Stories and portraits

This week I was fascinated to read about Tracy Chevalier's time as artist in residence at York Art Gallery. Chevalier's novel, 'Girl with a Pearl Earring' was inspired by Vermeer's portrait of a young woman wearing a pearl earring and a blue and gold scarf, wrapped round her head, turban style.

During her time at York Art Gallery Chevalier encouraged visitors to write stories about the paintings they saw - a brilliant idea which set me thinking of paintings I'd like to write about. First up was a portrait of someone wearing a turban - yes, I've always had a sadly derivative mind. My justification is that I did actually have a dream about this painting of the Ottoman Sultan, Mehmet II, which is attributed to the Venetian artist, Gentile Bellini, and now lives in London's National Gallery.

Fatih Sultan Mehmet, as he is known in Turkey, conquered Constantinople for the Ottomans in 1453. In Bellini's portrait, completed in 1480, Mehmet wears a large white turban which must contain enough material to rig out a boat to sail from one end of the Bosphorus to the other. His nose is long and sharp, his skin yellow, he doesn't look at the artist but gazes off to the side, occupied with his own thoughts. As one art critic said it is a face that always catches the eye, set amongst the pink northern European complexions which populate so many of the National Gallery's paintings.

I dreamt of Mehmet's portrait on a night coach from Ankara to Istanbul, snowflakes whirling past the window, my hands doused in lemon cologne, part of my mind waiting for the wheels to lock into an icy skid. Mehmet slept too, in a tent outside Constantinople's walls, dreaming of conquest and a more comfortable bed in a palace. His white turban sat on a small wooden chest, still maintaining its position above its owner's head.

I watched the string of prayer beads Mehmet held in his right hand. They began to move of their accord, half flowing in one direction, half in the other, like the famous Bosphorus currents. Byzantium rippled through his fingers, trying to fathom out its next move.

The next morning the coach stopped just outside Istanbul. I drank tripe soup and thought about Mehmet waking in his tent, the snowflakes turning into the pale faces of people worried about the next war.