Normal/Strange: I went to the opening night of a strange exhibition this week. Wasn’t at a place designed for exhibitions. Not a museum, not a gallery, not a studio, not a coffee shop, not a collective zone or a historical building that, for example, biennials with a subtle mission of globality/mondial joy would like to dwell in for a time, and not even the street.

The exhibition is hosted at a residential building in the wake of voluntary demolition. Actual people lived there; a couple of residents are still using the building, yet to vacate it, soon, very soon. We saw trash bags out the apartment doors, waiting to go. One could say, it is an unintended installation – sharper (and potentially smellier) than an installation! As far as I learned that night from guests (some of whom were property owners), majority (9 out of 10) of the owners in the building agreed to hand it over to a contractor for tearing down the old for building the new. In fact, it is quite a boring story, because it has been playing on loop for the last decade thanks to the ’99 earthquake in Turkey (the original debris). The quake shook us bad, but it also well embedded the money-making tensions, and a neoliberal economy seeking immersively ‘how to grow money on concrete’ made use of that tension. It seems we made the most of this tension when buildings that were not necessarily dangerous to live in also became disposable according to their location and resident composition. It is money! It is hope! So, in Istanbul and Ankara, owners in numerous old apartment buildings mass-vote for urban transformation, in the ‘conviction’ that the house will be physically safer or better to live in or nicer to rent out. Sometimes the conviction simply comes from the hope of increased return of investment as they hand one unit to the contractor and receive more than one unit later. In either case, the new replaces the old, with a refined look, more profitable, smaller units, fresh concrete (hmmm, yummy!) and stronger prospects. Of course, this has been an overwhelming trend in Istanbul. The overhaul in the city was breathtaking when I used to live there; for two years almost any building I lived in (or considered living in) had a demolition/construction going on nearby. I did not think Ankara would be so eager to compete.

Perhaps, it is hard to overcome the trauma of original debris after all. Perhaps, we need the new so badly. Perhaps, living in brand-new housing makes one feel safer than holding on to the old because one silently knows that the old one was built insincerely. Then it is a moment of truth, even when one does not confess it yet pull a second act based on the absent confession. If these perhapses do not satisfy, think of the issue as a matter of hope, rather than a blame or a praise. I know that no reason will satisfy those who made such houses home and repine over the disappearance of a style, era and soul of architecture. Mind you, many cases of demolitions happen to be in neighborhoods with Republican Ankara apartments. We are not concerned with statistics here. There is something stranger in perhapses than numbers here.

Dangerous/Hospitable: There are special entanglements you can find yourself in if you go to the opening of an art event. The place can be full of people, and full of their intentions that will work very differently than in other moments. A friend, who is also an artist herself, told me about the exhibition and offered to go together. When we approached the building unsure if that is the place, a few excited folks (friends, neighbors?) welcomed us in. Then a bifurcated entry, because the exhibition uses the space of two opposite apartments. Follow the heat; the artist is there. When we walked over to her she welcomed us; but it was the apartment manager (who is also one of the property owners and someone who eased the way for this exhibition to dwell here in this specific building) who made sure we got soused in the welcome: What are we? Are we city planners or architects? (Neither… We are artists) Okay, cool. We should take wine. We should take snacks, here. (Thanks) So, what do we do? (I am actually a geographer) Oh, geographers are dangerous, let me tell you a story: Years years ago, I accompanied a couple of them from France on a trip when I used to work in the public sector, and those geographers were very careful, real shrewd, with maps in their hands, and questions on their mouths, they rake up a lot (Oh! am I being flattered?) No, but I had to control them because they rake up too much… Of course, they are not like you; you won’t rake up like that. (I understand that I’m not being flattered. Tell me about the building a little?) I don’t know what to do about the residents who haven’t moved out yet. Gonna have to turn off electricity and gas. The demolition is coming very soon. (…)

The rest of my conversation with our good-hearted host, who kindly housed the exhibition, kept being a spirited encounter. She did not reveal any feelings about losing this place. Listening to her, it felt like a business. It is happening. It’s gonna go. Life is about change (which we can mistakenly use for upheaval). But it was still a home, livable, with hardwood floor, a fireplace, no sign of being rundown. But they are abandoning it. They want to abandon it for something else. Later, when the artist shared some photos from the stairs in the building, she spotted a cat that I had no idea it was one of the residents in the building. Apparently, the cat cannot abandon it yet, either.

Old/Artist/New: She is a mosaic artist/photographer, documenting ruins, left-out pieces and demolition sites of such apartment buildings in Ankara, photographing stuff in the ruins. She is not alone in this interest. Recyclers of the city will also visit the site and stroll the ruin, looking for stuff that is good to sell. Well, for the artist, this building is her next/now interest, while artifacts on exhibit are other unwanted stuff left near the dumpsters, and she picked those that are signaling a generation gone. But it is also stuff that signals the past unwanted/unneeded, not necessarily decaying. The exhibition is a not a recycling show. Nor is it a random gig. Clearly, she told us, people from an older generation are passing out in this neighborhood, and their stuff no longer holds value for their offspring, is unwanted, and so put outside next to the dumpster. They are reduced to trash. Old photos and other people’s antiques put on sale in flea markets is no novelty in Ankara; but here the stuff recovered from trash are more than personal photos of someone’s youth; some artifacts are statements of belonging to a club, a thought, a conviction, a norm. It’s a small selection, and that makes it more suspenseful. I’d even thought stuff here on exhibit aren’t clean, are they, no but don’t think they were contaminated on purpose. It’s a weird feeling. Oh, I can’t even do justice to the cold sentimentality of a prayer rug who has the face of a president woven onto it. Could it be really used for prayer? Was it just ceremonial, a praise, a show of gratitude? Is it qualitatively different than today’s shows of gratitude? Are these stuff exposing us to a subtle precarity that an  created for themselves? Such creepy artifacts threw me off-guard, left me thinking who gave this to the owner (who are they?), why they kept it, used or untouched, and who kicked it outside eventually. A privacy dumped on the public now. This is stuff renounced, and shared here on display in a very-soon-to-be-discredited home.

Fire: She is using the space that will receive new rhythms to remind us of the old. Then, all these are shared with us along with a very particular smell. Of fire. Of fireplace. Because apartments in this unwanted building have classy fireplaces, surrounded with marble and are in okay shape. The first room we went into was washed with an incensed scented wood smell and the active presence of a fireplace. That’s where the artist hangs out. Those who visit the exhibition will likely be taken over with warmth and a sense of that smell in the first room. My friend realized it very unsubtly, and I felt disturbed, uneasy with the smell. It was not about whether it was fabricated. Rather, it took over me and told of a ripped memory. Smell can be touching, even more touching than sound — working with sound, one knows it is hard to escape a rigid opposition between the auditory and the visual. Smell, though,  it gets to you…  The gap between the moment you perceive it and the moment you are drown in it is so short that it leaves little space for a disagreeing opinion. It may even have little tolerance for indecision – like an unexpected alarm. As someone who documented sounds, traced them, asked about them, and then even watched them in the making, I find smell a visceral evil. Preparing for research, I recall reading on the visual’s domination; I would think visuality needed to leave the door always open, because that’s its way of getting out, too. Sound could lovingly impose width and its access like a mother but make sure to ignore walls, because that’s its way of moving around, too.  Smell does not need to signal its presence; it’s a trap; you get close to it, and it hunts you down. This is strange because, we are supposed to take longer to respond to smell than to recognize sound, according to Beckerman (2004: 25). Smell must be the slowest to get:


Then we went upstairs to the penthouse apartment, which has a terrace view of the city. One of the guests in the opening night would unlock the door upstairs to us, because he is the owner of that apartment. And the only person in the building who originally said no to the handover. And it did not matter. And he seemed sad about losing this spacious apartment. And he actually moved somewhere else nearby with a terrace again. And he would get an apartment in return when the new space would be completed, but he did not seem very flattered by the idea of owning smaller, newer space. Perhaps, the smell would not have to be the same.

Do you happen to be that uncomfortable when you visit exhibits or the City’s Modern?

Personally, this was the weirdest time of the exhibition. It topped what we had seen downstairs. Although he had moved out, some of his stuff remained here: books, weak plants, kitchen and mostly any stuff he decided not to take along remained ready for demolition. Stuff was there in the terrace, on the shelves, on the floor. Architecture was still alive. Fireplace functioned. Terrace stunned and pulled people. And we stood there with wine in paper cups in what’s just used to be someone else’s home. It was inhabited. Then a few more people showed up, and soon the fireplace went alive to warm the space.  Then we almost congregated. A talk of the woods, the city, the peace, the transiency and intrusion. These are the keys I took with me after that room, feeling uncomfortable because I was comfortable standing there. Aural. Like the uncanny uniqueness imposed somewhere on the audience, like Benjamin’s definition.

Do you ever get the chance to recognize the people who are affected by a site of exhibition?

There you go. Obrist mentioned biennials’ and temporary exhibitions’ skill to be dangerous bridges in cities; a communicative port – how nice – working fully as a ‘catalyst for new, creative input to the city’ (Obrist, 2014: 128). This one I am journaling here felt like a massive one in a small case; and it’s going to get demolished. So I am going back.

Go further:

Follow the artist on Instagram to track the exhibition/work: https://www.instagram.com/basak.altin/
Walter Benjamin. 1936. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.
Joel Beckerman. 2014. The Sonic Boom. NY: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing.
Hans Ulrich Obrist. 2014. Ways of Curating. NY: Faber and Faber, Inc.

sergilenen ömür

Dünyanın En Uzun Yaşayan Adamı Zaro AğaDünyanın En Uzun Yaşayan Adamı Zaro Ağa by Mevlüt Çelebi
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Keçi yoğurdu, saflık ve erken dönem Cumhuriyet medyasının şaşkınlıkla karışık bilgiçliği. Herhalde, tekrarlarla dolu bu biyografi taramasından su yüzüne çıkan temalar bunlar benim için. Keçi yoğurdu, tasadan hırstan azad olmuş bir hayat ve yalın günlerin faydasına içten içe şahitlik edebilir insan; Zaro’nun uzun hayat hikayesinde saklı göç, hamallık, İstanbulluluk, kayıt kuyut olmadan bir adamın yurt dışına ‘gezmeye ve sergilenmeye götürülmesi’nin gerisindeki ilgisizlik ve bulanıklık ise hayret verici – ama kitabın belgeleri tekrar tekrar aynı şeyi anlatacak şekilde sunması biraz dikkat dağıtıyor ve yüzeyde takılı kalıyor. Kitabın ikinci yarısında daha belli oluyor, sanki kendisi de istemiş gitmeyi. Ama 1920-30’lardan kalan medyatik bilginin yüzeyinden derine de inemiyoruz haliyle. Aslında Tophane, Eyüp civarının tarihi de göçle, yer değiştirmeyle biraz karışıp kaybolduğu için mi bir adamın hayat hikayesinden iyice derine inemiyoruz? Zaro’nun parayla olan ilişkisini okurken de şaşırdım; bir karakter özelliği gibi anlatılan durumun ardında etnik İstanbulluluk, dışarıdanlık, zaman ve yorgunluğun etkisi ne? Yerli yurtlu bir Doğulu ortalama ömründe bile daha fazla çocuk sahibi olacak diye beklerken Zaro Ağa ekstra ömründe nasıl 13 çocukta kalmış 1900’lerin ilk çeyreğinde? Gazetelerin bu Bitlisli-İstanbullu uzun adamın hikayesine duydukları kibirli tavır niye peki? Kitabın sonunda biraz bunları da tartışacaklar diye beklerken ‘işte olası turistik öğe’ paragrafı niye?

Dayandım ve tekrar tekrar aynı bilgileri sunan, bir doğru bir yanlış, adeta kulaktan dolma gibi yazılmış gazete küpürlerini filan da okudum: derlense, dizin yapılmasa daha kısa sürecekti kitap ama bitti nihayet. Yabancı basının ilgilendiği Zaro Türk basınında ballandıra biberlendire, bir yere vurula bir göğe atıla yazılan Zaro’nunkinden zaman zaman daha netti, daha az duygusaldı, daha çerçevesi geniş gazete haberlerine dönüşmüştü. Ne zaman ki ölmüş, Türk basınında biraz daha boyutlu, daha analitik haberler, yorumlar çıkmaya başlamış, ‘yaş’ bahsi yine ön alarak tabii. O analitik yazıların arasında birkaç tane reaksiyoner, saçma denecek yorumlar da dizilmiş yine. İlginç değil mi?

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from M to R


captured by Laçin T.

The first weekend of July 2018 I went to see a performance called ‘Dancing Letters’ by my friend, performer/dancer/choreographer Gonca Gümüşayak (@ggumusayak) at #solocontemporarydancefestival in Cermodern. Look how she is entering the stage while she’s just yet being announced… before the introduction is over… just like language inviting herself into the sphere of communication. Before the ‘presenter’ even knows it she is speaking to us, bypassing an order settled before and outside her. Those who keep paying attention to the order of the presenter (that order being representative of some sort of bureaucracy) in the foreground miss the first instances of the dance(r) coming in. She’s also almost immediately perceived in the background, capturing space by her arhythmic or strangely-rhythmic moves. How ironic…  Language is also like that. It is a plane of representation, molded into norms, prayers, webpages, music sheets, canvases, laws, verdicts, promises and threats in the hands of an author who thinks their mastery has got the genie in the bottle, therefore language always seems vulnerable in its connection to structure and establishment. Yet, it is lighter than both the structure and the author. It escapes (the pseudo master). It hits (you when and where you least expect). It can destroy (a blind pride).  That’s why many autocrats still want to dictate the rules of speaking and writing (but they are inherently incapable of ruling over hearing) because authority fears losing the patent of this ultimately anarchic code. Language is violently powerful; it always rises whatever shape it comes up and burns whoever thinks they can rule its joints, flow, logic and air. That is why I need to be humble as I put my two cents in on the dancer’s moves, because she has another version, everyone in the audience has another version, and the moment of performance has an own version that does not speak the code any of us deciphered. It is painfully free.

Dance is inherently open. Even as I’d still hesitate before I dive into dancing in a new setting, I like dance a bit more dearly than music, which may fall into a trap of closed circuits, of staying incommunicable to anyone but the performer. Once, a struggling musician had stubbornly told me that only his partner in performance on stage can understand him uniquely; only they know the code, and anyone who does not speak the same code is not going to be eligible into their heaven (or hell). He had added another layer to secrecy: it is not enough to hear it; it is not enough to know the notes; it is not enough to be able to follow the sheet music in the same intensity and rigor; but it’s the special connection in their eyes that makes or breaks the line of communication. Only they know. We outsiders can merely pretend to come closer. The close(d)ness of the performing moment is something I have heard from other musicians several times before; the particularity of being in a mood that is not entirely legible or audible to audience was highlighted already. How sad. Like there is entire access to any other body’s mood. However, this instance he described was severely exclusive and lonely. Quite the blow, right, thinking of how popular discourses celebrate music as ‘universal’, all-inclusive and friendly? Where is the possibility of the new, of a fresh thread of communication?

Dance is inherently open-hearted. Unlike that false expression that we keep hearing as open-minded, dance invites an intriguing communication from the core. Whether solo or as a collective on stage, it takes a weird level of confidence to go from figure to figure by using a medium that are readily available to us all: body and face. Without a body, you cannot retain the ability to listen or play or speak. Through choreography, dancer can switch between figures and we need no further literacy. Yet, it is not that democratic fable just because no secret sophistication would be necessary. Sometimes it would be comical to the eyes untrained to receive the autonomy of such dancing body. First comes body, then choreography, and the rest follows.

Someone young in the audience asked what she really did at the end and how she did that circle thing by her hand from her core… Here you go, she built intrigue, unclarity and density. She built communication without neatly arranged codes. Dancer built a question. Watching Gonca’s performance on the third day of the festival, I realized that only she took up to the stage while the announcement was still going on. Was that courage or something else? I do not know. Perhaps necessity. Perhaps immediacy. Perhaps ‘I-can’t-help-but-take-this-route-right-now’. Other dancers on the same day -mostly from Europe, Cyprus and Israel- did not really need to interrupt the setup of the introduction. She showed up before the speaker finished announcing her on this marked, white sheet, kind of sterile, all-eyes-on-the-performer square. She’d originally like to deviate from that center and go asymmetrical, she told us, but it was a no; this was the way all performances were arranged to start. Would you question her desire to asymmetry? In the first half of her dance without musical additives, I found myself liking that intrusion (!); this is probably the best intrusion, the smartest contribution, I told myself. The rightful interruption is born of the interrupted context. Strong therefore inviting, yet intolerant of violation.

Then I realized she was on to something else: a hard-earned communication of the creative process to the audience? Clearly, all art takes a dreadfully long process of creation; lots and lots drop out along the way, when a few reaches the prize perseverance becomes fetishized, and by default much of the audience feels excused from the long rehearsal in order to jump to the final product and praise it. In this frame of life, process would always be castrated. But the process is alive, and it is prone to change indeed: It’s like being on a railway, and having the power to switch rails. It’s the trajectory that teaches us what the artist/performer has actually meant to show: Gonca’s voice gave way to music in the second half; her bends gave way to words, amorphous sounds and then again words, and back to sounds; the trajectory of letters into words changed according to outside sounds and reactions; she heard the audience and remained open to its reaction in principle as well as in action. From M to R there was a long way to go and there were spare moments of adaptation, alteration and suspension. Knowing this makes artistic performance inconsumable and unfrozen. Why did she spend a longer pause/sway in transiting from M to R? The life of the performance really meant for me how we are not supposed to be excluded from the transit. It is not a simple transfer. Nor is it a show. We are in the process by way of imagining, thinking, adding, suggesting and perhaps at some point by figuratively repeating a hesitant M to an insistent R. What is your M to R as you read this?…

Later in a conversation she asked us what her performance made us think. People at the table found the tension of structure and post-structure, discussing whether she deconstructed or kept going with the structure. While her dance is inspired by William Forsythe’s choreography,  she is apparently searching to express her own manifesto, and that requires reflecting on why she birthed what she birthed. The moment the performance fills some space, it is aptly changing and the beauty of this is that we can witness the tough part easily. What does that mean for an ongoing, existing yet opening structure? Freya Vass-Rhee spends some time figuring out Forsythe’s choreography that merges vocal and visual components of movement. To draw audience closer, to make them understand the dancer-choreographer’s grief, Forsythe appears as a firm believer of expressing intermodality, where vocal reflection will be employed as much as any other sense during movements of the dancer-body. If dance is a sort of ‘visual music’ and ”sound is fundamentally a product of movement” for Forsythe (Vass-Rhee, 2010: 391-392), then the dancer speaks with all her body and using her wide sphere when she decides to speak. We are part of her sphere and at her reach (read: mercy) when we play the part of audience. I suspect that it is not a circular sphere; it is amorphous; like a blast or a shock wave, it is not smooth or round. If we are there at its reached margin, we hear, and it is beyond our will.

Vass-Rhee writes that ”Forsythe and his ensemble, by extending movement into the vocalizing regions of the body, moves dancing across the perceptual boundaries between visual and aural modalities” (2010: 398). What does that do? This is meant to confuse and crack the frozen gaze(r), and the mobilize a partnership with those who are already affectively open to the dancer’s vibrations in space. Be open-hearted and hear me! is such a difficult statement to complete. Anybody can think being open-minded is enough as they want to watch (and leave).

As I watched Gonca move, I kept thinking about Pierrot’s Alphabet. In January 2018, I happened to get a sale print of The Man of Letters or Pierrot’s Alphabet (1794), probably reprinted from The Phaidon Archive of Graphic Design on an excursion to Castro neighborhood in San Francisco. It mesmerized me how the figure dropped human status for seconds and took up another status, i.e. the status of a letter. The letter-body looked like a joke(r), but it posed artfully to take up several pauses recalling the shapes of a silent artifact. This silent yet highly emotional artifact is both vocally and visually powerful. It was crafted by (a sort of) human(istic) mind and its technology is so simple that it is now long forgotten how it will always transgress its physical limits. It mesmerized me for the fact that it had a communicative contortion to express the new using the classical. Why mock or perform the letter, otherwise? (Desire, perhaps? Go further, though.) Why this simple act of coming closer to a distant letter that your hands and mouth gives constant birth? Perhaps much complicated stuff happens during the trip of a letter’s emergence/figuration/creation, and a performer wants us to hear it to co-create it, be it grief or joy or loss.

After all, art is about following the ridiculed openness. But why?

Go Further:

Ask the artist and learn more about her work at:  https://www.instagram.com/ggumusayak/

The Human Alphabet, several sources compiled, https://publicdomainreview.org/collections/the-human-alphabet/

Vass-Rhee, Freya. 2010. ‘Auditory Turn: William Forsythe’s Vocal Choreography’, Dance Chronicle, 33: 388-413.

the unaffected


the liberating (!) view near my neighborhood now. photo by author.

Here is a narrative of why I moved this summer and what I found right after.



So, I moved. I pushed myself out of a single room of insanity called ‘residence hall’ and into new terrain. I removed myself from the pulp, put an end to the flounder, made sure to shatter the frame that holds me from seeing a written product of my research. Why? Was I not ready? Pain and ailment, instead of creativity, defined the last two years. Every time I thought the situation improved, my attempts were scratching the walls of a single room and hitting me back. Those could not be part of the writing process. It felt as if I was fighting a demon that sticked to me while I walked into the room and did not allow me to sit down and own my efforts. In a fantasy novel, that would certainly move the script on: a parasite. In the dictionary,  parasite is defined as ‘one who habitually takes advantage of the generosity of others without making any useful return.’ Interesting. I remember the slimy parasite, its human and non-human forms; I also remember the moments I let it in because I thought I should hear it out. This was a moment of being affected; I did not need to remind myself that I needed to be more open to the flow; I was properly open to the flow and quite ready to dismiss the blind distance in order to hear out by the moves of others around me. My tools when I collected data in the fieldwork had become my hands, my steps, my touch, and my character. I became one with my method and did not feel guilty for it. On the contrary, this was strength. ‘I should hear it out’ was my strength.

There is merit in hearing. Hearing is different than listening: hearing builds on reciprocity that the latter lacks morbidly. When one hears another, life and challenges of the ‘voice’ cannot be ignored anymore. Communication has started.  bell hooks captured this moment of communication or the lack thereof. In ‘Wounds of Passion: A Writing Life‘ , she goes back to threads of her writing career and narrates uneven power dynamic between hearing and listening:  On page 98 of this memoir, bell hooks (1997) narrates her position among college ‘friends’ in California:

When I speak everyone stops to listen but then no one hears. They are all white and they are all here to celebrate being female. They do not want to hear that the shared reality of femaleness does not mean an equal share in powerlessness.’ (…) ‘They listen to me but they don’t hear. They don’t have to hear. This is what it means to be among the colonizers, you do not have to listen to what the colonized have to say, especially if their ideas come from experience and not from books. They ask you if there is a book they can read that will explain what you are talking about.’

Pleasures of listening are not available to hearing-body, when one finds out a weird togetherness instead of enjoying a safe distance from things and lives of others. Hearing is a relationship; listening is a performance – a show. Hearing does not imply the safest of distances. bell hooks understood a comfortable audience who knew what they wanted to receive, and it is this frozen act of listening that highlighted disposition to sweet power.

An unforeseen discomfort of hearing! I had to move out of that room where I certainly felt uncomfortable with hearing out people’s stories and discontent, where the speaker actually wanted to preach to me -as I later realized. Some of those speakers were friends, some were just company, while others pseudo-friends. Towards the end of my stay in that room (of fieldwork, to be clear), I was questioning how much agency I gave up in order to hear a speaker-subject who certainly had things to tell, to pour, to let out -sometimes without much tact. I suppose the hearing-subject trusts, because she has to; that’s the only mood to get going. The speaker, on the contrary, without a specific gender, with a possibly and comfortably childish manner, can switch to a self-involved mode, as the hearing-subject invites them into mood to be received… Think of your stubborn lover who does not understand when you demand to take a break. Think of your grandparent or late parent who would not hear your side of the story at all and push their outdated agenda. They may be full of themselves, and going after pleasures of listening (more so those of speaking); but more urgently they do it because that is the most comfortable form of being in the world at that moment. Likewise, the speaker-subjects who addressed my ears live in a receiver society and may want to pour words, dump stories, and complain – perhaps just without substantial reflection. The subject does not necessarily think to receive back from its mic. That time is probably what sets the pain in motion in the one who heard. This is a stinging dimension of qualitative research: learning to be comfortable with hearing and yet hitting a wall of non-conversation, the hearing-subject will find that the speaking-subject is rather busy seeking attention to their immediate lives.

But, that moment of hearing was supposed to be a rare opportunity (or mistake depending on which end you are at) in which to be affected shows up in our profile, connecting us to the ‘translocal’. Being human requires a body and bodies have layers; when encountering other bodies they cannot escape an extent of reciprocity.  Ben Anderson noted what affect meant in the space between bodies, and he noted the unavoidable circulatory power of affect in this gap between us: in order to ”think through affect we must untie it from a subject or object and instead attune to how affects inhabit the passage between contexts through various processes of translocal movement’‘, he wrote (Anderson, 2006: 736). Affect runs free and uninhibited; so it comes handy when you are desperately trying to connect to the trajectories of strangers in the fieldwork, to hear what someone is running from or swimming against or playing with; to apply stitches on the passage between you asking questions and that vocal source sharing pieces of a trajectory full of clefts, deterritorialized and abused by the capital. I think that is a point where we are still not well-equipped as fieldworkers as we set out towards that ‘translocal movement’. Researchers are trained and instructed on unequal power relations in the field for sure; we know to be cautious of our position and dispose ourselves to difference; we think we know to an okay extent what walking on clefts will feel like, and some keep the walk short and painless. But when you behaviorally change by spending a little too long on a cleft, you will fall; when you’re not clear at what point you relay your space too much that another will take over and gulp down that translocal space. I think a move without making damn sure that the speaker-subject wants more than to be received is a poor move; and, an inclination to hear rather than listen obviously leaves one wanting a new pair of ears. That’s how my speaker-subjects, both in the fieldwork and post-fieldwork -interesting continuity-, seemed to have a pretentious understanding of the gap between bodies in that sense. I found they lacked a response to a charge with hope from the other side: even in the flow of conversation, I lacked a more complete feeling of reciprocity that comes with thinking that we are in a conversation, which is a zone for multiplicity. Many times, when it was my turn to throw the ball, no one seemed to catch: affect is the warranty that we will have this ball game. I am deliberately thinking conversations during fieldwork and post-fieldwork together, as there is a connection although not an assimilation: my learned behavior as a hearing-subject. I am not overdoing it, though; I am just inclined to hear what I am listening to.

In the end, hearing should imply conversation, right? That ‘assumption’ increased the magnitude of my disquiet when several conversations hit the wall, and that is why I had to move: Disconnect from the walls of the room and reassemble my face. Two flat enemies. Two façades against each other, getting close day by day, until the one that is more humble and flexible transgresses and flips over the other’s walls, turning inside out and locking outside in. So, then the room became the captive one, and the face had to get out. Outside is not necessarily a good place, but positions will have changed. You may call this the beginning of a new response on the planet of parasites – it would make a fine sci-fi movie scene.

From one room to another: into the arms of the callous

When I was about to move, I anticipated the callous-subject. It would be a revisit to the field(work), and I had a sense of what space was left to be affected. But here is a new glimpse at the restless:

So I relocated. I have been taking walks, setting up a new rhythm for my work and health, and preferring to stay home for extended hours; this kind of thing can come after a period of too much work for little result. On those brief movements, I have run into random restless strangers who seemed to be lost in their own universe rather than being contemplative of the space between us. First, I would stop to think if I am too much of a stranger here. Okay,  perhaps they might have become callous; the last few years in Turkey have been a lab for urban violence of various sorts, so it does not take a research lab and a long series of studies to figure out that people will retire into their own (s)hell and become insensitive to protect their senses! In a recent interview with Ozan Zeybek on yeşilgazete, he pointed out to the media impact as one factor to shrink contemplative politics rather than expand it:

Sürekli dikkatimizi çekmek üzere yarışan ve infial yaratmaya yönelik bir üslûpla sunulan olaylar, hafızamızı aslında zayıflatıyor, siyasetin alanını daraltıyor. Tepki vermemiz bekleniyor; ama takip etmek güçleşiyor. Her şeye tepki vermeye çalışmanın aşındıran bir tarafı var. Bir de düşünmeye, akıl yürütmeye ket vurabiliyor. 

Trying to react to any signal [news] coming in erodes the memory and shrinks the field of bearing politics, he contends. Meanwhile, the restlessness I run into has its merits, too: While disaffected from another body passing by, the unaffected can be freshly sensitive to a thing physically out of reach… Could be a cat account on Instagram, an emoji, a heroic defense, a match point, a win score, a loving gesture from the most indifferent person… as long as those evoke feelings of past, lost, foregone, completed,  faraway moments that one wishes incomplete and still open. To be fair, the unaffected are most easily affected by ‘let me go moments’, ‘this is my chance’, on a channel of personal liberty to go, do, eat, be and go again. Immediacy is perhaps key to understand why someone like below would be obsessed when it comes to urgent, bodily situations: When I stop by the public restroom in a mall, a woman who would immediately like to use the next stall has no patience even after she perceives that all the stalls are occupied. A cleaning staff stands there in the restroom with us. The woman (customer) rushes in, acts impatient, looks around not amused to see us in her private bathroom, banks her body on me lightly to push an obstacle around, then she scolds, at unease thinking someone is blocking her. It’s hard for her to realize the surroundings. She obsessively points to a stall; she is pretty convinced it should be unoccupied and we losers are waiting for nothing. She could be screaming in her body language ‘I need to pee and you’re not letting me’ ! Make way for the child.

On a certain level, she is in a rightful situation. I mean, she has to pee; it is unavoidable. She is not in her own private quarters, though. By being in that public surrounding, she accepted the possibility that stalls could be occupied and she’d have to wait or act earlier – which we simply call basic calculation of actions and moves, rights? Maybe she did not know she signed that contract when she stepped in the mall. At one moment, impatience in her did not allow her to recognize that there were people waiting in line in front of her.

At another level, it is funny. ‘Funny’ as in Funny Games. At the checkout, for instance, the next person in line acts like they are about to annex to your bottom, glance over your purse, monitor your transaction, and almost occupy the same place as you. AND IT IS NORMAL. They may not be interested in you of course; you feel their breath nevertheless. This is Turkey, I remind myself, don’t be even slightly mad; they cannot put a practical distance between their body and others at the cashier; it is a line and they think that if they don’t close the ranks with the person in line they’d lose it. Perhaps we were taught to process ‘being in line’ so well. Elsewhere, this would be considered minor harassment; one cannot attach their belly to another person’s back, slightly push the person in front with their purse or hand and not anticipate a warning. Here, all this happens in a dreamy state of acceptance and flow. I ask myself if the unaffected is ludicrous. Maybe I am wrong; the lack of personal distance and the deafness in the mediocrity of a line is not the same as the colonizing volume of speaker-subject because they have found someone who attentively take notes of their words in a face-to-face encounter to seek meaning for an act, and to take them seriously.

I survived both such lack of distance and such volume during my fieldwork. I think it was the end of 2015 and early 2016, man on the street in Istanbul was so busy with his own troubled mind that he did not look where he was going. Crash was unavoidable. A cell phone was not always part of the scene; you would see persons talking to themselves once in a while, and they were not street figures at all. I would circulate the same corner or the sidewalk, waiting for my interviewee, looking for a good moment to document a performance… all that made me pause and wait in the street. The man on the street would come and bump into others; I’d see the whole thing. Startled at first, then I would think if something is broken in the communication to the ‘translocal’ space. Sometimes, the person behind me would speed up and crash into me walking, cursing at me. Was İ the object that interrupted a projectile?! Troubles of the man who survives a hard time in the economy, I’d think. Then came in the construction trucks. In neighborhoods like Kadıköy or Göztepe, those trucks carried earth and dig to and from the construction sites.  They had to go fast; they did not know how to manage dire streets and ran over a few people in their own neighborhoods – those not alert enough to escape them. Drivers were not familiar to the path they tread. Victims were usually teenagers, young women, old women, women who did not know to anticipate a sneak attack from the truck. Truck-ran-over-civilian ‘incidents’ filled news and papers, accompanied by lots of frustration, and injustice. I bet there are still people who do not buy into how such a surreal thing could happen repeatedly. Meanwhile, the subcontractor-driver was quite unaffected, failing to respect the (slower) movement around it, and synced out from the surroundings. The unaffected does not have a good concept of its whereabouts, it is simply affected by the need to go.

See more:
bell hooks. 1997. Wounds of Passion: a writing life. Henry Holt & Company.
Ben Anderson. 2006. Becoming and being hopeful: towards a theory of affect. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 2006, volume 24, pages 733-752
Ozan Zeybek. 29 June 2018. ‘Köpek sevince hayvansever olunmuyor, endüstriyel hayvancılıkta da sistematik şiddet var‘, Interview at Yeşil Gazete. https://yesilgazete.org/blog/2018/06/29/kopek-sevince-hayvansever-olunmuyor-endustriyel-hayvancilikta-da-sistematik-siddet-var

çiçek de alacağım


Araştırma yolculuğundan kampüse dönüş:

Seyir defterimde yeni bir dönemi açmışken daha ilk aydan dönemin çarkları arasında sıkıştım. Helikopter uğultusu, tren sesi, ambulans ve polis otosu çığlığı arasında n’oluyor ya yine kim köprüye çıktı, kim kimi kesiyor acaba diye uykularımdan uyanma aşamasını atlattığımı sanıyorum. Bu şehir küçük bir şehir, dolayısıyla sesler çabuk yayılıyor ve herkes ıssızlığın ortasındaymış gibi ses çıkardığı için yan fraternity evinde geyirseler (üstelik sorority yanında geyiriyorlar, sıfır nezaket) biz burada deprem oluyor sanabiliyoruz. Ayrıca müzik zevkleri ve parti anlayışları da korkunç derecede düz olduğundan içimdeki elitisti sayelerinde sevindirebiliyorum. dım tıs yo çak takır yo çakada be yo.

Ancak elitistin sınırları dar; onu fazla dışarı salmıyorum, kendi dünyasında oyalıyorum. Örneğin öğrencilerin derse banyo terliği ve uzun lacivertimsi siyah ama aslında kahverengi çizgili çorapla gelişini olay yapmıyorum artık (kadın erkek fark etmeden o çorap çekiliyor). Haftasonu futbol ve basketbol maçlarına giderken üniforma gibi tek renk mavi polyester elbiseyi üstüne çeken, altına da kovboy botları geçirip gururla kırmızı ışıkta bekleyen genç üniversiteli kadınlar kümesini de garipsemiyorum. Sadece biraz renk, biraz çeşit, biraz istatistiksel kayma diliyorum. Arada kendi ülkemin yeni nesil üniversiteli kadınlarını düşünüyorum tabii; bir kısmı gururla ‘nasıl ya bunun hepsini okuyacaz mı, ben meşgulüm şimdi, okul bitse de evlensem, öf çok sıkıcı bu yazılar snapchat’e koyayım dalga geçeriz’ derken diğer bir kısmı ölüyor, birazı savruluyor, birazı da çalışıyor; hatta fazla göze çarpmayan birazı geleceğini tedirgin tedirgin kuruyor. Karşılaştırmak işe yaramıyor, ama bu sayede en azından Türkiye’nin genç kadınlarını biraz fonksiyonu çerçevesinde inceleme fırsatı ve yüzdeleri gözden geçirme şansı bulduk: tek eksiğim bunun için araştırma fonu almamış olmam ve köşe yazmamam.

Karpal tünel olmayan ama ne hikmetse iyileşmeyen bileklerim ve ağrıyan ellerim sayesinde yeni bir ağrı türüyle tanıştım geçen ay. Bu ay da biriken stresle birlikte hız kesmeden bu ağrıya tam gaz devam. Buna yeni sorumluluklar eklenince, eldeki işler yetişmeyince, tam işimin (makalemin) başına oturdum derken ofis arkadaşım bana öğrencilerinden yavaş çekimde dert yanmaya başlayınca ve susmayınca, işler olmuyor. Evet, olmuyor. Olduramıyorum. Atık enerjiyi boşaltıp yerine yenisi ve pırıl pırıl olanını koyamadığım için berbat bir iş çıkarıyorum. Vücut adeta sinyal veriyor, beni gerersen seni pis gererim diyor. Doktora öğrencisinin stresle başa çıkması için toplu terapi grupları öneriliyor, oysa ihtiyacımız olan önce günün 36 hatta belki 48 saate çıkması. O zaman her şey hallolur; gerekirse haftada iki saat oturup benim işim olmayan konuları bile tartışırım. Bir odada çember etrafında oturup grupça dertlerimizi tartışma noktasını maalesef geçmiş bulunuyorum, çünkü günlerim 6 saat gibi hissediyorum; hızlı, yokuş ve kalın perdeli. 1 saat yemek ve ulaşım, 1 saat ders, 1 saat angaryalar ve insanlar, 1 saat bunalım ve sorular, 2 saat neden yazamıyorum telaşı… İçinden geçemiyorum. İhtiyacım olan iç huzuru şu anda pek bulunmadığından, elimdekiyle yetiniyorum: sabah yedide ses açma ve şakıma egzersizleri; vitesleri artık olmayan bisikletimle turlar; gece 10’da süpermarket gezileri, balkon sefaları. Çiçek de alacağım. Sözlerim üzerimde bol duruyor bu ara, ama çiçek tam gelecek eve, kesin.

the conformist

In the uneven silence of this film, there must be a secret, delayed grudge in the individual to the governmental authority who did not stop him from losing himself in its collectiveness. As usual, delay and grudge give way to a loudly bitter timing. The unlikely words of honesty come too late, after the fact of fear and violence. There are few movies that shook me by its level of mastery of the show of violated personhood.

the conformist - devlet birey.png

still from: The Conformist (1970)

perşembe seyircisi

Perşembe seyircisi misiniz?

Geçen perşembe, müzede çalışmanın nasıl bir şey olacağını daha iyi tahayyül etmek için İstanbul Modern’e gittim -ayrıca şu makaleyi sadece denize bakarak ama kendimi MCA‘da hayal ederek yazabilecektim, yaa yaa işte…- . Küratörlüğü parayla değil kafamda serbest stil yaptığım ve dünya üstünde kimsenin bundan haberi olmadığı için biraz hüzünleniyorum. Hatta müzeleri ziyaret ettiğimde ¨müze dediğimiz yer görsellikle bu kadar yoğrulmuş olmasaydı acaba nasıl olurdu, başka bir dünya mümkün olur muydu?¨ diye içimden geçiyor, o zaman daha da hüzünleniyorum. O zamanlarda hep Diego Rivera’nın donmuş kaynakları katman katman işlediği duvar resmi aklıma geliyor, işte o zaman tam hüzünleniyorum:

kaynak – http://www.diegorivera.org/frozen-assets.jsp  

Şehrin geri kalanını köşeli-uçlu-sınırlı-sınıflı planlayınca bellek odalarını da ona benzetmek gerekiyor (kelebek vadileri filan yaparak mekanın süreğen olduğuna bizi ikna etmeye çalışan proceleri bu sıkıntıyı aşmak için kim sunduysa ona iki çift lafım olacak bir ara). Ama ben sesli müzeler hayal ediyorum, o zaman da hayalgücüm biraz aşırıya kaçıyor, aslında hayal ettiğimin korku tünellerine benzediğini, zaten bu formatın da tarihte, soykırımlarda, gerilim ve macera filmlerinde, masallarda içinden geçtiğimiz bir format olduğunu hatırlıyorum. Bir duvarı, düzlemi algılayamadan onun hatırlattıklarına daldığımız bir gezi! Yo dostum yo; insanlar düzlemleri, köşeleri, tutunmayı seviyor. Tutunan, bizdendir diyor.

Örnek veriyorum: sinema perdesi. Üç boyutlu sinemasever sazanlara bu sözüm, onun için niye iki boyutlu perdeye ihtiyaç var kuzuciğim?

İşte bu yüzden, hem sinemayı hem müzeyi hem de ¨hem giderim hem yazarım¨usülünü sevdiğim için ayaklarım beni İstanbul Modern’e götürdü. Yoldayken arayan arkadaşım, rotamı İstanbul Modern’e çevirdiğimi duyunca kahkahayı bastı, ¨perşembe seyircisi olayım dedin demek!¨. Tabii ya, ben bunu unutmuştum. Geçen ilkbaharda sinema salonunda ManIslam diye erkeklik ve İslam coğrafyaları üstüne bir belgesel gösterimi ve kadın yönetmeniyle soru-cevap oturumu vardı; ben de merakla dinlemeye gitmiştim. Sanırım Film-mor düzenliyordu; yönetmen Nefise Özkal Lorentzen Türkiye de dahil birkaç ülke dolaşmış, kah feminist erkeklerin ifadelerini almıştı, kah kadın mı tövbe haşa yaklaşımına sahip uslu erkeklerle karşılaşmıştı. Aferin onlara, öyle uslu uslu otursunlar, hatta hiç kalkmasınlar; yeterince uzun oturursa yoklara bile karışabilir insan, işte öyle yoklara karışsınlar.

Mesela ilginç örneklerden biri, Endonezya’daki Laki Laki Baru oluşumuydu; eril bir şiddet ve höt demekten nasibini almış, eskiden şiddete yatkın bir genç adam feminist erkek olarak yeni bir benlik elde etmişti. Benlik olunca benlik-kontrolü de kendiliğinden gelişiyor. Bence bu manyifik-ötesi bir örnekti, çünkü Endonezya’dan bahsediyoruz. Derslerde ucuz yağlardan, aldırmadan orman katlinden, sivri binalarından, mütedeyyin toplumundan ve seks turizminden bahsettiğimiz, birkaç yüzyılı aynı zamanda yaşayan kafası karışık egzotik görünümlü tanıdık Endonezya’dan… O dönemde Özgecan Aslan cinayeti yeni olmuş sayılırdı; o yüzden filmin zamanlaması da konusu da gidişatı da ilginçti; erkekleri de ezen bozan sindiren bir kafa yapısına erkekler, kadınlarla beraber karşı çıkabilir miydi… filan.  (Ya da erkeklerin de başına gelince mi hiş huop bi dakka diyorduk… ama yok, film bu düzlükte değildi). Yönetmen de biraz kendi dünyasını çeviriye kurban vermeden filme katmak da istiyordu, o sebeple de ilginçti: örneğin kelebek-koza figürleri geçişlerde karşımıza çıkıyordu, ¨güçsüz olanın gücünü göstermek istiyorum¨diye açıklıyordu filmden sonra.

Buraya kadar her şey şahane. Tam film kafasındayız. Derken izleyiciler arasında orta yaşa yakın bir kadın izleyici söz alıp yönetmene, bence bu film iyi hoş ama belgesel olmamış, diyor. Konu ilginç gelmiş, ama bu ona göre bir sinema filmi değil, vidyo kliplerden ibaretmiş. Farklı ülkeler arasındaki geçişlerde kelebek figürü filan araya giriyordu. Bu geçiş belli ki izleyicide tutmamış, belgesel olması için bazılarımıza başka, düz göstergeler gerekiyormuş… Yönetmen sanki ‘tuzu uzatır mısın canım’ dercesine doğal karşılayıp, sevecen bir tavırla ama en önemlisi sakin bir sesle, bu eleştiriye katılmadığını söylüyor: ¨yaşamın anlardan ibaret¨olabileceğini düşünüyor. Ortamda bir de çevirmen var, aldığım notları şimdi karıştırınca anladığım kadarıyla, adaletsizlik, kırılganlık, şiddet…bunları yaşayanlara nasıl bakıyoruz filan, bunların önemine dair bir iki kelime edecek…Fakat organizatör olduğuna kanaat getirdiğimiz genç bir kadın adeta eleştiriye içerliyor ve bir dakka diyerek söz alıyor.

Perşembe izleyicisi herhalde bugünkü gösterime gelen, aslında daha bilgili yorumlar yapabiliriz…

gibi bir şeyler demiş, öyle not almışım şok ile keyif arasında. Çünkü birazdan tartışma çok başka yerlere sapacak, siz bana perşembe izleyicisi mi dediniz! nasıl! diyerek, film unutulacak. İşte eşsiz hizmet, benzersiz katkı, karanlık bir keyif.

Perşembe izleyicisi! Yani perşembeleri İstanbul Modern’e girişin ücretsiz olduğu gün gösterimlere de ücretsiz giren kişi! Ah benim kulaklarım!

Gidişat gerçekten de ManIslam’dan WomanScreened’e dönüyor! Tarifi zor duygular içindeyim o an, çünkü bunu bileceğime on numara’da çıkacak rakamları bilsem belki gelecek konferansın yol masrafı ve kira gibi giderleri çıkarabileceğim! Yani yeteneklerimi toplumsal mevzuulara harcamak yerine kumarbaz olsam, bu yoğurt tutacak!

Eleştiriyi yönelten kadın izleyici bu lafın üstüne tabii ki tekrar söz alıyor, bedavacı izleyici yorumunu kabul etmediğini söylüyor, ardından yönetmene dönüp ¨bu bir başlangıç galiba sizin için?¨ diye üsteliyor. Eyvah! Çünkü yönetmen, hemen ardından,

yoo, 20 yıldır bu işin içindeyim,

diyecek! Bittik. Bir de İngilizce ekleyecek: bu benim imzam, and I like it! (haydi bakalım.)

Aslında müthiş bir karşılaşma yaşıyoruz. Kadın meselelerine dair duyarlılığa sahip bir izleyici, film-mor etkinliği olan bir yere gelmiş, bir film izlemiş, alıştığı belgesellerde görmediği gibi bir aralardan derelerden görüntü yakalama tekniği görünce pek oturtamamış, vidyo klipleri bağlamamışsınız demiş, yönetmen de ezilip büzülmek yerine

yoo ben böyle gayet beğendim, ama çok teşekkür ederim iyi ki söylediniz,

diyivermiş. Ama tartışmalara ayrılan zamanın çoğu, ne dediniz ayol aaa’ya gidiyor. Çünkü ortada talihsiz bir açıklama var. İzlemeye gelenler de gayet bilerek isteyerek gelmiş, yoldan geçerken uğrayalım dememişler. Hatta bu tartışmanın bir noktasında eleştiren izleyici biraz bozuluyor, nihayet salonu terk ediyor… ve tartışmalar aynı minareye tırmanıyor:

lütfen özür dileyin, siz bize çerez diyorsunuz, hepimize bu sözünüz! Bizi sıfırladınız bunu diyerek, yok ettiniz! Kadıncağız kalktı, gitti. Hepimiz kadınız. Mesaj vermeye kalkarken bizi sıfırladınız… Erkek yönetmene filminizi beğenmedim, denmiyor ama, hiç duymuyoruz… bu kadar erkeğin içinde bizi yok ettiniz…

diye organizatörlerden olduğunu anladığımız genç kadına tepkili takılan izleyicilerin ardarda söz almasıyla başka soruları da harcıyoruz. Erkek yönetmene filmini tutmadım ahmet oğlum! dendiğini ben de pek duymadım galiba. Belki de çoğu onları eleştirme kafasitesine (evet bu kelimeyi hangi Facebook blogundan arakladığımı biliyorsunuz) sahip olmayan tiplere göre film çekiyorlardır, gözü açılmamış genç çocuklara ve hep çocuk kalanlara. Öte yandan kadın figürünün kamusal alanda nasıl olacağına dair özürleri (‘ama bardan dönmüyordu o saatte, okuldan dönen masum bir yavrucakıdı, ah ne bahtsız yavrucakıdı’) tartışan cinsiyetli (kadın veya erkek) keltoşların (saçlı veya saçsız) her yerden pıtırak gibi çıktığı ortamdayız o günlerde, ama ülkenin yüzölçümü mü büyüktür nedir, idrak edemiyoruz, uzak kalıyor demek. Ben o sırada kafama çekiliyorum, tartıyorum, ee Vice belgeselleri de bazen böyle klip gibi, zor ortamlarda başka nasıl bağlanır ki kurgu, bazen azıcık sallantılı ilerleyebilir işler… diye üç kuruşluk sinema bilgimle karşılaştırıyorum işleri (ama bu sorun olmamalı, çünkü üç kuruşluk bilginizle siz de birilerine nasıl yapacağını söylemiyor musunuz, özellikle hesap makinası kullanmadan karar vermek gereken konularda?)

Beni huzurlu, mutlu iç dünyamdan organizatörün sesi çekip alıyor. Tekrar söz almış, konuyu tekrar açıyor:

Yanlış anlaşıldım ama lütfen…Film eleştirmek başka bir şey…ama bu bir kadın filmleri festivali, buna farkındalık istedim, bilmeden gelenler olmuş olabilir, diye dedim…

diye az önceki sahneyi savunuyor. Bunu, o sırada önümde açık olan deftere yazmıştım, ve evet gayet hızlı yazdım çünkü ses kayıt cihazı olmadan mülakat veren görüşmeciye aşinayım. Sonra? Sonrası şöyle: Defterimdeki izlenime göre, ‘bu da pek tutmadı’. Hatta arada bir noktada erkek bir izleyici, buradaki bayanlar teker teker gidip bu hanfendinin [eleştiren izleyicinin] elini sıkın, sonra ben bişey diycem, gibi bir notaya bile bastı! Sebep?! Bayan?!

Müze keyfi (qeyfi)

Uzmanlar ve yoldan geçenler arasındaki sanal köprüde sallandığımız bu anının ardından duruma biraz içerlemiştim: Fakat bu nedir? diyerek tepkimi sağda solda arkadaşlarıma yansıtmıştım. Ama işten güçten zaman kalmamış, çok da üstelememişim, buraya yazmamışım. Arkadaşlarımdan birkaçına, yahu İstanbul Modern’e ne zaman uğrasam sinemada olay var! demekle yetinmişim (nedeni için bkz.  https://esikcarpar.wordpress.com/2015/01/22/yer-kavgasi/). Ben anlatıp unutmuşum, ama anlattığım bir arkadaşım hatırladı. Yine mi perşembe seyircisi olmaya gidiyorsun, dedi. Aklıma karpuz kabuğu düşürdü.

Müzeye varınca Biz de Varız! gösterimlerinde bir Türk filmi izleyeyim bari, iki lokma daha görgüm artsın dedim. En son uğradığımda yanda Galata Port inşaatı sebebiyle küçük işyerleri boşaltıyordu ve müzenin hemen dibindeki büfe son satışlarını yapıyordu. Cuma yerine pazartesi gitmiş olsaydık o büfe olmayacaktı, bir bira alıp denize neredeyse sıfır, gümrük girişi ve cruiser manzaralı bira keyfi yapamayacaktık. Ama yaptık. Neden? Çünkü denklemde ben (ve o gün bana eşlik eden arkadaşım G.) olunca işler değişiyor, yan yollar çoğalıyor, sizi temin ederim, denedik gördük. Neyse, biradan sonra Bienal kapsamında alt kattaki sergiyi gezmiştim o gün ve çubuklarla dünya ekonomisini anlatan orta podyuma çok yaklaşınca müze görevlisi genç bir kadın, muhtemelen öğrenci, telaşlanmıştı: lütfen değmeyelim! Ama ben sadece çubuklardaki göç istatistikleri gerçeği nasıl yansıtıyor diye bakıyordum, dokunmadan. Ucuz bir sanat yazısında da dedikleri gibi sergilenen şeylere dokunmamak müze gezmenin etiketinde varmış. Oysa dokunamadığım sanat, sanat mıdır, donmuş mal mıdır? Öhm. Evet.

Konuda bu kadar dallanıp budaklanıyor olmam beni kusursuz bir perşembe seyircisi yapıyor aslında. Evden kalktım nerelere vardım.


Neyse, İstanbul Modern’in bilet gişesinde broşürden ‘dur bakiyim, izlemediğim bir film seçeyim’ diyerek ve biraz da gözüm Neden Tarkovski Olamıyorum?‘a takılarak (bir daha mı izleseydim, çok iyi film yahu, hm seansı kaçırmışım) saati uygun başka bir filme bilet aldım. Aşağıya indim. Sinema salonu önünde neyse ki uzun kuyruk yok… Fakat beş dakika geçmeden o kısa kuyruk Çin Seddi’ne kafa tuttu. Saat de 3:00 oldu. Ama kapılar açılmıyor. Bekleyenler artıyor. Birileri biletiniz var değil mi, bu seans için değil mi, diyip dolanıyor, o kadar. Kuyrukta bekleyen çiftler birbirlerinin çantasını taşıyor, arkadaşlarıyla muhabbet çeviriyor, ‘ağbi Moda’dan sonra Ortaköy pek bir şeye benzemiyor’ diyor, ‘evet ya Moda değişik, denize yakınsın ama görünürde deniz yok’ diyor, ‘sevgilim acaba beklemesek de …’ye mi gitsek’ diyor. Merdiven başındaki görevli ‘kusura bakmayın, yukarıdaki sergi ayrı sergi diyor, bu biletle yukarı çıkaramam sizi, lütfen asansörle çıkıp girişten biletinizi kontrol ettirin’ diyor, insanlar sinema girişindeki asansöre akın ediyor. Biz halen bekliyoruz. Yarım saat bekliyorum. Halen kapı açılmıyor. Görevli biri neden gösterimin başlamadığını açıklamıyor. Sıradaki bir çift, ‘aşkım farkında mısın, hiçbirimiz, biz de dahil, neden gecikti diye hesap sormuyor, ne kadar ilginç değil mi’ gibi bir şeyler diyor. Müzenin ruhunu sıra bekleyenlere sormak lazım… Peki, gerçekten de yarım saatte neler yapabilirdim? Spam mail temizleyebilirdim, keman yayı nasıl tutulur onu çalışabilirdim, yemek yapabilirdim, bir kahve içip 1 sayfa çeviri yapabilirdim, cv’mi bir yere daha gönderebilirdim.  Anladığım kadarıyla önceki gösterim -ki İdil Biret üstüne bir film- ardından soru-cevap uzamış, kimse de tamam artık dışarıda devam edin muhabbete dememiş. Bu açıklamasız geçen yarım saatin ardından aniden yapabileceklerim fikri ağır basıyor, yapamadığımı bırakıp çıkıyorum ve müzede çalışmanın hakkını veriyorum: bir kahve, bir makale, çalışan parmaklar. Ama kuyrukta yarım saat ayakta bekleyip filmi izleyememenin sıkıntısı yetmemiş olmalı ki, oradan Salt Beyoğlu’nda görmek istediğim başka bir filme geçiyorum. Bu kez de kent ve sinemayı aynı cümlede kullanarak gözümü boyadılar.

salt beyoglu sinematek 20151119.jpg

Burası, Salt yani, İstanbul’a taşınınca bulduğum bir vaha gibiydi: yarebbim, sinematek yapmışlar! Ama bu şahane ve bedava ortam 7’de başlayan filme 6.15’te gelip halen oturacak yer bulamamanız söz konusuysa arafa dönüşüyor… bir defasında ayakta film izlediğimi hatırlıyorum. Bulabildiğin yere çök mottosunun egemen olduğu bu ücretsiz ama şehirde zaman planlamasını katleden etkinlik de perşembe seyircisinin adını kötüye çıkarmaya bazen yetiyor. 15 dakika boyunca acaba tüneyerek filmi izlemek için yaşlı mıyım yoksa dayanır mıyım muhasebesi yapıp, binanın daha konforlu diğer alanlarına sıvışıyorum.  Aynı gün içinde iki farklı müze ortamında önce görsellik peşinde ısrarla koşarak, sonra kaderin cilvesi midir nedir, bir nevi reddedilerek, başka yerlere savruldum, tıkır tıkır çalışan parmaklarımın sesiyle başbaşa saatler geçirdim ve görselliğe ihanet eden bir yazıyı tamamladım. Bunda emeği geçen donuk müze ortamlarına ve kuyruklara teşekkürü borç bilirim.

Bedava perşembeler hiç bitmesin.