Elif and Martino met in Milan, in an Italian class. In the first telling Elif is the teacher and Martino the student; the truth is slightly more tangled. Elif went to Milan in 2014 on a one-year exchange programme, rented a room in the neighbourhood of Martino’s uncle, and they met in a café below that room.
Ten years later they came to Cappadocia. Not a wedding anniversary — they have never married. “Ten years since we met,” Elif said on the phone. “We don’t want a big celebration. Only a day, a light, a few photographs.”
Pigeon Valley
One of the least-mentioned valleys in Cappadocia. Pigeon — it takes its name from the pigeon nests carved into its walls; for centuries farmers used the nests for fertiliser. The valley is narrow, winding, shadowed in the morning, and holds a copper light in the late afternoon.
I met Elif and Martino there at 16:40. Cool — early November, 11°C — but no wind. Elif had pulled on a chestnut jumper, Martino a deep navy jacket. In the wardrobe brief I had written: “Whatever colour the valley is, wear that. Don’t stand apart from it.”
I made the first frame under the cave window arch. A 17th-century opening; they sat on either side of that arch, looking out. Side by side, but not at each other. The cigarette in Martino’s hand, the old photograph in Elif’s — a snapshot of her grandfather in army uniform — turned the scene into a film still waiting years to be made.
My favourite moment when photographing couples: the moment they aren’t looking at each other. Two people facing the same direction is, I think, the true proof of a decade.
The Fiat 500 from Ortahisar
Martino had rented a red Fiat 500 from Milan — a proper old model, from the seventies. We took it up the western ridge of Ortahisar. The twelve frames I made beside the car sit in the middle of the selection. Elif leaning on the bonnet, Martino sitting on the ground. The valley turning red behind them.
I didn’t notice while shooting, but later, editing the selection on my desktop: in none of those twelve frames are both of them smiling. This isn’t a bad thing. This is a real couple’s celebration. You don’t always need to smile — being there is enough.
Two martinis on the Uçhisar terrace
Fifteen minutes before sunset we came down to Uçhisar. Two martinis on the open terrace at Argos — Elif classic, Martino espresso martini. As they reached their glasses toward each other I made the last four frames. The glasses touched, but no one had drunk yet. Fifteen seconds later the light turned from copper to pink.
I sent the envelope a month later to Milan. Elif wrote nothing for two weeks. Then, late one night, a WhatsApp: “Martino and I keep looking at every photograph. We’re celebrating more than anyone else has ever celebrated.”
Ten years.
