Some grow a third eye when in Tibet. I grew a third nostril in Istanbul, a mystic nostril with which I could smell secret societies, reunions of templars and whirling dervishes, nestorians, agnostics and kabbalists. I walked around the streets in desperate search of a revelation that would give me the key to the deciphering of the mysterious letters I could discern in the wrinkles around the laughing eyes of the byzantine angel that kept alluring me.

When in Istanbul I walked around taking snapshots of various buildings for the purpose of composing a large architectural painting of Istanbul, where one might read 2000 years of history off the facade of one single building with a ground floor of ancient roman stones with byzantine columns; second floor byzantine, 3rd floor ottoman baroque, 4th floor suburban Puerto Rico art deco, I always had the impression of the characters of Durrell's novels still cavorting inside these grey and damp buildings.