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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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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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Imageries of Sadaf Bazaar and Others

The hearth suffices for existence, words fall silent in absence.

A mysterious realm, Sadaf Bazaar, one that both provides, and denies itself. Affirming the duality of life and the music within it; it reminds that any element of life, inherently carries its very structure.

The album begins with the gentle and delicate lifting of a heavy curtain—while a thousand syllables pause, Bin Gece awakens.

                                               A deep breath.

Notes unravel into fibers, merging with the human voice, with slips of the tongue. Another breath. Perhaps there is only one color in Bin Gece (A Thousand Nights), yet its many shades await us. The silent beginning surrenders to a void, to dissolution—to the discovery of sound, to music transforming into an object of sleep, to a reality tinged with dreams, to an Anatolian spring. It leads itself into another, familiar yet utterly different plane, into an ancient manuscript. Here, colors stir, multiply, blend into one another. Brown, yellow, beige—at times, blue and green—a papyrus welcomes us.

I am old, and new

I am the past, and the future

my yellow turns to Brown

my brown turns to black

my black turns to pink

what can I find besides myself, and speak of it?

I am a fish in this sea of emotions, tracing the strings back to the hidden inlets of my birth.
A path of turning back emerges.

Where are we turning to?

All these, within me churns and foams, like the shaking of a jar between two hands.

Where are the hands, that are shaking me?

We are turning to the manuscrips. There, the meadows stretch far, all the way to a distant horizon of green grass and shifting shadows. The sky is mint green, blue—there must be pink, too. A wooden house, a single room. Inside, an oak table. On the table rests a manuscript. We step inside. As we approach, the papyrus begins to ignite, to smolder, to consume itself. Perhaps it would be most merciful to stand back and watch, but our movements unfold of their own accord, without consulting conscience, and perhaps some essence, some possibility of continuation, draws the self, closer to the table.

The papyrus burns within, burns outward, inside and out; animals cry, the seas rage, mountains tremble, and earthquakes shake its sky. There is a life within, but flames obscure our vision. Lonely fire. The papyrus burns and extinguishes itself. Only its ashes remain on the table—then they also dissolve into the void.

.

Humans are mortal, perhaps it is death that makes us human, that makes life, life. Everything bends, shifts, and disappears. Time is merciless to our bodies—we fall ill, our joints weaken, our physical endurance fades. But what else does the body say? Dreams—the root cell where reality is embroidered—what do they say beyond our decaying flesh? Death is a farewell, a final breath for the body, but what is that beholds the body, in the space?

A fire embraces us once more, this time slower, burning only from within.
This fire is not devoid of love—on the contrary, it overflows with it.

                                                            how?

The fire embraces and exalts our mortality with love. What do human and the day, brightening with continuity, tell us? Between them stretches an unbreakable, interdependent rope; meaning is not a choice among the fragments of dreams in the day’s colors.

Dreams give themselves to nightmares, nightmares surrender to a great glass of water, and water yields itself to sleep once again. From one hill to another, from a delicate rose to a barren desert gifted signs guide our way. In this case, we follow the sound along the desert paths. The desert—an endless example of the journey, powerful and silent enough to break and erase human conscience.

                                                                                                                         This is a desert poem.


blood; deprived of water turns to honey; under the sun, it crystallizes.
with the longing and the memory of
a shadow,
a moment of rest,
passes minutes, hours, days, months, years.

The shadow is in the blood.
Rest is in the blood.
Honey; is in the blood.

Honey is a fruit of labor.

A silent game is played;

Something within you calls to my depths in an unknown tongue,
A voice unheard, a sweetness untasted.

There is no longer time or space to breathe where we stand. From afar, a voice describes the deep red hue of a finished notebook. The color raises a question.

A tremor shakes the joints;
the vibration gives rise to a sound.


sound is familiar;
place is foreign.
being is familiar;
body is foreign.

A secret is being revealed—
Mai.

Trusting in fire, in ice, in sound, and in the searing depths of the self, it lays itself bare. Then, a dream begins—one that heralds the textures of the future, its walls adorned with symbols, made of stone. An unintelligible yet inherently known truth lights the path ahead. We move through the depths of the labyrinth—this must be a dream.

perhaps this is a dream.
is this a dream?
I think this is a dream.
yes. this is a dream.

The labyrinth imposes a rhythm upon our steps, and through this rhythm, a melody is heard from behind the great door:

You were welcomed to the dream!

Before we even have time to wonder what lies behind the door, it opens. Time no longer holds sway over the mind. A vast, blazing light meets movement. With its tremor, shoulders ignited by clasped arms collapse.

Yellow, white—an illuminated room of pure light. The light burns the eyes with a blinding force.

Everything is forgiven and forgotten. The herald of a new beginning, of a new dream; this blaze, this fire, this death must be.

.

We open our eyes in meadows, on shores, in mountains, in the great cities of South America, in forests. This time, green and its imagery welcome us—a memory of the labyrinth lingers in the depths of the mind. In the evening breeze, we walk through streets, along beaches, through forests, filled with an ordinary love and a familiar sense of safety. The leaves speak of one, the water speaks of one, the stones speak of one, the insects speak of one, the sky speaks of one, the body speaks of one, the forehead speaks of one—only one, and nothing else.

A response is being heard:

find me, without searching.

Nehir Akfırat

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An interview with Sven Pfizenmaier

Sven Pfizenmaier


Sven Pfizenmaier, born in 1991, is an illustrious figure in contemporary literature. His novel, “Draußen feiern die Leute” (2022), was celebrated with the aspekte Literature Prize for the best debut of the year, the Kranichsteiner Literature Encouragement Award from the German Literature Fund, and the Literature Prize of the State Capital Hannover. In 2024, his second novel, “Schwätzer,” graced the literary scene. Sven Pfizenmaier resides in Berlin.


How did your journey as a writer begin? What inspired you to choose writing as your primary medium of self-expression? 

It actively began when I was in University and read White Noise by Don DeLillo. Up until that point, I didn’t think about literature as something that I could do, even though I was interested (I studied German and English Philology) and even wrote little stories when I was a kid. But I lost interest in writing and reading as a teenager because I felt like literature was something for the upper class. I decided to make movies instead, but when I read White Noise, it changed again because suddenly literature was something that could actually be fun. After that, I started reading again and rediscovered my love for writing.

Although you refrain from defining yourself within a specific genre, both your readers and you have noted elements of magical realism in your work. How would you describe the key narrative and thematic features that create this effect? How have your personal and cultural experiences shaped the emergence of these elements in your work?

My family migrated from Kazakhstan to Germany shortly before I was born, so I was always surrounded by Russian language folklore, superstitions, weird tales from the village life in the steppes and all around a tradition that was closer to supernatural ideas than German culture typically is. So when I discovered Magical Realism, I felt very drawn to it and immediately sensed that this mixture of supernatural stuff and everyday life is a very good way to approach reality. I felt like this way of storytelling is very true to the emotions of people.

“Am Himmel über Neukölln sind die Sterne unsichtbar. Eine Kuppel aus Milch verschleiert den Glanz der Meteore, die auf dem Weg zu ihrem Ende hier vorübersegeln. Für die Straßen spielt der Weltraum keine Rolle, das Auge Galileo Galileis schiebt sich durch den Flaschenhals in den Schaum des Bieres. Jemand nimmt einen Schluck daraus, schaut zum Wettbüro. Dort steht ein Mann im Hemd und wischt sich die Tränen von der Wange. Hoch über ihm, im Dachgeschoss der Mall, werden Gespräche an der Hantelbank geführt. Ein Ratschlag für die Muskeln, vier Silben für das Herz. Der Zapfhahn spuckt Magnesium.”

Sven Pfizenmaier

Which literary movements or influences from other art forms have played a role in shaping your unique style?

The earliest influences were video games, especially Final Fantasy VII, which completely hypnotized me as a kid. It is a story about a group of sword-wielding, monster hunting eco terrorists who take on a huge corporate conglomerate that makes money by sucking the life essence out of the planet. Obviously, I didn’t get the political implications of this story back then, but the way it mixed modern day technologies and fantasy elements and then tells a story about greed, love and friendship with it, and even does that by being at the same time funny and horrifying – it was just mind blowing. I played that game over and over again.

The biggest influence to this day would be cinema – I love movies a lot, especially horror films, but I can find in any type of film something that I like. There are so many films that I deeply love that it would be wrong to name any.

How would you describe the influence of Berlin on your literary world? In what ways does the city manifest itself in your writing?

I think Berlin influenced my writing in the sense that you see a lot of very different lives here, good and bad, you see poverty and addiction and you have the excessive nightlife, you have nerds and lovers and activists. Seeing these extreme realities getting mixed up together and trying to find my own position in there makes me question myself all the time, what I do, how I live, how I write.

“Als die Apfelschorlen geleert waren, bestand Gewissheit darüber, dass es keinen Kuss mehr geben würden, kein Wiedersehen, nur ein aufmunterndes Wort. Der Mond leuchtete am Himmel, doch das Licht, in dem sie standen, kam von der Laterne. Ein Lächeln, eine Umarmung, ein Gruß, die Augen. Warme Luft, die Sterne, volle Bäume, vertrocknete Böden. Am Horizont eine Wolke und auf beiden Heimwegen die leise Ahnung, etwas falsch gemacht zu haben.”

Sven Pfizenmaier

Do you have a regular writing routine? Could you share some insights into your creative process and the sources of your inspiration? 

I don’t have a strict routine, but when I work, I do so every day in the morning, it’s the time I function best. In the afternoon, I mostly just read. There are weeks or even months where I don’t write much at all, this is the time for going out, meeting people, coming home after sunrise – things I don’t do a lot when I’m in a writing phase. I usually don’t drink then, do sport, write every day. Then, when I’m done, I’m letting it all go and don’t think about writing at all. I need these big, long breaks from writing, I don’t think I would write very well otherwise.

Do you think German literature is evolving toward a more multicultural direction? Considering that Turkish people constitute the largest minority, how visible do you find their contributions in the German literary scene? How do you assess the impact of Turkish-origin writers and cultural motifs on literature? Additionally, which Turkish authors writing in German do you follow?

I do think it is evolving in a more multicultural direction, at least compared to twenty years ago. Obviously Germany is still a place with a lot of hate for multiculturalism and the literary scene is not spared from that – but I do think that there is bigger interest in the stories of migrants and their children now. I recently read the Berlin Trilogy by Aras Ören, it is a cycle of poems about the time of his arrival in Berlin (in the 70s, I think). As I write this, Cemile Sahin just got nominated for one of the most prestigious literary prizes in Germany for her novel Kommando Ajax. It is kind of a heist story about a Kurdish family and art theft in (mostly) the Netherlands. I read that book a couple of weeks ago and it truly is great, I loved it.

What future projects are you currently working on?

I started writing another novel, but it still feels unsure. I talked to different friends about doing projects, a theater play, a comic. Working feels shaky nowadays- fascism is on the rise again in Germany and it needs to be fought. I’m more worried about that than about my work at the moment.

“In der Nacht ihres Falls kletterte der westdeutsche DJ Westbam gemeinsam mit Hunderten anderen über die Berliner Mauer. Oben angekommen, drehte er sich um, um der Person hinter sich hochzuhelfen, und da stellte sich heraus, dass es sich bei dieser Person um den lettischen DJ Eastbam handelte. Auf der Mauer stehend reichte Westbam Eastbam die Hand. Ein Triumph, der Jubel, die Freiheit. Menschen zogen ihre Warnwesten über und begaben sich hinter schweres Gemäuer. Wummernde Gravität. Liebe in der Dunkelheit, die Pupille ein See. Das Jahrzehnt des Raves war angebrochen.”

Sven Pfizenmaier

Interviewee: Sven Pfizenmaier
Interviewer: Tevfik Hürkan Urhan

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The Mansion and A Home

In the heart of an old, silent neighborhood stood a grand mansion, its windows veiled in the dust of time, its walls crumbling into ruins. Once, it had been full of life, but now it lingered like a memory of the past. The echoes of laughter and warm conversations had faded, replaced by the quiet presence of a few young souls who had made it their home.

These young dreamers had decided to turn the old house into something new—a place of their own. In the mansion’s garden, there was nothing but dry, lifeless earth. To most, it was just a patch of land, but to them, it was more. It was a promise, a canvas on which they would paint a future filled with hope and love.

As the weeks passed, they began their work. Ayşe, whose hands were always deep in the soil, carefully planted flowers and herbs. Ahmet and Serim often stood beside her, listening to her stories while their hands, covered in dirt, tended to the earth. Kıvanç, meanwhile, was busy cutting away the dry branches of the old trees, making space for new ones to grow. As Ayşe lost herself in the world of plants and soil, she nurtured young saplings, ensuring they took root in their new home.

At night, they would return to the mansion, exhausted and covered in earth. They would sit together and talk—not just about their daily struggles but also about their dreams, childhood memories, and the future they were building together. What they had found among one another was not just companionship but something far deeper. Love and effort had created a bond between them—one that extended beyond themselves, reaching into the very soil they tended, the walls they repaired, and the life they were breathing into the house.

Time passed, and the garden slowly came to life. Flowers began to bloom, pushing through the once barren ground. What had been dry and desolate now thrived with green and color. Each morning, the first thing they saw was the beauty they had built with their own hands.

But more than anything, the garden and the house stood as a reminder: even in the heart of ruins, love, dedication, and hard work could create something new, something full of life.

Now, they had a place—a home built not just of bricks and wood but of memories, hope, and the dreams they had sown together.

Home:

Home is a beautiful word. We can attribute it to our country, the place we live, our family home, or even the hearts of our loved ones. For me, home is wherever I feel safe. Have you ever thought about how emotions are far more complex than words? Words cannot fully capture emotions, but I promise to do my best to express mine here.

When I left home, I felt sick—like a vast emptiness had taken over me. Fear is a feeling I have carried for years. Yes, I felt abandoned, and now, with all my heart, I say: enough. I want to be somewhere I can finally feel safe.

Our home was always filled with people—endless conversations, learning something new every day, helping one another, growing together. But sadly, none of that fit into my suitcase. My mind was clouded; I knew nothing, wanted nothing, and it felt as if I no longer belonged anywhere. In a way, I ceased to exist. Home was lost to me—perhaps I had lost it. Somewhere far from home, in a season of homelessness, I found myself in a grand mansion.

My silence was swallowed by the silence of the mansion. I had been away from home for so long that I may have even forgotten how to speak. Do you remember when I said emotions are more complex than words? I wonder if you do—just like when I lost myself in my own mind within that enchanted mansion. Yes, enchanted—believe me, I am not exaggerating. A centuries-old mansion, filled with the echoes of countless lives, its high walls and domed ceiling…

The strange thing is, I had just set foot in this mansion for the first time, and now, I am telling you this story from within its walls.

The owner of the mansion was a sharp-featured, innocent, and kind person. The place was full of people, stirring odd feelings inside me—almost like déjà vu. These were people brimming with peace and life. Oh, my dear, how beautifully they danced with life! I think it was this mansion that gave them life. I felt like a child learning to walk again. I had forgotten that people could love each other, that we shine the brightest when we are together. The mansion and its people reminded me of this once more.

They were beings of light—glowing, radiating. And clearly, this glow was the result of inner peace, of living without judgment. It was the result of accepting oneself and others as they are. How good I feel, and how deeply I belong to these people.

Did you know, I often speak with myself? And without friendship to bridge the gap, how could we ever endure?

Amaneh Abyar

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The Newspaper of Strange Things

In November or December 2023, a friend and I traveled from Ankara to Nurhak, a district of Kahramanmaraş, and then to the village of Bohşin in Antakya. Our goal on this journey was to meet children in regions affected by the earthquake centered in Kahramanmaraş in 2022 and organize workshops for them. The story you are about to read is a gift from this journey.

One day, I dream of translating this story into Arabic for the children of Bohşin, who know very little Turkish, and distribute it to them. Until then, let’s take a ride on the Dolmusch and see what two friends can create with their own strength.

The Newspaper of Strange Things

In a certain part of a certain town, there were two friends named Arme and Mojo, who loved spending time together. Their friendship had started when they were very young and was bound to last for many years to come.

One afternoon, two friends met up to play. But Arme had something on his mind that had been bothering him for a while. As soon as Mojo greeted her with a “Hey, what’s up, Arme?”, Arme blurted out what he was thinking.

-“Someone needs to interview me right away, Mojo.”

-“Arme, why do you want someone to interview you? I’ve never heard of anyone needing that before,” Mojo replied.

-“There are thousands of living beings in this world. I’m curious about all of them. And I need to tell them about myself.”

-“Living beings in the world? I’ve never thought about that before. To be honest, I’m not even that curious about our classmates,” Mojo said.

-“Why not?”

-“My family and my friendship with you seem interesting enough to me,” Mojo said.

Arme didn’t respond for a while; thoughts about interviews kept swirling in her head.

-“I’m frustrated, Mojo. To be someone who gets interviewed, you either have to invent something or be important. I’m ten years old. I don’t want to wait until I grow up to invent something or become important. And I just realized that we don’t even have a school newspaper! Why doesn’t anyone publish a newspaper in such a big school?”

That night, after Mojo had gone home, their conversation kept running through his mind. Arme’s desire to talk to other living beings intrigued him. Mojo often talked about too many things, but she never expected a response. Then, suddenly, he closed her eyes and imagined all the living beings on Earth. Fish, owls, kangaroos, crocodiles, tigers… There were just as many plants, and even ones so tiny they couldn’t be seen with the naked eye… There were so many!

In the middle of the night, Mojo sat up in bed with a mind-blowing idea. He could start a school newspaper for his friend! Just because no one had done it before didn’t mean they couldn’t. She formed a plan in her head: the next day, he would go from class to class announcing that they were gathering a team for a school newspaper. After school, the volunteers would meet to get started. Since she had only recently learned how to write, he definitely needed some help. At least one of the team members had to be better at reading and writing than he was.

The next morning, excited by her plan, Mojo got ready early and arrived at school. He entered the classroom with joy. Arme was already at his desk, staring out the window, looking quite gloomy.

-“How are you, Arme?” Mojo asked as she sat next to him.

-“You know… same as usual, Mojo,” Arme shrugged.

-“I was going to surprise you, but you look so down, so I won’t make you wait. Let me tell you the plan I came up with last night!” Mojo said.

As Arme listened, his expression slowly turned from gloomy to excited. That day, they had only one goal at school, and it wasn’t their lessons…

Mojo and Arme spent the entire day dashing from their desks to different classrooms whenever the bell rang. Their homeroom teacher noticed their unusual behavior. During the next lesson, she asked, “What’s going on with you two today?” The children answered at the same time in their excitement, but the teacher couldn’t understand a word. She asked Arme to explain by himself.

-“Mojo and I are starting a school newspaper, teacher! During recess, we’re spreading the news to the other classes so we can gather a team. We’re meeting with interested students after school by the field to get things started!” Arme explained.

The teacher was surprised. “So, you’re starting a school newspaper and inviting people to join your team. Can I be part of it too?” she asked.

Mojo and Arme nearly screamed with excitement as they hugged each other. Ms. Alma was joining their team! They hadn’t even considered that. Mojo’s concerns about reading and writing were solved on the spot—they had found a very knowledgeable teammate.

After school, four students showed up for the meeting. Their names were Kiki, Jona, Loco, and Keke. And, of course, Ms. Alma was there too. Mojo and Arme explained why they wanted to start a newspaper. Each new team member had a special skill or interest they wanted to share in the newspaper. Ms. Alma listened quietly as they got to know each other.

The children discussed how the school newspaper would work. Ms. Alma helped assign tasks. Mojo and Loco would research and publish mysterious, little-known facts. Kiki, who loved drawing cartoons, would illustrate funny school events. Jona and Keke would handle interviews. And Arme? She would study ways to communicate with non-human beings—and finally get her own interview!

By the end of the meeting, the children felt like heroes who had just gained superpowers. They were working on their favorite topics and would soon share them with the entire school.

A few days later, Arme had a dream where a mushroom living on a tree trunk spoke to him. The green and brown wavy mushroom told him, “You’re on the right path, kid. Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll understand how to talk to us.” It was probably because he had visited her neighbor Mo, but to Arme, it felt like a strange and powerful message.

Mojo, on the other hand, was learning incredible things for the newspaper. Like how every living being sees the world differently—animals, humans, bacteria, and plants all perceive things in unique ways. And did you know there’s a single-celled creature called a paramecium? No way!

As they walked home,


“Something really strange happened, my friend…” said Arme. “In my dream, a mushroom talked to me! Can you believe it? According to our neighbor Mo, I might be able to talk to them too. I didn’t fully understand what he said about it, but he mentioned that I could do it in a slightly different way. Mo is a mycologist, meaning a mushroom scientist, and he has a mushroom room in his house. You have to see it! It’s a tiny, steam-filled room with mushrooms of all sorts of strange colors and shapes. He said that mushrooms change shape depending on sunlight and that they love sugar just like we do,” she said.

“Arme, that’s amazing. Ever since I started working for the newspaper, I’ve been having the craziest dreams! I wander through super universes filled with dragons and green creatures like a knight… I love working for the newspaper, my friend,” he said. They threw their arms around each other’s shoulders and walked on, talking non-stop.

The children’s busy work schedule made time fly by, and the day they had been waiting for arrived quickly.

That morning, Ms. Alma woke up an hour earlier than usual to go to the printing house and pick up the newspapers. The children had also woken up early—actually, none of them had slept at all during the night. They met in the teachers’ lounge as planned in the morning and examined the newspapers together.

The first page, or the cover, was a bit boring, just like any other written document. It had a title, a date, and some numbers. But right in the middle of the page was Kiki’s cartoon, which made things a lot funnier. Kiki had drawn a long queue of people waiting for the newspaper to be published. In the line, there were giant blue elephants dressed in human clothes, carrying children who had fainted from waiting too long to the infirmary! The children loved the cartoon.

On the page right after the cover was the mysterious and unknown facts article prepared by Mojo and Loco. They had dedicated two whole pages to Ancient Egyptian civilization. There were pyramids, mummified pharaohs, information about gods, and drawings. Loco had been fascinated by Ancient Egypt since he was six, and for the past two years, she had been learning Hieroglyphics, the Egyptian writing system made up of pictures. His dream was to visit the pyramids one day and read the inscriptions inside. Mojo, on the other hand, had been full of jokes ever since he learned about the mummification process and that there had once been a pharaoh named Tutankhamun who was around their age. He thought she could tell her siblings that he was Tutankhamun’s time-traveling twin, or she could wrap himself up in toilet paper, dress as a mummy, and scare them…

The next page featured an interview Jona and Keke had done with Arme. Jona and Keke had asked very skillful questions. After the interview, the next page contained Arme’s research on non-human beings. Arme had written about his adventure with the mushrooms. Her first article, in which he introduced himself to the living and non-living things on Earth, was published on the very last page of the newspaper.

After flipping through every page of the newspaper, the children returned to Arme’s interview. They were really curious about it, so they all read it together, laughing out loud. After all, the idea for The Weird Things Newspaper had come from him.

Interview with Arme

– Arme, can you introduce yourself to us?

-Of course! My name is Arme, I’m 10 years old, and I’m obsessed with communicating with all living beings. And I’m actually succeeding! Besides humans, I want to talk to mushrooms, stones, insects, microbes in the air, and even the stars in space. If a rock, just like me, wants to talk, I should be able to respond in a way it understands.

Talking to the stars in space might take some time. But I have to start somewhere, right?

– Wow, Arme! So, how do you plan to talk to these beings?

-Actually, we all do this all the time. For example, many people talk to animals. I often hear adults yelling at the ground when they stub their toes on something hard. Or when they lose something, they start talking to the lost item.

It’s kind of like that, but I do it using slightly different methods! To be able to talk to them, I need to be around them and spend time with them.

– How long have you been talking to different beings, and has any other being ever talked to you?

-Since I was born, actually! And every day, I talk to more and more beings.

I’m sure that plants can understand both my words and my songs, and I know that the wind talks to me. Since I was a child, my family and I have listened to the wind by the seaside, and they say they can hear it too. I talk to the wind by shouting or dancing. Sometimes, I just sit in my room and listen. It whispers to me to play and dance.

– What would you like to say to the other children at our school?

-I’m thinking of starting a club for talking to different beings. We could communicate with them together! But unless the adults take us to the forest, meeting these beings will be difficult… except for bacteria, of course—we can find them even in the bathroom!

– Thank you so much, Arme! Lastly, can you tell us your favorite thing these days?

-I got a magnifying glass for my birthday, and it’s amazing. I use it to watch snails slowly moving after the rain. When I look closely at the whiskers under their chins, it makes me laugh so much!

Once the newspaper was distributed to the students, even the children who didn’t like reading took a look at the pages. It was a brand-new experience for everyone. The number of students wanting to join the newspaper team suddenly increased. Ms. Alma decided that in order to give everyone a chance, she would rotate the team every few months.

Arme, Mojo, Kiki, Loco, Jona, and Keke continued working tirelessly on the newspaper. Kiki had already come up with an idea for the next issue’s cartoon. The weather had been very windy and stormy lately, so she planned to draw children flying their kites on a windy day. Suddenly, the wind would pick up, sending their kites soaring high into the sky, pulling a cloud over the school, and soaking everyone!

As for Arme and Mojo… Arme continued his studies and declared himself a biologist. He also found a new friend named Ferro, who was just as curious as he was about talking to animals and other beings! Mojo, on the other hand, pulled dusty encyclopedias off the shelves at home. Every day, he flipped through the pages, learning obscure facts and using them to play tricks on her siblings.

Editorial Note: Since the author deliberately constructed the characters in a gender-neutral way in the original text, we created a playful dynamic in the English translation by alternating between masculine and feminine pronouns. This approach aims to preserve the characters’ gender neutrality.

Esin Metin

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A Rebellion – Vaa

Vaa, a music project, aims to blend atmospheric elements and poetry in sound, drawing inspiration from the style of plastic arts. In his tracks, where influences of hip-hop/rap, post-punk, and pop-punk can be heard, the lyrics portray the absurdity of the century we live in, making it a central theme in his music.

///

the most beautiful day of our lives

take my hand, through this hell walk beside me

let the sky turn upside down in defiance

let everything fall exactly where it must

a return ticket to my mother’s womb—let all things push me back to the heavens

paradise lies beneath the clouds

let the fire of desire consume the city

let the shepherds lead the wolves to graze

someone take the blame

let the water in your glass spill over

let the ocean rise

let the streets overflow with truth

let the clouds break into rain

let the calendar tell its tale

let history repeat itself 

///

///

I can spot a madman on the street in a second
catch his scent from a kilometer away

sins I’ve confessed to no one
keep your mouth shut and steal every image in sight

cling to the thing that throws you into battle
just like you hug every tree you pass

be astonished by everything in this world
curse it anew every single day
then

dive straight into the love

dreams where I jump from the sky
only reason I survive
they’ll find me, no place to hide

I laid out my lines one by one
I speak what I see
there’s a rifle in my eyes

no box could ever fit my shape
to all their words, my ears escape

the flowers whose scent I breathed
their killer me, with memories intact

on a chair I sit, watching the minutes pass
everything in its place, rushing by fast


nothing belongs to me
if I weren’t free as a bird
my own hands would set my body on

fire

///

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Through Identity

In his master’s thesis, “Portrait Art in the Context of Biopolitics,” painter Sinan Hasar conducted an in-depth exploration of the concept of identity, materializing this abstract subject through dozens of portraits. His lines seek the intersections between individual and collective identities, inviting the viewer to question their own sense of self. In this interview, we delve into the artist’s creative process, his thoughts on identity, and the stories behind his paintings.

Why did you choose to work on ID photos? Can you describe your intellectual and practical process?

I needed to establish a standard within my own production. When you paint, people naturally start sending selfies saying, “Draw me like this.” I’m not interested in painting the figure of someone taking a selfie behind the wheel of their new car! That’s why I decided to use ID photos. Passport photos are taken under the same rules worldwide. By narrowing the scope, I gave myself more freedom to paint as I wished without getting caught up in people’s fantasies.

Where does the story of this project originate?

As a student, I loved working on figures. I always carried a small watercolor set and a notebook in my pocket or bag. I would use people as models, quickly sketching and painting them. I started mass-producing portraits at the end of 2018 when I painted small portraits of my friends for New Year’s. After creating many quick portraits, I further narrowed my focus, limiting the color palette and concentrating more on expressions.

How does this project differ from your previous works?

I had to limit my imagery compared to before. I can even say that it transformed from a poetic expression into a holistic action. The human face can take on incredibly strange forms.

How was the process of reflecting on identity, writing a thesis on the subject, and painting portraits? How did the project take shape, and what were the milestones in your journey?

Writing a thesis requires a different kind of practice compared to painting, and I got to experience that firsthand. When I started working with Havva Altun, I was introduced to the concept of töz (essence). I learned a lot from her, and she was the one who encouraged me to continue and deepen my work with portraits.

The entire process took six years. A lot happened during that time. Our lives changed and transformed significantly. Naturally, every good or bad event left its mark on my work. My early paintings weren’t as intense, but over time, my brushstrokes sometimes became more brutal. The system itself is brutal. We live in a world with increasing surveillance, control, and enforcement. There are mechanisms that constantly monitor, regulate, and use force. These aspects are often presented as if they have positive sides, but their disturbing elements are undeniable. My project took shape in response to this reality. I saw it as an alternative form of action.

How did painting dozens of portraits affect your movement in painting? What was it like to be so immersed in faces?

Focusing on a single subject has both advantages and disadvantages. I got to know many of the people I painted much more closely. When trying to shape someone’s face, you may need to study it for hours. Doing this meant I had to put some other projects on hold. I can say that I’ve become more patient and composed. Now, I can better prioritize what I want to do.

How do you think this process will influence your future works? What changes will it bring to your art, and what are your next steps?

I hadn’t worked with oil paint for a long time. Compared to watercolor, oil painting offers more possibilities. I’ve started working on new paintings. For now, all I can say is that I will continue painting. I don’t know what will happen next either. I’m working on figures and spaces. I actually face the same challenges as every other painter—the only difference is that the content will be +21. We’ll see as I go.

Artist: Sinan Hasar

Interview: Nehir Akfırat

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