real visit.

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Next to the prison scene a red-haired woman is visible behind the window panes of an old wooden house in Istanbul. This is an allusion to Nazim’s “Letter To My Wife”, written from Bursa Prison in 1933. Nazim was separated from his wife by long prison sentences.

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Letter To My Wife

My one and only!Your last letter says:"My head is throbbing,my heart is stunned!"You say:"If they hang you,if I lose you,I'll die!"You'll live, my dear--my memory will vanish like black smoke in the wind.Of course you'll live, red-haired lady of my heart:in the twentieth centurygrief lastsat most a year.

Death--a body swinging from a rope.My heartcan't accept such a death.Butyou can betif some poor gypsy's hairy blackspidery handslips a noosearound my neck,they'll look in vain for fearin Nazim'sblue eyes!In the twilight of my last morningIwill see my friends and you,and I'll go

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to my graveregretting nothing but an unfinished song...My wife!Good-hearted,golden,eyes sweeter than honey--my bee!Why did I write youthey want to hang me?The trial has hardly begun,and they don't just pluck a man's headlike a turnip.Look, forget all this.If you have any money,buy me some flannel underwear:my sciatica is acting up again.And don't forget,a prisoner's wifemust always think good thoughts.

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The wedge between the window with Nazim’s wife and the red circle with the poet shows various aspects of Nazim’s beloved city, Istanbul. The scenes are inspired by the artists’ own visit. The bottom half (next to the poet’s knee) shows the beautiful domes a n d m i n a r e t s a r o u n d Gulhane Park close to Topkapi Palace, the Hagia Sophia and the Sultan Ahmed (or Blue) Mosque o f t h e S i r k e c i neighborhood. Close to the wall around the park and the palace is a small old cemetery with slender white head-stones, some c r o w n e d w i t h s t o n e turbans, behind an iron gate. Going up higher little boats sail near the Galata Bridge while whirling dervishes float over the water. Nazim must have been familiar with the Sema ritual in which dervishes whirl as a form of self improvement by i n t ro spec t ion and

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connecting to God. The streets of the city district Beyoglu around the old round Galata Tower lead up to Taksim Square and Gezi Park, which has been the stage of many social protests and clashes between protesters and the police since May 2013. The protestors strive for more (social) justice just like Nazim did in his days. The smoke and fire in this scene mingle with the rosy fingered dawn from Nazim’s Angina Pektoris. The famous “woman in the red dress” being pepper sprayed by the police stands in the foreground near a police bus. During one of the riots in June 2013 a fifteen year old boy, Berkin Elvan, got hit in the head with a teargas canister while he was on his way to a bakery to buy bread for his family. He slipped into a coma and died in March 2014. His funeral sparked heavy protests and many people carried bread and signs of a loaf of bread with them. In this painting a loaf of bread is suspended in the air over the scene of the riots. It reminds of an ancient tale in which a fool wanted to become a scholar. A wise man advised him to study hard and start with easy texts, working his way up through more complicated

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books, but the fool got discouraged and gave up his plan. According to another sage this can be compared to a loaf miraculously suspended high up in the air. A fool says: “Who can bring it down!?”, but a wise man figures that since somebody must have suspended it there in the first place it can be reached. He brings ladders and sticks and with the help of many people he brings it down. A wise man studies and learns from many teachers and fellow students. For sure Nazim had intended people to work together to create a better world with more justice for all. The loaf in the paintings is a tribute to all victims like Berkin Elvan.

The poem “Five Lines” springs to mind: To overcome lies in the heart, in the streets, in the books from the lullabies of the mothers to the news report that the speaker reads, understanding, my love, what a great joy it is, to understand what is gone and what is on the way.

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A red sun rises next to the Istanbul scene, since sol lucet omnibus, the sun shines for all, impartial and indifferent to what happens, as the Roman philosopher Petronius stated. The Turkish flags and the bright s tars symbolize Nazim’s deep love for his

country. To the right of the poet a pregnant woman lies asleep in the red circle, surrounded by angelic figures. She comes from the following poem:

After Release From Prison

Awake. Where are you?

At home. Still unaccustomed- awake or sleeping-

to being in your own home. This is just one more of the stupefactions

of spending thirteen years in a prison. Who's lying at your side?

Not loneliness, but your wife, in the peaceful sleep of an angel.

Pregnancy looks good on a woman. What time is it?

Eight. That means you're safe until evening.

Because it's the practice of police Never to raid homes in broad daylight.

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The top quarter of the right side of the painting (the “East side”) is dedicated to Asia. The marching Red Army has been mentioned before, but who are the anonymous farmers with large hats bundling straw near a Japanese peasant house? They do not seem to notice the girl standing at the door. The poem about the Hiroshima girl is one of Nazim’s most confronting works:

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I Come and Stand at Every Door

I come and stand at every doorBut no one hears my silent treadI knock and yet remain unseenFor I am dead, for I am dead. I'm only seven although I diedIn Hiroshima long agoI'm seven now as I was thenWhen children die they do not grow. My hair was scorched by swirling flameMy eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blindDeath came and turned my bones to dustAnd that was scattered by the wind. I need no fruit, I need no rice Ineed no sweet, nor even breadI ask for nothing for myselfFor I am dead, for I am dead. All that I ask is that for peaceYou fight today, you fight todaySo that the children of this worldMay live and grow and laugh and play.

Farmers have been tilling fields for thousands of years in times of peace, through wars, through revolutions. They just continue doing what they and their ancestors always have been doing, but wars have a tremendous impact, as is told by the diaphanous fisherman on the blue water under the harvesting farmers. He tells us what life was like after the atom bomb had been dropped:

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The Japanese Fisherman

The Japanese fisherman slain by a cloudWas yet but a youth as he sailed in its leeI heard this song sung by his friends not loud,As the yellow light went on the Pacific Sea

We fished a fish, who eats it dies,Who touches my hand, of that he dies.This, our boat, is a coffin coldWho steps on board, in boarding dies.

We fished the fish whose eater dies,Not all at once, but bit by bit,His flesh goes black, breaks sores and rotsWe fished a fish, who eats it dies.

Who touches my hand, of that he dies,This hand that served me once so well,Bathed in salt and sound with the sun.

Who touches my hand, of that he dies,Not all at once, but bit by bit,His flesh goes black, breaks sores and rots...Who touches my hand, of that he dies.

Forget me, love with almond eyes,This our boat, is a coffin cold.Who steps on board, in boarding dies...The cloud has passed and told our doom.

Forget me, love with almond eyes,My rose, you must not kiss my lips,

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Death, would wander from me to you,Forget me, love with almond eyes.

This our boat, is a coffin cold.Forget me, love with almond eyesThe child that you might have of me,Would rot within, a rotted egg.

This our boat, is a coffin cold.The sea we sail is a dead sea.Oh, mankind, where are you,where are you?

The bottom left quarter of the canvas is dedicated to one of

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Nazim’s most beautiful poems. He was buried in Moscow, but earlier actually had explicitly expressed his wish to be buried in Anatolia:

Last Will and Testament

Comrades, if I don't live to see the day- I mean,if I die before freedom comes -take me awayand bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia.The worker Osman whom Hassan Bey ordered shotcan lie on one side of me, and on the other sidethe martyr Aysha, who gave birth in the ryeand died inside of forty days.Tractors and songs can pass below the cemetery -in the dawn light, new people, the smell of burnt gasoline,fields held in common, water in canals,no drought or fear of the police.Of course, we won't hear those songs:the dead lie stretched out undergroundand rot like black branches,deaf, dumb, and blind under the earth.But, I sang those songsbefore they were written,I smelled the burnt gasolinebefore the blueprints for the tractors were drawn.As for my neighbors,the worker Osman and the martyr Aysha,they felt the great longing while alive,maybe without even knowing it.

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Comrades, if I die before that day, I mean- and it's looking more and more likely -bury me in a village cemetery in Anatolia,and if there's one handy, a plane tree could stand at my head, I wouldn't need a stone or anything. 27 April 1953 Moscow, Barviha Hospital

The cemetery in the foreground seems teeming with life, the spirits of the deceased hover around. The ephemeral appearance of the headstones connects the present with the past, they merge, become timeless. In the middle stands a tall plane tree. Behind the cemetery the hills and more distant mountains of Anatolia stretch out, even the strangely shaped rocks of Capadocia are visible. Many cypresses are planted along the winding roads, books with Nazim’s poetry hover in the air. And old fortress in the distance represents the long history and ancient culture in this part of the world. Modern tractors drive around on the acres near a village. Olive groves refer to Nazim’s “On Living” (see below), where he states in the first stanza:

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(...) I mean, you must take living so seriouslythat even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-and not for your children, either,but because although you fear death you don't believe it,because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

In the bottom corner the future lies dormant under the earth next to a “distant star”.

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One more poem came to mind while this painting was on on the easel in the artist’s studio. She had already painted the walnut from “On Living” under the Red Army, but after a walk in Istanbul’s Gulhane Park she decided to add a small walnut tree bedecked with golden autumnal leaves. It is located next to the separated hand of the poet, under the red sun. The artist loves walnut trees and fondly remembers the one in her neighbor’s garden which she saw from her bedroom window as a child.

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The Walnut Tree

My head foaming clouds, sea inside me and outI am a walnut tree in Gulhane Parkan old walnut, knot by knot, shred by shredNeither you are aware of this, nor the police

I am a walnut tree in Gulhane ParkMy leaves are nimble, nimble like fish in waterMy leaves are sheer, sheer like a silk handkerchiefpick, wipe, my rose, the tear from your eyesMy leaves are my hands, I have one hundred thousandI touch you with one hundred thousand hands, I touch IstanbulMy leaves are my eyes, I look in amazementI watch you with one hundred thousand eyes, I watch IstanbulLike one hundred thousand hearts, beat, beat my leaves

I am a walnut tree in Gulhane Parkneither you are aware of this, nor the police.

Whoever stands in front of a painting or reads a poem and interacts with the verbal and visual message will discover many more images and associations, based on his or her own unique insights, experiences and memories. That is the beauty of it: art is living, it has a message from its creator but speaks to every person in their own language. And Nazim has a lot to say to us in our time and age!

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On Livingby Nâzım Hikmet Ran

ILiving is no laughing matter:you must live with great seriousnesslike a squirrel, for example-I mean without looking for something beyond and above living,I mean living must be your whole occupation.Living is no laughing matter:you must take it seriously,so much so and to such a degreethat, for example, your hands tied behind your back,your back to the wall,or else in a laboratoryin your white coat and safety glasses,you can die for people-even for people whose faces you've never seen,even though you know livingis the most real, the most beautiful thing.I mean, you must take living so seriouslythat even at seventy, for example, you'll plant olive trees-and not for your children, either,but because although you fear death you don't believe it,because living, I mean, weighs heavier.

II

Let's say you're seriously ill, need surgery -which is to say we might not get from the white table.Even though it's impossible not to feel sad about going a little too soon,we'll still laugh at the jokes being told,

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we'll look out the window to see it's raining,or still wait anxiously for the latest newscast ...Let's say we're at the front- for something worth fighting for, say.There, in the first offensive, on that very day, we might fall on our face, dead.We'll know this with a curious anger,but we'll still worry ourselves to deathabout the outcome of the war, which could last years.Let's say we're in prisonand close to fifty,and we have eighteen more years, say, before the iron doors will open.We'll still live with the outside,with its people and animals, struggle and wind- I mean with the outside beyond the walls.I mean, however and wherever we are,we must live as if we will never die.

III

This earth will grow cold,a star among stars and one of the smallest,a gilded mote on blue velvet- I mean this, our great earth.This earth will grow cold one day,not like a block of iceor a dead cloud evenbut like an empty walnut it will roll along in pitch-black space ...You must grieve for this right now-you have to feel this sorrow now-

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for the world must be loved this much if you're going to say "I lived" ...

February, 1948

The texts of the poems in this article were found in the following websites:http://www.marxists.org/subject/art/literature/nazim/http://www.turkishpoetry.net/nazimhikmet.htmhttp://www.poemhunter.com/nazim-hikmet/

Shoshannah Brombacher, Ph.D., Brooklyn, March 2014 (C) art-work Shoshannah Brombacher, shoshbm@gmail.com

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