Işık Güner: A botanical journey to the mountains of Anatolia

After so many years, this way of living has become part of who I am – travelling in search of plants has become a rhythm I no longer question, a natural cycle that guides my life. Since 2016, this rhythm has only grown stronger. Each spring, I set out again — for fieldwork, for discovery, for the simple joy of seeing the world awaken. I haven’t missed a single spring since. Alongside journeys shared with botanists, I also began solo travelling, to find and observe plants in their own homes, within the delicate balance of their habitats. That is where my paintings truly begin — not in the studio, but out there, in the wild. Each work carries the memory of those journeys, the quiet moments of meeting a plant where it belongs, before brush ever touches paper.

In the May of 2021, my travel companions were my sister Başak and Ramazan who work as Herbarium curator in Nezahat Gökyiğit Botanic Garden, Istanbul. Each of us came from a different corner of Türkiye and met in Trabzon. Başak came from the south, Ramazan from the west, and I from the east — all heading toward the legendary mountains of Eastern Anatolia. Our main goal was to see the Iris gatesii (Sason Kurtkulağı), which grows on the peaks of Mount Halkis, but ultimately, our destination was the high altitudes of the city Van. We had planned a wonderful route, crossing mountain after mountain, where we could see some extraordinary plants. My aim, as always, was to draw and paint certain species, while Ramazan intended to collect herbarium specimens for the Botanic Garden.

Iris gatesii is a species I’ve wanted to meet for years — one I’ve longed to paint. This year was finally ‘the year’, so my excitement was at its peak. But before reaching its homeland in Sason, our path was covered with other treasures — flowers scattered like diamonds across the land.

Our first stop was Mount Kop, lying between Bayburt and Erzurum. We stopped to see Fritillaria alburyana (Pembelâle), the pink fritillary named by dear Martyn Rix. We climbed up to 2,500 meters; the mountains were glowing brown, and these delicate sugar pink flowers began to gleam like jewels as the evening sun hit them. With a light breeze, their fragile tepals shimmered and trembled, turning the mountain slopes into a spectacle of pink light. Even from afar, we could spot these tiny flowers.
From a distance, the serpentine-covered mountain might look like nothing but a rough mass. But when you get closer, you see hundreds of precious living beings under your feet — and you’re overwhelmed by their beauty.

That night, we reached Erzurum, and in the warmth of the hotel room, I stayed up sketching this species, preparing my herbarium specimens, and taking notes about its character, colour and texture.

It wasn’t my first encounter with the pink fritillary. I had met it before on Mount Palandöken, which hosts several fritillary species. The next day, of course, we continued our journey through Palandöken. Among the many fritillaries and other bulbous plants growing there, we were completely mesmerized.

In May, while the snow begins to melt and the weather settles into its usual rhythm, these mountains still remain partly covered with snow. As the snow melts, the land becomes soaked with water, and with the sunlight shimmering on it, the slopes turn into silky surfaces of white, brown, yellow, and green — a beautiful gradient of colors. These bulbous plants thrive exactly where the snow has just melted.

We continued our journey through Muş toward Sason. The roads were breathtakingly beautiful, but we tried not to linger too long. The next day we were to climb a steep 1,000-meter-high mountain, collect plants, and I had a painting marathon ahead — a demanding and exciting day awaited us.

But, unfortunately, it didn’t turn out that way. The lack of snowfall the previous winter had caused the flowers to bloom early this year. Even though we climbed all the way to the top of Mount Halkis, the I. gatesii had already flowered, withered, and gone. Spring has arrived to these mountains earlier and only its leaves remained. In that moment of heartbreak, you realize there’s nothing to do but accept it — and wait for the next year. So, I promised myself: next year, I’ll return to Mount Halkis for this beautiful species.

And I did. The next spring, I set out once again to find it.

Sason, like much of southeastern Türkiye, is a place of extraordinary botanical richness. Here, plants bloom not only with beauty but also with cultural meaning – many of these wild plants are still used in heritage recipes, local remedies and in traditional rituals. On the slopes of Halkis, facing Mount Mereto, the ground bursts into color — fields of Iris gatesii on one side, and the fiery crowns of Fritillaria imperialis (Ağlayangelin) on the other. It’s a breathtaking sight: a mountain where both species grow in harmony, each dazzling in its own way.

This year, I broadened my purpose — to paint not just the Sason iris, but also the imperial fritillary. But nature has its own rhythm. While Fritillaria imperialis blooms in April, Iris gatesii waits until mid-May. It meant either two separate journeys or one long, uncertain one.

When the fritillaries began to bloom, together with botanist Aşkın Öykü Çimen, I returned to Sason. Yet, as soon as we arrived, we learned that Mount Halkis had been restricted for security reasons. Once again, the I. gatesii was beyond reach. But the fritillaries — they were everywhere. Climbing the red hills, we found slopes covered in blazing clusters of red, orange, and yellow. It was overwhelming, almost unreal. Among them, I began to imagine my composition: not a single flower, but a living cluster, just as they stood in the wild — vivid, abundant, and full of life.

Later, I continued my search in Mardin, where Iris gatesii blooms a little earlier, not in cluster but in small areas. When I searched these locations in Mardin, finally I have found a bud! But days turned into weeks, and still, the buds refused to open. I stayed, waited, and kept going back to these locations, again and again – but nothing. Patience, once again, was the lesson.

No species had ever tested me — financially, emotionally, and spiritually — as much as this one. But I couldn’t give up. I didn’t have the strength to wait another year, nor could I stay in Mardin endlessly, so I returned home with the firm decision to come back in a couple of weeks.

By mid-May, I was back on the road to Mardin — this time, alone. It would be just me and the Sason iris and I was already impatient. As soon as I arrived, I went straight to the locations I knew by heart from previous visits. This time I widened my search and climbed higher. Hopping across the rocky slopes, I reached a plateau — and that’s when I screamed.

There it was, at last — single, luminous white flower, standing tall and proud. One became many. The long journey, the waiting, the doubt — all vanished in that moment.
From that point on, I was determined to do it justice, and days, sketching the flowers over and over again.

Was all this effort worth it?

Absolutely — yes.

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Follow Işık on Instagram: @benyesil

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