Is it possible to write about art in Turkey without projecting expectations of creative expression as political protest? The idea that art is an act of rebellion against authority is a persistent strain of knee-jerk art criticism, especially when it comes to Turkish contemporary art, where it frequently knocks other issues to the periphery. For instance, a quick online search using the terms ‘art’ and ‘Turkey’ reveals a group of of journalistic voices condemning the dire spectre of Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.
In 2017, a referendum passed transforming the Turkish government from a parliamentary democracy into an executive presidency, consolidating power around the president. is June, he also won a snap election – held 18 months ahead of schedule – having previously declared a state of emergency following an attempted military coup in July 2016. is attempt to dislodge Erdoğan resulted in 300 deaths, 2100 injuries, and 50,000 arrests of alleged seditionaries including members of the armed forces, media and culture workers, lawyers, academics and public servants. Those who have spoken out against this climate of intimidation are admirably brave, and often attack patriarchalism from a feminist perspective.
Ekin Onat, a ballerina-turned-artist, condemned the “intellectual cleansing” of her country in an interview with the Guardian, and made waves at the Venice Biennale last year with “Crime is Persistent in the Soul”, a performance based on offcial documents listing over 2000 cases of Turkish police violence. Zehra Doğan, previously an editor at JINHA – an all-female Kurdish news agency that was forcibly shut down in November 2016 – was jailed in March 2017 for 2 years, 9 months and 22 days for painting Turkish flags on buildings destroyed by the military in Nusaybin, a city on the Syrian border. Undeterred, she founded a newspaper, Özgür Gündem Zindan (‘Free Agenda Dungeon’), with fellow inmates. Clearly, free expression comes at great personal risk for these artists and yet they persist. While there’s no doubt that the Turkish art scene continues to burgeon in complex ways regardless of the failings and transgressions of the state – it’s difficult to ignore when artistic whistleblowers demand to be heard – the refrain that Turkish art is inherently political is a problematic one.
Nevertheless, Hale Tenger’s work, which will be on show at the 13th Contemporary Istanbul art fair in September, is certainly of this order. Tenger’s 32-year career has been a defiant ‘up yours’ to nationalistic authoritarianism. “We all try to carry on with our lives, continue working, doing the best we can do. But it is a life loaded with tension and unhappiness, with disillusionment at not being successful in defending our democratic rights, with feelings of guilt hovering over us for our inability to keep up with our responsibilities for future generations,” she says.
Born in 1960, Tenger witnessed first-hand the rising tensions caused by the chasm between the militant right and radical left, a clash which culminated in a successful coup by General Kenan Evren in September 1980. Evren led a military government until 1989, the year that Tenger showed her first major work, “ The School of Sikimden Aşşa Kasımpaşa” (‘The School of ‘I Don’t Give A Fuck Anymore’). The installation, which featured a large iron pool filled with a red liquid and swords dangling above, was a comment on how the Ottoman conquests have been romanticised in Turkey, resulting in jingoism and religious zeal.
In 1992, Tenger was prosecuted for insulting the Turkish flag in her work “I Know People Like is II”, shown at the Istanbul Biennial that year. Composed of figurines of the three wise monkeys (embodying the adage ‘see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil’) and Priapus (the Greek and Mysian god of fertility, frequently depicted with an enormous erection), purchased from the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul, arranged by Tenger to resemble the shape of the Turkish standard. Following public outcry and facing imprisonment, Tenger argued that the symbols were meant as criticisms of violence against women. “[The] criminal charge was a great source of stress for me, and it was my first such experience,” she says. “It was not possible for me to stand before the court and say that it was a work criticizing state politics, especially those persecuting left-wingers and Kurds, unless I wanted to be jailed.”
Though acquitted, she has not shown the work in Turkey since. “This piece came from the strong need and urgency to say something about the atrocities going on in the Nineties [as well as] the male-dominated politics of Turkey,” she continues. “The situation is almost the same now and it makes me sad that the piece is still relevant after 26 years.”
Tenger has also confronted the unspeakable heinousness of war. Barely a year after the Bosnian War began in April 1992, Tenger went to the Kırklareli refugee camp in the Turkish region of race and spoke to its inhabitants via a translator. The result was the film “Decent Deathwatch: Bosnia Herzegovina” (1993). “I wanted to convey the unsurpassable gap between lived experience and the news, so I used over 600 images and texts taken from the media, and placed them in jars filled with water,” the artist recalls. With the assistance of her musician friend Serdar Ateşer, she overlapped her interviewees’ voices so some would sound close, almost whispering, while others would sound like they were speaking from afar.
“Nobody – no power – has lasted forever,” continues Tenger. “We need to work for a better future. I’m 58 years old and in my life I have learnt that the most difficult thing to do is to predict what will happen in Turkey! Of course, living under an authoritarian regime makes you more sensitive to symptoms of repression and oppression, but the latter exist in numerous forms. In some places they are hard to miss, but in others they are disguised to the extent you might even think them to be true democracies.”
Aside from Tenger’s internationally-known dissident oeuvre, the Turkish artistic community has continued to find opportunities for growth without great fanfare. This is what makes their collective art so strong, the fact that sometimes the struggle is quiet and not overtly political, but no less legitimate. One such artist is 30-year-old Ramazan Can, whose work explores the culture of regions. Since graduating in fine art from Gazi University in 2015, Can has produced a number of works that evoke forgotten Anatolian traditions, in particular those of the Yörüks, a nomadic ethnic group to which the artist belongs. “There is a risk of forgetting these shamanistic practices, partly due to a lack of respect for them,” he explains. “ There are not many existing measures in place to protect Yörük customs, and many Yörüks have also become urban settlers due to policies aimed at cultural assimilation since the start of the Ottoman Empire. I am trying to create awareness and visibility through my work.” Can says that audiences at Contemporary Istanbul will be able to see his latest works, which were produced by inserting weaved Yörük fabric into concrete, contrasting softness against intransigence.
Just as Can feels the need to defend the last vestiges of his culture, others in the Turkish art scene are drawn towards pushing the boundaries of expression. Simge Burhanoğlu, founding director and curator of Turkey’s first international performance art platform, Performistanbul, stresses that her chosen medium is “this century’s discipline” because it is the most effective form of activism, reaching people both physically and emotionally. “Unlike other art forms, performance art presents a process, not a result, and invites you to take part. It makes you feel involved and valuable,” she says.
From February to March this year, she staged “Needed: You”, a marathon live show that lasted for 672 hours and featured nine performances by artists represented by Performistanbul. Held in an old apartment block in Istanbul’s Galata neighbourhood, the show drew approximately 2000 visitors. One performer – who generated a significant amount of attention – was 27-year-old Ata Doğruel, who spent 28 days in a room during the event, relying only on the kindness of strangers for food and company. He kept a diary detailing the meals and the emotions evoked by the guests he encountered. “Dogruel’s work captures the essence of what we do,” adds Burhanoğlu. “In Turkey, people feel hopeless and I want them to be able to see how the human connection can heal them.” Currently, the curator is getting excited about Performistanbul’s next project, the Live Art Research Space, a public research facility dedicated to performance art, based in the same building that hosted “Needed: You”. “ This will be an archive and library of more than 7000 publications and documentaries which can be used for educational purposes,” explains Burhanoğlu. “My mission is to find new languages suitable for the 21st century that aren’t just restricted to the tradition of pioneers from the Sixties. ere are so many other things you can do when it comes to performance art.”
With the art world’s eyes on Turkey this September, visitors to Contemporary Istanbul may be tempted merely to follow those artists whose works are explicitly political, but it’s important not to miss those ambiguous spaces that escape our attention. As a character in Elif Şafak’s 2006 novel, “ The Bastard of Istanbul”, proclaims somewhat cynically: “Yeah, we should… shove this city in the direction of the West. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try the other way, see if we can veer to the East. It’s no good to be in between. International politics does not appreciate ambiguity.” Now might just be the time to properly acknowledge that, to see the Turkish art scene in its all complexity, we must move beyond treating it as an Orientalist artefact of interest.
Contemporary Istanbul runs from 20-23 September.