podcast

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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