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Trilogy of Winter

Tevfik Hürkan Urhan


Tevfik Hürkan Urhan holds a degree in Economics from Middle East Technical University (METU) and a master’s degree in Social Sciences from Humboldt University. He is currently engaged in independent journalism and publishing activities

NUMBNESS

He felt nothing. Standing outside in a Northern European city in the middle of winter, dressed only in a sleeveless undershirt. Yet he felt nothing. Not even the cold.

And this wasn’t about existential crises or nihilistic emptiness. Just five minutes earlier, he’d done two lines of speed and one of keta. Probably it was because of that. Though he wasn’t completely sure; perhaps it was heartbreak—unlikely, but possible. He took a few steps and quickly understood. Yes, yes, he was just high. It wasn’t anything tragic.

A few rats ran out from an old silo with a small, tilted entrance. One of them gently touched his shoulder and asked:

– Are you alright?
– I’m fine, he replied. I feel nothing.

“Is that good or bad for you?” asked the rat, his closest friend.
“If I could feel at all,” he said thoughtfully, “I guess it would depend on exactly what I’d be feeling.”

– Wanna dance?
– Sure.

And so all the rats went inside to dance.

Halfway in, one rat stopped and looked back at the silo. She had overheard their conversation. The air was terribly cold—she could still feel it sharply. And for her, sadly, that was a bad thing.

12.2021- Burdur

PATHETICNESS

Have you ever lost all your friends and your lover in just one day? Well, I have. And it’s not like I did anything in particular. In fact, I did nothing at all. On January 23rd, suddenly, everyone around me stopped talking to me. It wasn’t exactly that they were offended; they just completely stopped caring. Since that day, they’ve been acting as if I don’t exist.

At first, it was a bit tough, but now I’m gradually getting used to it. In fact, to be perfectly honest, I secretly take a kind of pleasure in it. Then I realize the pitiful nature of that pleasure and get angry with myself. I’m pathetic. Even more pathetic is the fact that I enjoy how pathetic I am.

When my lover was leaving the house, I said, “I don’t think I’m doing well lately.” She didn’t even respond. Frankly, I hadn’t expected her to. Then I called my closest friend; he didn’t pick up. I hadn’t really expected him to, either. So, what else could I do? To protect my mental health, I forced myself to go on my daily stupid nature walk.

An old woman walking in front of me fell. I tried to help her up, but she snapped, “Get your filthy hands off me. I can handle myself, I don’t need help from someone like you.” She was right. Who the fuck am I to try helping people?

I passed by a playground full of children; they didn’t even have the manners to laugh behind my back. They made fun of me straight to my face, right there, looking me in the eye. I barely held back my tears and quickly walked away.

I sat down on a bench. I was so insignificant that I began to wonder whether I even existed in this world. And that’s how things are. So, why did people suddenly stop caring about me, you might ask? I don’t have the courage to find out or figure it out. I’m just going to keep on living like this. As I said, I take a mild pleasure in it.

23.02.2022 – Charlottenburg, Berlin

STUCKNESS

She was an immigrant. The rental contract had one month left, the employment contract two, and the residence permit three.

To find an apartment, one needed proof of steady income. To secure a job, one needed a sufficiently long residence permit. And for a residence permit, one had to have a rental contract and a registered address.

Consequently, none of her problems could be solved. A bureaucratic-flavored, paranoid, unsolvable puzzle. Such things are possible if you are an immigrant. Stuckness is a periodically recurring state of existence.

A home, a job, and the right to stay in a city… “How basic are my problems,” she thought. Yet, simultaneously, guilt crept in: “Am I asking for too much?” These two thoughts coexisted shamelessly.

No matter what she did, she would feel guilty. Welcome to the 2020s. During this decade, we find ourselves drowning in our stuckness, and in return, we feel burdened by guilt for our own sense of being lost. Ours is an age of stuckness and guilt. Our illusion of collective progress and development was shattered by an earthquake, magnitude 19 on the corona scale, burying an entire generation beneath it. We found ourselves trapped under the debris of the previous century.

Every breath feels heavier, residence permits expire, rents climb relentlessly, and in the merciless momentum of the digital age, the immigrant becomes trapped in digital survival, fighting for the crumbs of remaining opportunities.

Long story short, life didn’t flow; she was stuck.


24.02.2022 (Doomsday) – Berlin

Tevfik Hürkan Urhan
@hurkan.urhan

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Hēdonē: An Ethical Touch to the Fashion World

Hedone by Emiliano Vittoriosi, Berlin, 2023

Could you explain what Hēdonē is and what it aims to achieve?

Hēdonē is a fashion brand that aims to make people aware of the value of handmade clothes, of quality and ethical production.

What inspired you to launch your own fashion brand, and how did you come to choose the name “Hēdonē”?

I have worked in the fashion and related industries long enough to witness the high level of exploitation. Over time, this took a toll on me, and during the COVID-19 pandemic, I burned out under the pressure. I decided to break away from this culture and realized that I need to make it myself. Here I am, trying to create an honest brand while being true to myself and fighting for fair work conditions in fashion.

During my search for the name, I had an inner journey to look for the things, ideas that are closest to me, the things that really matter and keep me going. The result of that journey was Hēdonē. I love that she is a female goddess. The goddess of pleasure. Born of the union of Eros and Psyche -the earthly love and the Soul. The same union I strive for in my work.

My biggest aim in life is happiness. And to find pleasure in the things you do is key to finding happiness. So, for me, Hēdonē stands for that.

As far as I understand from your words, Hēdonē is not just a new fashion brand but also a response to the social and political consequences of the industry. Could you elaborate on this perspective?

Yes, that’s true. The fast-fashion industry has stripped clothing of its charm and value in people’s eyes. Fast fashion has fueled a culture of overconsumption, leading to massive waste with a huge ecological impact on our world. On the consumer side, perfectly good garments are thrown away just to make room for the next trend. On the production side, vast amounts of clothing are thrown away too—either to maintain pricing strategies or due to overproduction.

How does your brand promote sustainable practices and ensure an exploitation-free approach to fashion production?

There are several steps that promote sustainable practices in my brand. First, I use 90% dead-stock fabrics, which means that I use fabrics that have already been produced but are left over in small quantities. For most companies, this wouldn’t be profitable and they would rather throw this part away than make use of it. So, I give them a new life instead of letting them go to waste.

Second, I only produce on demand. This way, I prevent overproduction, nor will I use my limited amounts of fabrics for items that might never sell. At the same time, I offer personalized and flexible service, as in I can make the ordered garment in the perfect size for my customer and adjust things according to their wishes. Last but not least, I make every piece myself, this way I can ensure not to exploit anyone along the way, plus I guarantee the best quality and ensure it is made to last. Sustainability also means quality for me. The longer I (can) use a product, the less new things I need to buy. Also, if a product is made to last, it will most likely also be possible to repair if things break on a long journey.

Hedone by Emiliano Vittoriosi, Berlin, 2023

What does a typical day in your atelier look like, and how does it shape your creative process?

I would say there is no such thing as a typical day in my atelier. 😉 I plan my days with a list of tasks and adjust based on ongoing projects. This way I can be flexible in my planning and shift things around if needed. But a most enjoyable day in my atelier would mean that I am working on something with my hands. Whether it is an order that I am working on or new designs I am developing or just preparing for one of my markets.

Interestingly, the more boring the task at hand is, the stronger my urge to dive into something creative—a new design, a new collaboration or something similar. So, I try to get through my ‘must-dos’ so I can focus on my ‘want-to-dos’.

What obstacles have you encountered while pursuing an alternative vision to mainstream fashion, and what advice would you offer to others with similar dreams and aspirations?

It is a very long journey. And no matter how much you know this when you start, it is still very hard to go through it. The biggest challenge is to reach new customers who not only love your designs but are also willing to pay the price. And I believe it is not about being able to afford it. It is about understanding the value of the product. Many people are accustomed to cheaply produced, mass-manufactured clothing made thousands of kilometers away, and shifting that perception takes time. I would tell you to do it anyways. Because if I didn’t believe it was possible to educate people on how terrible the industry is and that there is an alternative, I would have given up already.

Where can our readers find your products and learn more about your work?

They can find me on Instagram: @hedone_berlin and my products are on my website: www.hedoneberlin.com. People can come and find me at my next market in Berlin (all updates on IG) or send me DM & e-mail to visit me in my atelier in Kreuzberg, Berlin. I also work on different projects in styling, stage design, and costume design, collaborating with musicians and stage artists for music videos, live performances, as well as movie productions. I try to keep an updated web and social media presence about my brand and my projects, so they can make sure to follow me on Instagram!

Hēdonē
@hedone_berlin

Interviewee: Dorothea Tomsits (the founder of Hēdonē)
Interviewer: Tevfik Hürkan Urhan

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Identity Dreams: Space, Migration, and Artificial Intelligence

Balkan Karışman


Karisman is a generative artist merging digital experimentation with a computer graphics background. Inspired by urban textures, glitch aesthetics, and the interplay of reality and illusion, he crafts speculative visual narratives that blur analog and digital realms. His work invites curiosity about everyday surroundings—asking “what if?” to reveal hidden connections between the mundane and the surreal. Based in Berlin, he collaborates with multidisciplinary creators, exploring how technology can transform perception without losing the human pulse.

How did the idea for this short film emerge in your mind? There’s quite an expressive atmosphere in the film; what personal or societal issues propelled you toward this emotional intensity?

The idea for this film emerged from questioning the situation I was experiencing while preparing for an exhibition. At the time, I was searching for long-term housing in Berlin. The uncertainties, bureaucratic hurdles, and constantly shifting expectations that I encountered while trying to put down roots in the city pushed me into a mentally and emotionally exhausting process.

Rather than a mere search for physical space, the film represents a quest for identity and belonging. As I reflected on my personal experiences, visiting various homes and glimpsing diverse lives and possibilities, the uncertainty surrounding my eventual destination began to dissolve the boundaries between reality and imagination. In contemporary urban life, this pursuit is becoming increasingly challenging and complex. Hence, the film goes beyond physical space to narrate a story intertwined with existential questioning. Expressive narration and surreal imagery seemed to be the most accurate way to reflect this state of mind. I aimed to create a world where reality and imagination overlap, and mental and emotional layers melt into one another.

What do you think about the use of artificial intelligence in visual arts? As a digital art creator, how has AI’s presence in the art scene affected your creative processes, aesthetic sensibilities, or forms of expression? To what extent do you use AI in your work, and what benefits does this usage provide you?

The introduction of artificial intelligence into the art world has caused a significant rupture, similar to how photography once transformed painting. It has reaffirmed that art isn’t directly measured by labor alone. Now, what matters isn’t merely how something is produced, but what it conveys and the impact it leaves behind.

In my practice, artificial intelligence has become a direct tool. My artistic approach revolves around designing systems for visual production rather than merely creating visuals. AI has provided me with possibilities that didn’t exist before. Previously, my work involved manipulating existing photographs and videos; now, I can create entirely new, previously nonexistent images. I utilize AI not solely as an outcome-oriented production tool, but as a material and source of inspiration opening new avenues of expression. This approach propels my art practice toward greater experimentation and exploration.

Years ago, we talked with you about the digital art revolution and published that interview in our magazine. Since then, a lot has changed—especially in the visual arts, heavily influenced by artificial intelligence. Looking from today’s perspective, how do you envision the future of visual arts? How do you position yourself and your art in this transformative process?

Previously, we discussed the democratizing wave NFTs brought to the art world. At that time, the revolution was about how art was sold and distributed. Today, the transformation revolves around how art is created. AI has made the production process more accessible, enabling virtually everyone to become a creator.

How this accessibility will affect the value of art is something we will see over time. Nevertheless, I believe that originality will always be decisive. Although AI accelerates art production, the soul and depth of a work still depend on the artist’s vision. Within this transformation, I position myself as someone who leverages technology without losing the human touch. The evolving face of art gains meaning from the creator’s perspective, and my ongoing goal is to continue capturing this originality.

Interviewee: Balkan Karışman
@_karisman
Interview: Tevfik Hürkan Urhan
Translation: Tevfik Hürkan Urhan

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Being the Archaeologist of Oneself

Yiğitcan Erdoğan


Yiğitcan Erdoğan started working professionally as a writer at the age of 16 for a video game magazine. After working in hobby journalism for more than a decade, he debuted his first fictional work; the audio drama Zamanaltı, in 2019. Outside of literature, he’s also known for his panel shows both online and on stage.

Recently, I was talking with my dear friend Kubi Öztürk about HAFTW’s album “Unknown Territories,” whose story we will encounter again on these Dolmusch pages. To describe what he felt at that moment about making this album, Kubi used this metaphor: being the archaeologist of oneself.

At this point, I stopped, excitedly hit my friend’s arm, and shouted my enthusiasm for this statement at a decibel I sadly admit Berlin’s streets generally regard with concern — because I was feeling something very similar about what I was working on at the time. I’m talking here about Büyük Tufan (The Great Flood).

Büyük Tufan began its life as an idea in late 2020. My first radio play, Zamanaltı, which I wrote and produced, was nearing its end, and I was at the time staying at the home of my dear friend İlkin Taşdelen in Çayyolu, Ankara. Their apartment on the fifth floor had a beautiful city view overlooking the lined-up apartment buildings of this Ankaran suburb. Suddenly, it started raining. I remember holding a drink in my hand, though I can’t say for sure whether I’ve added that detail to this memory later. The one thing I am certain of is this: as the rain started and I gazed out at the view, I found myself thinking: What if this rain never stops?

Büyük Tufan grew from this simple thought and first collided with the spirit of the times. In the heart of the pandemic, I had been thinking for a while that post-apocalyptic literature needed an update. The genre, seen in different media through works like Mad Max, The Walking Dead, The Road, and The Last of Us, often carries a distinctive pattern hidden in its very name: post-apocalypse.

In these types of stories, the main narrative begins after the apocalypse itself has occurred. Often, the story opens with a brief glimpse of life before the disaster, then jumps forward in time to show the audience a society radically transformed by the catastrophe — a stark contrast is drawn. Yet very few stories actually depict the time that is skipped over — the apocalypse itself.

The pandemic, however, showed us that apocalypses are not singular, clearly defined events that separate “before” and “after” like milestones. Apocalypses are long, drawn-out processes — and as the pandemic taught us, those processes themselves are often fascinating and worth telling.

The idea of never-ending rain, combined with the inspiration I felt while looking out from a window in Central Anatolia, naturally led me to humanity’s most enduring apocalyptic motif. Every civilization that ever lived in and around Anatolia has had some version of a Great Flood story — many historians today believe these stories refer to the breaching of the Mediterranean into the Black Sea. And of course, given the global climate crisis the world is currently facing, the possibility of living through another Great Flood on a massive scale no longer seems far-fetched.

The theme settled on this foundation. If another Great Flood were to happen, there would be two options: either humanity would stay on this world or leave it behind to start anew on another planet. The story began to take shape through two main characters who make these opposing choices, building a thematic dialectic around the ideas of departure and staying. This, in turn, allowed me to connect to the story on a deeply personal level — because I, too, had to confront my own decision to leave Turkey and my tendency to leave places only when it suited me. Büyük Tufan gave me the space to explore these inner conflicts, and as the story found its own rhythm, it also encountered new allegories.

The first script for Büyük Tufan was written in January 2021, the first episode was recorded in December 2021, and it met its audience at the start of 2022. In the summer of 2024, its final episode, The Day After Tomorrow, aired, bringing its 61-episode run to an end. And now, it is being rewritten and reread as a serialized novel, published week by week.

This process makes me feel, in Kubi’s words, like the archaeologist of myself.

I don’t feel any particular excitement about Büyük Tufan at this point. I long ago found the answers to the questions I asked myself between its lines, and I’ve already tried most of the things I wanted to experiment with artistically. Setting aside my childish belief that one must write a novel to truly call themselves a writer, I don’t even feel an emotional reason to keep digging into this story. Excavating the temple I built a thousand years ago and which was subsequently buried under the earth doesn’t excite me — because I still remember that buried temple all too clearly.

But I do it because the work demands it.

I could list other reasons: I’m creating a slow but steady income stream through this serialized novel; I feel a sense of duty to the readers who buy and follow it weekly; I hope that one day it will be published in print… But at the end of the day, they all lead to the same conclusion. When Büyük Tufan ended as a radio play, I knew I would turn it into a novel — because the work clearly demanded it even then. And at this point in the process, the diminishing excitement no longer matters. Because every artist around the world knows that starting art is not the hard part.

The real difficulty lies in finishing it.

Yiğitcan Erdoğan
@beggarandchooser

Published Works (in Turkish)

Büyük Tufan Visual Design: İlkin Taşdelen

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The Story of “Psychoanalysis Conversations” – A Conversation on Art, Desire, and Psychoanalysis

Oğuzhan Nacak


He is a founding member and president of the Psychoanalysis Research Association (Psikanaliz Araştırmaları Derneği) affiliated with IF-EPFCL, an international organization active in Lacanian psychoanalysis. He teaches courses on psychoanalytic theory and practice in the Clinical Psychology graduate program at Bahçeşehir University. He introduced Luis Izcovich’s book “Love, Desire, and Jouissance in Perversion” (Sapkınlıkta Aşk, Arzu ve Jouissance) into Turkish. His writings have been published on various platforms, such as Psikanaliz Defterleri and Birikim. He is the host of the Psychoanalysis Conversations (Psikanaliz Sohbetleri) Podcast Series, which examines psychoanalytic concepts in detail. Currently, he continues his psychoanalysis and supervision practice from his own office in Nişantaşı, İstanbul.

How did you start the “Psychoanalysis Conversations (Psikanaliz Sohbetleri)” podcast series, and what motivated you to undertake this project? How have the listeners’ responses affected you since the podcast began airing?

Firstly, let me thank you and DolmusXpress for this interview opportunity. I deeply appreciate the intellectual bridge you’re aiming to build between Turkey and Germany. Having known you since our years at METU, I suspect we share similar motivations! Let me elaborate:

Psychoanalysis is a discipline frequently discussed but often misunderstood. It is sometimes reduced to oversimplified labels (seen as outdated, heteronormative, supportive of power structures, normalizing, etc.). At other times, people avoid engaging with it because of its perceived theoretical complexity, or they overly idealize it. Due to this complexity, as in any intellectual field, I’ve observed the emergence of internal power structures and struggles firsthand. The intricate nature of psychoanalytic theory and the experiential demands of clinical practice encourage certain individuals to monopolize knowledge and position themselves as ultimate authorities.

One of my primary motivations for creating this podcast was to make psychoanalytic theory accessible, initially for clinical professionals, but subsequently for anyone interested. My goal was to simplify complex psychoanalytic concepts, thus democratizing knowledge. Additionally, it aimed to address accessibility issues in the psychoanalytic community and offer a starting point for those interested in deepening their understanding.

Another significant motivation was to introduce the teachings of French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan, whom I consider distinct from all post-Freudian analysts and who is subject to various prejudices among Turkish clinicians—sometimes justified, often not. By demystifying Lacan’s challenging speech and writing style, my intention was to convey his theoretical tools for clinical practice and understanding the world. I wanted to highlight how Lacan moved psychoanalysis beyond being a “bourgeois dream,” confronting post-Freudian psychoanalytic trends that advocated identifying with various norms and ideals. Lacan strongly emphasized that psychoanalysis’s goal was to mobilize the subject toward their own desire.

Honestly, although these motivations were always present, I initially expected the podcast to appeal to a limited, niche audience and to remain a specialized project with its own direction. But that was not the case— it attracted significant attention, sometimes ranking among Spotify’s top podcasts. It now has around 50,000 followers, despite my recent irregular publishing schedule. Over time, the podcast also became a collaborative space for my colleagues. What delighted me most was seeing various prejudices toward Lacanian psychoanalysis—stemming from Lacan’s sensational persona or from certain Turkish Lacanian groups—soften considerably.

How did you conceptualize the relationship between art, literature, and desire in your podcast series?

Actually, the connection between psychoanalysis and art remains one of the least-explored areas in my podcast. Although I’ve occasionally referenced literature and cinema, I only directly addressed psychoanalysis’s relationship with literature in one dedicated series, which led me into challenging debates on the limits of language in terms of death, mourning, or unease. I paused this series after the devastating February 6 earthquake in Maraş, and I haven’t yet returned to it.

Answering this question requires some theoretical context: Lacan gives extraordinary importance to language, suggesting human subjectivity emerges as a linguistic effect. Simply put, our biological existence passes through language, which is the carrier of culture and law, and this encounter’s outcomes are unpredictable, differing for each individual. Lacan’s concept of “subject” is that of the unconscious, not a consciously acting entity. For instance, it can push one toward identifying as a woman, induce anxiety in certain situations, or repeatedly confront a person with various internal conflicts.

The language introduces a fundamental lack into our existence. The moment we encounter language, we move beyond a state of merely fulfilling biological needs and enter a realm where we attempt to articulate our needs through language. We become beings who try to express our needs, but this articulation itself introduces a gap between what we need and what we are able to express. Indeed, need and demand never fully overlap. A demand can be met, but something is always missing. It is precisely in this gap that desire is born. Desire, for Lacan, is not something that can be completely satisfied; rather, it is a persistent force that propels the subject forward, an engine of movement that sustains human subjectivity.

Within the theme of art and desire, how do you interpret the relationship between Lacanian psychoanalysis and art?

While the language simultaneously creates desire and subjectivity, it also encounters limitations. Language is incapable of fully capturing all human experiences; there is always an aspect of subjectivity inaccessible to language. Lacan calls this unreachable dimension the “Real” and positions it beyond the Symbolic order, which is bound to the language. One of the clearest ways to recognize these linguistic limitations is the difficulty humans experience when trying to express deeply challenging experiences such as death, loss, mourning, and anxiety. When we reach the limits of something, words abandon us, and our ability to make sense of or convey these experiences almost entirely disappears. This is precisely where art steps in: Art attempts to approach what is unnameable and inexpressible, to grapple with the Real as Lacan defines it. Similarly, desire—because it is inherently unsatisfiable and always connected to a sense of lack—is also never fully expressible in language. Therefore, each work of art can be viewed as an expression of desire. For instance, Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” portrays a protagonist constantly chasing his desire yet repeatedly encountering loss and lack.

An important conclusion here is that, for Lacan, pursuing desire does not equate to a pursuit of hedonism. Desire, according to Lacan, is inherently bound to remain unfulfilled, and a subject truly pursues desire only to the extent that they accept their relationship with this lack, cease trying to reclaim it, and instead willingly embrace the possibilities it offers.

Lacan’s concept of “desire” plays a prominent role in his theories. How does this concept influence your creative processes? Based on your experiences, how would you describe the contributions of the theme of art and desire to creativity?

This question reminds me of Freud’s concept of the three impossible professions: governing, educating, and psychoanalyzing. Undoubtedly, this podcast has an educational dimension. Therefore, I could say that this project is driven by a desire to spread and convey psychoanalytic ideas—a desire intimately connected to a powerful impossibility. At the same time, it’s a desire I know will never reach a final, definitive goal. Although I’m uncertain about when exactly I’ll end the podcast, the only certainty I have is that it will conclude without fully expressing everything I initially had in mind.

How do you perceive the current state of psychoanalysis in Turkey, and what is the level of interest specifically towards the Lacanian approach?

Psychoanalysis in Turkey, particularly in its post-Freudian forms, boasts a strong tradition and solid institutional foundations. This is something I greatly appreciate, and I hope Lacanian psychoanalysis will also reach a similar status in time, though perhaps in distinct and varied forms.

The Lacanian approach, however, remains relatively new in Turkey. Its entry into Turkey has primarily occurred through fields such as philosophy, cultural studies, and cinema rather than through clinical practice. This pattern isn’t unique to Turkey; it is quite typical across the entire Anglophone world. Conversely, in Francophone, Spanish-speaking, and Italian-speaking regions, Lacan’s ideas enjoy significantly stronger influence and acceptance.

In Turkey, the visibility and impact of the Lacanian approach are gradually increasing, although it has been accompanied by internal conflicts and divisions from the beginning. Referring back to my motivations in creating this podcast, one major aim has been to shift attention away from these internal tensions toward the richness of Lacanian theory itself and its practical applications. To what extent I’ve been successful, only time will tell, even though statistics provide encouraging indications.

How widely known and influential are Lacan’s theories in Turkey? Based on your personal observations, how would you characterize the trajectory of discussions and developments related to the Lacanian approach in Turkey?

As previously noted, theoretical engagement with Lacan’s ideas in Turkey remains relatively nascent. Nevertheless, I have personally observed considerable enthusiasm from prominent international Lacanian institutions toward Turkey. Many psychoanalysts have explicitly highlighted to me that younger generations in Turkey demonstrate a more vibrant and active interest in psychoanalysis than their European counterparts. From this perspective, Turkey holds notable promise and significant potential.

I am especially encouraged by the presence and recent initiatives of internationally recognized Lacanian institutions such as EPFCL (École de Psychanalyse des Forums du Champ Lacanien), ECF (École de la Cause Freudienne), and ALI (Association Lacanienne Internationale) within Turkey. My hope is that these engagements will foster increased collaboration, helping to establish a more robust and well-grounded Lacanian psychoanalytic community in Turkey.

Do you have plans to develop future projects around the themes of art, desire, and psychoanalysis?

Certainly! Perhaps this interview will inspire me to revisit my unfinished work on psychoanalysis and literature. I might even expand its scope a bit further and delve deeper into the relationship between psychoanalysis and art. Why not?

Interviewee: Oğuzhan Nacak
@psikanalizsohbetleri

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