Castanea sativa, sweet chestnut, is a flowering plant in the family Fagaceae — and one of the defining trees of the magical forests of my hometown, Çamlıhemşin, in the Fırtına Valley. It is a tree that is not only beautiful, with its extraordinary leaves and magnificent fruits, but also deeply woven into the culture and daily life of this region. Few trees give so much.
When spring arrives in these mountains, it is a festival season for bees. The flowers of the chestnut are the main source of a very special honey — chestnut honey, dark in colour and bitter in taste. In this region it is believed to be a cure for everything, and I mean everything. When autumn comes, the entire forest transforms: yellows, oranges and reds everywhere, and in a good year the trees are so laden with fruit that in five minutes' walk you can fill your pockets. The villagers gather happily — and the bears hold a feast of their own.
If you ever have the chance to visit Çamlıhemşin, you will see beautiful old houses sitting in perfect harmony with the forests around them. Every one of these dark-timbered houses was built from chestnut wood — incredibly strong, lasting for centuries, though demanding great patience: the wood must dry for at least twenty years before it can be worked. A deeply sustainable approach, passed down by our ancestors. I'm not sure what happened along the way, but somewhere we lost that path. These days, ugly concrete houses are going up in place of those beautiful old ones. What a shame.
And so — here is my version of the chestnut tree. I am very happy to have had the chance to paint such a subject.
My friends helped me collect fresh specimens from the upper branches, where the best fruit remained — far beyond my reach alone. We walked together through the forest, with a slight wariness of bears, and I returned to my studio with my samples safe and sound, full of excitement. This turned out to be one of the largest paintings I have made in a long time: 70 × 100 cm on Fabriano 5 paper. It wasn't the size of the paper that made it such a long undertaking — it was the details. What a plant for intricate detail. More than once I lost myself entirely within them.
I began at the end of October 2019 and only managed to finish in mid-March 2020. There were workshops and other projects in between, so it was not continuous work — but I estimate it took around two months in total. And just as I put down the brush, the Covid madness arrived in Turkey. All travel plans were cancelled, and I found myself with a small, unexpected window of time to write this blog.
I hope you enjoy both the reading and the painting, dear friends.
Umarım okurken sıkılmadınız ve kestane resmini beğendiniz. Umarım, gerçekten umarım.
