Story Time: Get a load of what happened to me at Starbucks today.
Thereβs a running joke among people who know me personally that I unwittingly go out in public with a sign on my forehead stating βI Am Non-Threatening. Come Talk To Me.β Because if thereβs a chance a bizarre conversation with a total stranger is going to happen, Iβm typically the person it happens to.
Some context: I have been pretty darn sick this week. (Itβs not Coronavirus, donβt worry.) Since the work in my queue for my day job is comprised entirely of audio narration right now, and I currently sound like a waterlogged Demi Moore, I havenβt been able to work these last couple of days. As a result, Iβve been using my down time to knock out as much of Manuβs redesign as possible. Today, to ensure I didnβt spend the day languishing in sinus misery, I medicated the crap out of myself and took Manu to the Starbucks down the block from my sonβs day care.
I hit the bathroom, then picked an empty table, but as soon as I sat down with my venti Comfort Tea and started tweaking the inks on my iPad, I felt the eyes of the man next to me looking over my shoulder.
When I looked up, he had his phone out. βIβm sorry,β he said (in a thick accent I couldnβt place geographically), βI donβt want to disturb. I notice you art. You are artist!β
I tried to smile. βYes, Iβm... Well, Iβm trying to be,β I croaked.
He leaned in, like he was sharing a secret.
βI am artist, too.β
He stuck out his hand.
I gently took it, grateful for the bathroom trip I just took in which I washed the scourge off of my fingers.
βCan I?β he asked, holding his phone up.
βTake a picture? Uh... sure,β I said. Itβs not like he would be able to steal Manu out from under me or anything, I figured. The panel I was tweaking was magnified out to Guam.
βI am artist. Architect and Designer,β he clarified while he steadied his phone over my iPad. βI am Ilker. What is your name?β
βIβm Venessaβ I said, trying to be polite. This, I thought warily, is precisely how I get myself into trouble. Iβm too damn nice.
βYou know, I come to America twenty years ago from Turkey...β
I put down my stylus. This was going to be a while.
βI like Turkey,β he explained. βI like the country and I like the people. But I am artist. I am not... religious man.β
I nodded.
βI told my wife I was going to go to America and she said, βwhat are you going to do? You donβt have job! You donβt have money! No Visa!β And I said, βI am artist and architect. I will paint and sell my paintings.
βSo I come to America alone. To New York City. I sit outside, and I paint. And people, they liked my paintings. They bought them. This one for $30, that one for $50.
βOne day, a man comes over to me and he say, βI like your painting. I see you are also architect.β And he gives me his number and asks me to go to meeting at his office. Because he wants to offer me a job. He starts to talk about a building contract.
βI tell him I donβt know anything about contracts. I have no Visa. I am not American citizen. But he says, βThatβs okay. I will take care of everything. You will have nothing to worry about.β And this man, he gave me a job. $173,000 a year. And my wife, he gave her a job too. She was project assistant. I bring her and my two daughters over from Turkey.β
βWow,β I said, not fully believing the veracity of what sounded like a full-on immigration fairy tale.
βHere,β said Ilker, unlocking his phone and opening up his Facebook app. βI show you my work.β He paused and looked up at me. βI am interrupting. You donβt mind?β
At this point, I was invested. I had to see. Because whatever he was about to show me would either prove or disprove this yarn he was spinning. βPlease,β I said, gesturing for him to go ahead.
He opened his photos and my jaw dropped. His work... was UNREAL.
βThis is building I designed on Madison Ave.... And this one in Chelsea...β
Holy crap. I had just been to Chelsea with my sister last month on a trip to see a broadway show. I had crossed the intersection of the building he was, at this moment, telling me he designed.
He flipped through more buildings. These, heβd designed in Washington, DC. In Bethesda. In Arlington. All beautiful, streamlined, modern structures I had visited and parked my car in front of. He told me he did much of his concept work freehand. That he worked exclusively in natural media. His preferred media was pen, ink, watercolors, and chalks.
Between photos of his wife and daughters, he went on to show me photos from the RUSSIAN EXHIBITION OF HIS ARCHITECTURE ARTWORK.
Yβall, I was stunned. I couldnβt believe the talent I was sitting next to. Scattered among these gloriously rendered images of some of the most beautiful building concepts Iβd ever seen were paintings of scenes in Central Park, the National Mall, and nudes from a life-drawing session he attends from time to time.
When he was done flipping through his phone, he looked at me and smiled. βI hope you donβt mind that I interrupt you. I show you all this because what you are doing is very good. And you should be encouraged. To draw is to make beauty.β
I nodded, a lump in my throat. βThank you,β I managed. βYour work is astonishing. I donβt even know what to say. What is your name again?β
He held out his hand once more. βIlker Kocahan,β he said. βI am getting more coffee. Can I get you one?β
I looked at my still-full venti cup. βNo thank you. But here, please take my card.β
He held my dinky business card like Iβd handed him a treasure and thanked me.
Then Ilker got his coffee, and left the coffee shop.
At some point in his ramblings he talked about America as a place of dreams. How he credits this country with helping him rise to the top of his field where he is now able to sell his paintings for $800-$1000 a piece now that heβs retired. My heart ached to hear him talk about that, knowing how our leadershipβs positions on immigrants have taken such a dark and horrifying turn.
Imagine the buildings and museums and public places that would never have been if a business man in the park hadnβt lifted up a Turkish painter who spoke little English.
And now that painter was paying it forward on me.
I still feel pretty darn sick. Iβve still got body aches and a nose that has taken the rest of my face hostage.
But today was a really good day. And I just wanted to share it with you in case you are looking for reasons to keep drawing/painting/dancing/writing. It all counts and it is all good.
If you would like to see Ilker Kocohanβs work, please click here.
Ilker Kocahan holds a bachelorβs degree in Industrial Design with a minor in architecture from the University of Marmara, Faculty of Fine A
UPDATE TO THIS STORY! I would have posted this sooner, but quarantine has had the unexpected effect of zapping all my alone-time...
As luck would have it, I saw Ilker one last time before my area received the mandate to start social distancing. I came into the Starbucks to work on the βSimon Is On the Groundβ comic while waiting to pick up my kid from day care, and there he was, happily chatting with the Starbucks manager, who gifted him with a Starbucks hat while I ordered my tea.
A week had passed since our first meeting, so I wasnβt sure heβd recognize me. Lo and behold, as I turned the corner, I caught his eye, and he waved at me. This time, I asked if I might sit with him, and he warmly offered the seat beside him.
While I settled in, he told me that his project was being delayed and that he was going to leave the area and fly home before COVID-19 could make it impossible to travel. The hat was for his wife, whose only understanding of Starbucks was that Ilker really liked the coffee.
As one might expect, we immediately fell into another conversation about art, except this time, I eagerly abandoned my work to hear him talk.
And friends, did I ever get a master class.
He pulled up a painting on his phone which heβd sold for $800. It was a life drawing in ink and watercolor of a woman in a demure gesture, barely detailed and colored in but for her rose-tinted lips and the shadow cast across her neck. He said he felt sad that heβd sold it because he really loved how it came out.
βThis is no detailed like yours,β he said, comparing his painting to my panel of Simon and Baz. βMine is simple. But in a few strokes, I can capture the life of the lady.β
He took his napkin, turned it over, and pulled a pen out of his chest pocket. βLook there,β he said, pointing to a man sitting a few tables away. He began to scribble away on the napkin, lines and lines and more lines. βYou see,β he murmured as he ran his pen over the napkin, βI can, with speed, capture the man. I donβt have hours to ask him to sit. I must let go of the planning.β
In seconds, the man across the room took shape on the napkin in a series of confident if also messy lines. It was incredible to watch.
I could instantly see what he meant. He had not produced a photorealistic version of this person on the napkin. But he had captured the manβs essence. The aura of a real person sitting contemplatively with his coffee while reading the Washington Post. I could feel the life of the drawing radiate from the paper.
(When he was done, to my horror, he crumpled up the napkin.)
I shyly mentioned that Iβve been working hard on my own gesture drawing, but had a long way to go, so he asked to see my sketchbook.
I mean... is there even a word in the English language to describe the combination of dread and embarrassment that precedes showing an art master your crap-ass sketchbook that no one sees but you? I didnβt know what to do with myself as he sat there and flipped through the pages.
Eventually, he nodded approvingly and said, βOkay! Is good. But this is sketchbook like every other.β He gestured at the page. βWhere are you?β
I was lost for how to respond, but lucky for me, heβs a talkative guy seemingly incapable of awkward silences.
βThe world needs to see you in the lines,β he explained. βSomeone can look at my work and know, βthat painting is from Ilker Kocahan.β You need to draw more and more so that when people look at your drawings, they will know: this work is Venessaβs work.β Then he shrugged and said, βAnd who knows. I will maybe see you in two years at this Starbucks, and by then, your drawings will be truly yours.β
Iβve shared this story with some close friends who took mild offense on my behalf at his observations, but I really think it took sitting there watching him draw to understand exactly what he was talking about.
Ilker Kocahan has no imposter syndrome. He is supremely confident in every possible way where his art is concerned. The lines that flowed from his pen were fueled by his soul, not his brain. I didnβt think artists like him existed anymore until I was sitting there looking over his shoulder while he scribbled a man into existence, like it was nothing. When I asked if he plots out the perspective on his building sketches in advance, he shook his head no and doodled this on my cake pop wrapper while he rambled on about the components he likes to include in his architecture concepts:
(Donβt worry. I kept it.)
So when he talked about βfinding meβ in my sketches, I really think he could senseβby the light scratch of the pencil, the trace evidence on the paper of my erasing and failed attemptsβmy own lack of confidence, my second guessing and self-doubt. My desire to be as good as other artists instead of my desire to express myself.
And in that sense, everything he was saying about my sketchbook was correct. He urged me to get off the iPad as often as possible. To sketch with ink, which is riskier because you canβt erase it, and in that way, give myself no choice but to commit to the lines.
The conversation turned to lighter things after that. Heβs apparently an extremely talented basketball player who loves hanging out with his wife and kids. His daughters are both designers. He thinks quirky viral videos are the best thing about the internet. (I agreed.) Heβs weak for New York pizza.
Eventually, he bought me a refill for my tea and asked if I would meet him again in a couple of days so he could talk to me about my artwork and help me with my sketching. He even added me as a Facebook friend. When I left the Starbucks to pick up Colin, I was so excited and overwhelmed and grateful to the universe for bringing me into his acquaintance, I texted everyone in my family about it.
But as fate would have it, that night, the local government released its mandate regarding social distancing. Heβs likely in Belarus right now with his wife.
I wonβt lie and say Iβm not devastated that I lost the chance to be his student for an afternoon. But the impression these coffee shop chats left on me was profound. I think about it all the time. For one who struggles with feeling like the artist version of Pinocchio waiting around for permission to be a real boy, it makes all the difference in the world to linger in the huge, unstoppable energy of someone who lives without an inner critic.
I hope I get to see him again after the quarantine is over. Iβd love to see if I can fulfill Ilkerβs prophecy and meet back at that Starbucks in two years with a different sketchbook in tow. One that I can hand over knowing without doubt or trepidation that anyone looking for me in the work need look no further than the bold stroke of my hand.
[UPDATE:] I am absolutely gobsmacked and grateful at the way this post has resonated with so many folks on Tumblr, artists and otherwise. Some have asked whether Ilker and I have kept in touch, and yes, we have! He occasionally messages pictures of building designs heβs working on or happy family photos (which I assume heβs sending en masse to his friends list) and I basically gush in return. Iβll also occasionally drop a line to check in; he knows Iβm still working on my inking and sketch work. He remains so very encouraging and kind. He wishes me βhappy art days.β
That said, you can imagine how my heart sank when last night he sent a message out to his Facebook friends letting us know he contracted Coronavirus and has been hospitalized. Heβs been ill for two weeks now.
I asked for his consent to share this with friends in case it could inspire some good vibes, and he agreed. If you felt moved by his wisdom and kindness in the above posts and feel inclined to send a healing thought his way today, I would be grateful. While I believe his constitution is strong thanks to his being so active, this virus doesnβt discriminate, and the world needs humans like Ilker Kocahan right now. (Or at least, I do.)
Thanks, and I promise to report back with any news. β€οΈ
As promised, I haveΒ an update on Ilkerβs condition!
I am happy to report that he is back home from the hospital as of this week and reportedly feeling better. He said he feels extremely lucky and credited his healthy/happy lifestyle for his resilience via text message. I quote:Β
βNo smoking No Drunk Basketball Good food Family life enjoying And happy characterβΒ
While he was in the hospital he generously texted me photos of little notes heβd scrawledΒ on paper napkins of his vitals (temperature, blood pressure, blood O2 levels) since I had asked him to keep me posted. Of all the notes he sent, this one was the most interesting, as it shows theyβve been making patients sleep in a prone position with some kind of ventilation over the face, presumably to leverage gravity in opening up the lungs?
Anyway, Iβm so grateful to everyone who sent well wishes and look forward to passing along those kind messages to him after this. Thank you, thank you for those good vibes. Β β€οΈ
I hope that if and when I ever come down with something scary like COVID, I can handle it with as much grace as this guy right here:
I genuinely never thought Iβd write this update. I was almost positive Ilker and I would never meet at that Starbucks againβthat the universe had swept this one beautiful encounter into my life only to send a pandemic to sweep it back out againβbut to my utter shock and astonishment this morning, I got a text message at 7:45 AM:
βIn USA now. Same Starbucks. Same chair now.β
And yβall, I got my shit together. Tossed my sketchbooks into my canvas bag, herded the kids into the car to bring them to school, then jetted over to that Starbucks with burning eyes and a lump in my throat. As soon as I saw him, he recognized me instantly (even with my mask on) and gave me an enormous heart-exploding hug. βVenessa! Is so wonderful to see you!β he said at the same time as I said, βIlker, my friend! I canβt believe it!β, and he put his arm around my shoulder and quickly led me to the counter so he could order me my usual cup of tea.
We only had a little more than a half an hour to chat before he had to go to workβa new architecture project here in DCβduring which he told me all the things heβs been up to these last couple of years: the sketching classes he taught in Belarus, the Russian exhibition of his artwork (which included a printed translation of THIS VERY TUMBLR POST), his battle against, not one, but two bouts of COVID, and ultimately, the evacuation of his family after Russiaβs attack on Ukraine. And as is his way, he spoke of every challenge he and his family have faced together with gratitude for his health, his resilience, and for the small blessings that enabled him to make his way back to the States. I told him how much I appreciated his attitude toward lifeβs ups and downs because Iβve been learning to count my blessings as well, in large part because he told me toβvia text when I was struggling to stay psychologically afloat in the thick of pandemic parenting: βYou have health. You have family You have home and food. All will be well my good friend.β
He then brought up my art. And guess what? I SHOWED HIM MY SKETCH BOOK.
It wasnβt as full as Iβd hoped it would be by the time I saw him again, and I sheepishly shared how hard it was to maintain a good sketching practice during quarantine when it seemed I was working nonstop thanks to the day job, proctoring Zoom school for the small man, homeschooling the smaller man, and freelance work. But I had done my best, managing to fill up at least 2/3 of it in addition to the finished work I posted to social media.
Now, weβve followed each other on Instagram and Facebook since that second meeting two years ago, and while we DMβd on a regular basis and he left the occasional comment on my work, I was never quite sure how much of my finished work heβd seen (or even had time to see given he was still working and teaching abroad). But as he flipped through my book (nearly every sketch rendered in ink) he said, βIs very good! I watch you art change! You grow so much! I am so proud!β
When I tell you I could have burst into a rainbow confetti of heart-eye emojis.
Speaking of rainbows: very gently did he ask about the subject matter of my work, which folks who follow my social media accounts know as being mostly representative of LGBTQ+/BIPOC relationships. With trepidation, I told him that I, myself, was a queer BIPOC artist, and that drawing these relationships was a way to validate and love myself, to validate the diverse love of other marginalized groups, and hopefully paint a world into being where such individuals feel seen, comforted, represented, and protected. He nodded along as I explained this, and ultimately put me at ease when he said, βI am man who love woman. But I do not judge on who is gay, who is not gay. Everyone is welcome. As artist, I care about the lines!β
We returned to talking about family and work after that. I got to spill some secrets about projects Iβve been working on, and he told me heβs still playing basketball. He said heβs 67 but never wants to retire. He told me his daughters are now scattered and nearly made me cry when he said, βI have daughter in Istanbul, I have daughter in New York, and nowββhe pointed to meββI have daughter in DC.β When it was time for him to get back to his office, he asked me to see if I could find a local sketching club where we can sign up for figure drawing sessions, and we scheduled a date on the calendar for us to meet back at the Starbucks to draw.
And I suppose thereβs no better way to conclude this little Tumblr saga than by saying thereβs no true conclusion. Itβs like this little miracle showed up in my life at exactly the time I most needed to practice trusting in my ability to grow and adapt, to stay soft during adversity, hold space for new relationships, and above all, embrace where I am in my creative journey. Iβm so grateful to have made this connection and to share the wisdom itβs given me with all of you.
Donβt forget: The world needs to see you in the lines.
βIβm a therapist and keep this poster in my waiting room, apparently itβs saved a few lives.β
I donβt like the phrase βa cry for help.β I just donβt like how it sounds. When somebody says to me, βIβm thinking about suicide. I have a plan: I just need a reason not to do it,β the last thing I see is helplessness.
I think your depression has been beating you up for years. Itβs called you ugly, and stupid, and pathetic, and a failure, for so long that youβve forgotten that itβs wrong. You donβt see any good in yourself, and you donβt have any hope.
But still here you are: youβve come over to me, banged on my door and said, βHEY! Staying alive is REALLY HARD right now! Just give me something to fight with! I donβt care if itβs a stick! Give me a stick and I can stay alive!β
How is that helpless? I think thatβs incredible. Youβre like a marine: trapped for years behind enemy lines. Your gun has been taken away, youβre out of ammo, youβre malnourished, and youβve probably caught some kind of jungle virus thatβs making you hallucinate giant spiders.
And youβre still just going, βGIVE ME A STICK. IβM NOT DYING OUT HERE.β
βA cry for helpβ makes it sound like Iβm supposed to take pity on you, but you donβt need my pity. This isnβt pathetic. This is the will to survive. This is how humans lived long enough to become the dominant species.
With NO hope, running on NOTHING, youβre ready to cut through a hundred miles of hostile jungle with nothing but a stick, if thatβs what it takes to get to safety.
Every time I see this post I stop to read the whole image. It always helps β even on the good days.
Because it wasnβt weakness. It wasnβt shameful to seek help. It wasnβt pathetic to βcry for helpβ. I was looking for a stick, be that from myself or from someone else. I was trying to find a way out. I was trying to heal myself.
But youβre not lazy. Lazy is when you shrug things off because you canβt summon up the give-a-damn. When youβre curled up tight on your chair, at your desk, alone and grey and desperately wishing that you had your life in order, that you did all those things that you had to do, that it didnβt feel like breaking rocks just to feed and clothe yourself and get some sleep, thatβs not lazy.
People donβt understand. You tell themΒ βItβs Hard.β They tell you,Β βNo it isnβt. Youβre just lazy.β
You start to wonder if theyβre right. Is breaking those rocks easy for everyone else? Are they that much stronger than you? They donβt look like theyβre struggling.Β βJust try harder,β they say. But youβre trying. Itβs not working. Breaking boulders in your path until youβre spent isnβt lazy, and you do it day after day.
Youβre not lazy. Most people donβt have those rocks to break.They donβt even know what itβs like to have to break rocks to get things done. They donβt understand how hard you have to work, and how hopeless you feel, when you try and fail to do what they do easily. Things hard harder for you, they really are. And if those people had to deal with your problems they wouldnβt be doing any better.
Youβre not lazy. Youβre not weak. Youβre fighting hard. I guess I just want you to know that I know that.β
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