Your practice, spanning from painting to video, addresses political, social, and environmental issues through a layered narrative. What usually triggers a subject to become “worth working on” for you?
Before starting a painting, I always go through a research process. But this doesn’t simply mean browsing books or gathering encyclopedic knowledge. Sometimes reflecting on a случай encounter in everyday life, impressions from a यात्रा, or thinking through a new subject I’ve come across can also become part of this process. All of these form the research ground for the work.
For something to truly trigger me, it usually needs to have a direct connection to my own life. I think this is my strongest motivator. But that connection alone is not enough; it’s also important that the work relates to subjects I’ve explored before—either as a continuation or an extension of them. At the same time, if it can establish a dialogue with contemporary issues and the time we live in, then I feel the need to make that work.
The multiplicity of similar figures, repetition, and uniformity in your works create a visual language. How does this reflect contemporary society?
I think the act of coming together no longer holds the same meaning today. In the past, forming a group or community required people to consciously come together. It was a matter of choice and decision, and over time it could become a form of power. Political groups or different social communities would gather deliberately around shared ideas. Even conservative forms of gathering were shaped by specific intentions.
I used this idea of “coming together” in my paintings as well. Just as gatherings in real life could become a form of power, I believed there should be an equivalent in painting. When I multiplied figures and brought them together, I noticed that a monumental effect emerged within the image, strengthening its impact. That’s why I began to use this sense of monumentality more frequently.
But today, the situation is different. Communities are no longer the result of conscious gathering. Instead, there is a kind of forced, involuntary togetherness. As the population grows, people inevitably find themselves side by side—like being on a bus with strangers. This creates an image of togetherness born from sheer quantity, but without a shared consciousness.
In your work Cafeteria, shown in the Wide Expanse exhibition at OMM, you address mechanisms of surveillance and domestication through a shared public space. Why did you choose a school cafeteria as the center of this narrative?
About a year ago, I had a solo exhibition titled Double-Headed at Öktem&Aykut Gallery. In that exhibition, I synthesized different ideas and ultimately focused on the relationship humans have with ownership. My video work Patinaj and my untitled land-based works were also built around this concept. After the show, I remained mentally engaged with the idea of ownership, particularly through materials like soil and mud.
When I began to think about land on its own, I focused on how and where it gains value—whether through becoming a space, being cultivated, linked to mining, or turning into a public area. However, these ideas became somewhat limiting when trying to translate them into an image.
So I turned toward their equivalents in everyday life. Public space is directly tied to power—prisons, hospitals, schools are concrete examples. Agriculture connects directly to the table, to nourishment. When we think of land simply as “home,” it may seem innocent; but when it becomes part of a system—through development or structured planning—it turns into an instrument of power.
At that point, I realized how the seemingly neutral idea of land transforms when it comes into contact with systems of power. The school cafeteria became a meaningful intersection: a space where the institution of the school and the table—linked to agriculture and nourishment—meet on the same ground. That’s why I placed it at the center of this narrative.
In this work, we see a group composed only of male students. How does the relationship between gender, discipline, and public space create tension in this scene for you?
I think power and authority are largely constructed through masculinity. The male figure is often positioned as the dominant voice within the family. I believe this is something the system has deliberately structured. When you control the man, you indirectly control the rest of the household—in other words, it also means controlling women.
That’s why I focus on male figures in my paintings. For this reason, I tend to concentrate on male figures in my work. The predominance of men as the constitutive and sustaining subjects of power parallels my own approach. Looking at events through the lens of power makes these relationships more visible and analyzable.
At the same time, being a man and having direct experience of masculinity also plays a role in this choice. It allows me to understand these emotions and structures from within.
In your work, the table goes beyond being a place of gathering and becomes a mechanism of control and regulation. What does the “table” symbolize in your practice?
I don’t approach the table simply as a place where food is eaten; I see it more as a representation of our relationship to ownership. In my work, the table becomes a symbol of everything that is possessed and made available for sharing. In this sense, it goes beyond nourishment and encompasses all processes related to consumption.
Gathering around a table may initially suggest togetherness and sharing, but for me the real question is how that sharing is organized—who has access to what, in what measure, and how that distribution is determined.
At this point, the table may appear to be an equalizing space, but in reality it represents a system governed by rules. It becomes a site where ownership, consumption, and distribution are made visible—and where their fairness can be questioned.
The scenes in your work often feel familiar yet unsettling. What kind of emotional confrontation do you want the viewer to experience when entering this world?
Emotion, for me, is not an end but a tool. When a feeling emerges, it also creates curiosity about the scene, drawing the viewer into the painting. One of my first goals is to create an aesthetic attraction that captures attention. Then a feeling related to the subject of the work begins to form.
But that feeling alone is not enough to hold the viewer; its effect is temporary. What matters is offering elements that allow the viewer to analyze the work through that emotion. The viewer begins to think and interpret based on their own knowledge and experience—that’s the most critical point.
If the painting lacks layers to be explored, the viewer experiences only a brief emotional intensity and then moves on. That’s why I care not only about making the viewer feel, but also about encouraging them to think and build a relationship with the work.
As an artist born in Diyarbakır and working between Balıkesir and Istanbul, how do these different geographies influence your visual language and themes?
Every place I’ve lived in or traveled to has given me a different perspective. Diyarbakır, Balıkesir, and Istanbul differ greatly in geographic, political, and ethnic terms. These differences naturally shape people’s worldviews and ways of living. Observing these varied human conditions has been an important field of experience for me.
What particularly interests me is how people in each city position themselves at the center and form opinions about other places. This isn’t limited to these three cities—it applies to many places I’ve been. These experiences have helped me understand how people think and position themselves. At the same time, I’ve realized that beneath all these differences, there are also similarities.
As a child in Diyarbakır, my view of the West was very different because I had never seen it. I associated it with the idea of “development.” At the time, even a place like Haymana felt like “the West” to me. But when I first saw it, that perception changed significantly. One of the most important things cities offer is this: the ability to transform assumptions and develop new perspectives.
What kind of space is your studio for you? Is it more a place for thinking and observing, or a narrative space where scenes are constructed?
My studio feels like a place where I store everything I carry in from the outside. At the end of the day, it’s where I think through everything I’ve encountered. It’s also where I decide what to do with it.
When you begin a new work, what is usually your first move in the studio? How do sketches, notes, video, or staging shape the direction of your process?
My first move is usually to take a small visual or conceptual note. Sometimes it’s a sketch, sometimes a scene outline, or quickly capturing an image that appears in my mind. Sometimes it’s simply a photograph.
This initial mark acts like a core that gradually determines the direction of the entire process.