Begüm Yamanlar's Landscapes

Begüm Yamanlar 

Begüm Yamanlar, untitled (1/3), from Zone Series 

Begüm Yamanlar, untitled (2/3), from Zone Series

Begüm Yamanlar, untitled (3/3), from Zone Series

Begüm Yamanlar, an Istanbul photographer and video artist explores the mystery and uncertainty of space, urban space, rural space and objects in indeterminate space. 

Her Zone Series consists of landscapes that simultaneously invite and repel, give the viewer easy entrance tempered by doubt or dread. 

Each image includes a path running from the viewer's location into a forest until the path curves out of view or disappears in an unexplained fog. Would I step into the scene? In a dream perhaps; otherwise I move on to the next image. But I always return and contemplate, wondering if I haven't detected a whisper from the image.

The artist clearly has a catalog of tree trunks, limbs, foliage and fleeting spots of light. She uses these judiciously in a way that pulls the individual images together through repetition, overlay and variation. The viewer comes to know these passages as visual friends in an environment fraught with dread.  

Yamanlar told me that each photograph combines seven or eight images that she then develops through twenty or so layers. The images have a tonal richness despite the prevailing darkness. Looking at the first of the series I enjoyed the thought that layers can be handled in a way that suggests a full brush in a painting. 

"Painting" reminds us that these contemporary photographs have precedence in seventeenth-century Dutch landscape painting. In Jan van Goyen and others, especially Jacob van Ruisdael, we find a similar mystery in forests with paths or roads that invite and then disappear.

Another historical link with the Netherlands is deforestation, a process that was well underway in Holland by the seventeenth-century.* Turkey too is cutting itself toward barren land, a theme found in the work of a number of contemporary Turkish photographers. The hills along the Bosphoros, the respitory system of Istanbul, are being denuded at an alarming pace that almost certainly portends an alarming end. 

One cannot but wonder if the persistent dread in Yamanlar's forests express the viewer's apprehensions or those of the forests. Or both. 
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Begüm Yamanlar's "ADA/Island" opens at Galeri Zilberman the evening of July 3. İstiklal Cad. Mısır Apartmanı No.163 K.3 D.10, 34433 İstanbul

*Whited, Tamara L., Jens Ivo Engels, Richard C. Hoffmann, Hilde Ibsen, and Wybren Verstegen. Northern Europe: An Environmental History. Edited by Mark R. Stoll. Santa Barbara, Calif: ABC-CLIO, 2005, 80-81.

for birds sake

"for birds sake," an online exhibition by Cemre Yesil and Maria Sturm, begins with a statement offering a fascinating bit of history and contemporary politics:

Since the time of the Ottoman Empire, Istanbul has been a very important city for aviculture. The city’s geographical location for bird migration has led to the establishment of a huge culture devoted to birds and their care.

The photographers’ statement goes on to describe the purpose of the photographs:

This work is about the birdmen of Istanbul and focuses on the shrouded relationship between the bird and the birdman, one full of contradictions of love, possession and pleasure.

The birds compete to determine which has the most beautiful song of the day. The authors of the show put it this way:

 an illegal tradition 
an addiction
a meditation
Something they need in order to feel good.

The first photograph shows two hands pulling apart curtains that hang over a birdcage. We can see past the door's grill, but we see nothing except darkness. This is as close to a bird as the exhibit allows us. "A white box that contains darkness," the statement says. The succeeding images do not pull away the curtains but speak gracefully of songbirds and their keepers--or should we call them patrons?

Objects of bird care--brightly colored feeding and watering containers, two beautiful Turkish tea glasses with plastic snaps for cage attachment, twine, and other paraphernalia--appear against black backgrounds that push the objects toward us.

The cages are a central theme in the photographic sequence. These men who cultivate beautiful song are masters of simple but elegant design. Cloth and attachments speak of eyes that find beauty in both music and color and texture. 

Music echoes in two ironic cages--old vinyl record holders converted from one kind of song protection to another--birdcages. 

The birdmen that we see are large, small, trim, pudgy--the variety of people you encounter on any Istanbul sidewalk. Nothing remarkable marks them as bird or song lovers. They are "Men smelling like newspapers and turkish tea." I saw only one birdman marked as a birder, a beautifully composed young man wearing a short black shirt. The shot is cropped at the shoulder, muscular arm akimbo to the waist and forming a large triangular negative space between arm/hand and torso. The arm has two tattoos. On the shoulder is a beguiling geisha-like figure disappearing around the limb. On the forearm is a tattoo of a bird perched on a limb.

Next to this photograph is another of a bright white and torn competition scorecard that mimics and fills its neighbor's negative area.

Placement of the images is carefully considered. Some of the images sit by themselves surrounded by plenty of white space, while others hang close together, pairs that invite consideration of image relationship, formal or narrative.

The portraits of birdmen reveal a couple of smiles but most show a serious demeanor that borders on apprehension. Is it the look of men waiting for the results of a competition, or an uncertainty about the photographic documentation? From the show's statement:

A mutual madness between photographers and birdmen; us; trying to understand this passion fitted into cages, and them; trying to understand our urge to take pictures of these ‘ordinary’ cages.

The political side of the tradition is explained simply:

Many diverse social platforms exist devoted to the keeping and breeding of birds. Today this culture is in danger; keeping songbirds such as goldfinches and greenfinches, in particular, may soon vanish due to Turkey’s adaptation to criteria for European Union candidacy.

The slow dance between Turkey and the EU ought to be a poetic movement; otherwise it will atrophy from what Ezra Pound described as poetry moving too far from the music.

Protection of wildlife is vital, but so is the protection of beautiful cultural treasures. Brussels needs to listen to the music, the music preserved and bequeathed by the birdmen of Istanbul.

The exhibition by Yesil and Sturm is visual poetry toward that end.
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Images provided by Cemre Yesil and Maria Sturm who retain all rights. The show resides on Yesil's website, http://www.cemreyesil.com/. Maria Sturm's site is available at http://www.mariasturm.com/

Notes on Istanbul Photographers: Ege Kanar, Mortals

Among recent works exhibited by Ege Kanar is a remarkable series of portraits on glass called Mortals. Kanar is a photographer steeped in theory and philosophy. His work explores being, existence and the unfathomable relationship that photography has to being. He writes

How can photography, a tool that is presumably incapable of depicting what is beyond the visible, that which lies not on the surface but beneath it, possibly be used to contribute to the formation of a new transcendent representative state, a hypothetical real, which exists beyond dualities such as visible or invisible?

Mortals immediately reminds one of nineteenth century portraiture, that time when Europe and America celebrated the surface and rarely questioned what the surface really meant. I find that Kanar's Mortals journey back, taking with them the questions that should have been asked but were not. Because the surface ideas of photography's beginnings remain with us, Kanar's work is relevant, more: crucial to an understanding of what the photographic world does today.

As the best nineteenth century portraits do, Kanar's are silent at the same time as they murmur. We encounter them and they are silent even as they pose important questions.

William H. Mumler's spirit photographs of the 1860s cleverly "demonstrate" another realm through trickery that nonetheless satisfied an audience eager for photographs that reached into another realm seemingly uniting the here and the there.

Kanar searches for a metaphor to question the great question.

This work, the appearance of which followed a period of research and discussion regarding the ontology of lens based images, aims to harvest an uncanny photographic metaphor regarding the burden of mortality and the unimaginable state of death.

Kanar's sitters, seen in nude busts, are conspicuously slow to rise to dialogue with the viewer. Only when we zero in on the eyes do we begin to grasp the metaphor made visible. The eyes, "the vehicle to the soul," blink during an exposure of several seconds.

Mortals stare right into the eyes of the observer, blinking only to vaguely indicate the inherent nature of the act of photography which produces death whilst trying to preserve life.

  

Kanar creatively uses time and change to leave a trace of transformation. The eyes carry the busts into a questioning realm of the moment and the passage of the moment, the here not bound by present. 

  

 
These quite images ask questions. So too the viewer. Both are metaphysical. But the questions are different, resembling two one-way "conversations." Therein lies the profundity as well as the beauty of these traces.

Images copyright by Ege Kanar. Presentation at http://egekanar.com/works/mortals/

Wondering why photographs of people are so precious

I graduated from Hopkins with a Ph.D. in Byzantine art and architecture and then turned my research efforts to the history of photography. On the face of it, that is a radical career jump. But Byzantium, in particular the Byzantine icon and the justifications for the icon intrigued me. The proper (working) icon had to bear a resemblance to the saint represented and had to be made "in the right way." Then there was a special kind of icon that was not made by human hands (acheiropoieta), images that miraculously appeared (the earliest example may have been the Veil of Veronica, an imprint of the face of Jesus left when Veronica used her veil to blot away the sweat on the face during the march to Golgatha). The icon, a representation rather than an idol, seemed to enjoy a special identity with the person represented. 

I wondered if any post-Byzantine European civilization shared a belief in this very powerful kind of image and one day it hit me that the general attitude was not so different from popular attitudes toward photographs. A photograph's resemblance to the subject is pretty obvious. Being made in the right way is understandable to each of us who had a roll of film returned with negatives that were so bad that the processor claimed that nothing could be printed (for the younger, this refers to ancient picture-making process that involved something called film). It was the identity characteristic that seemed most telling to me. We treat certain photographic images (especially portraits) as treasured objects precisely because they bear such a resemblance to a person. 

Were I to take from you a portrait of someone dear to you and rip it apart, you would react with sadness and fury. Remember, it is nothing more than a piece of paper with tones covering it. But what I have I really done in your eyes? I have destroyed a precious object that was precious precisely because it bore a resemblance of somebody important to you. On the other hand, I have seen people tear apart a photograph when they experience deep anger towards the person "in" the photograph. (This seems to happen most often when a relationship goes sour). 

I pick up snapshots at flea markets. I have no idea where the snapshots were made or who they represent. Finding a snapshot that has been torn to remove a figure that originally stood next to the figure that was kept, is an assault on history. For whatever reason, the removed figure should never have been standing next to the preserved figure (and by the way, we have some examples of the delicate surface of daguerreotypes having been rubbed to effect the same purpose).

While only in spiritualists circles do images seem to appear magically, the notion that photographs are the result of a mechanical process, an image that is not the work of a person but of a machine, was the basis of a very long prejudice against the idea that photographs could be works of art. The maker of a photograph knows how to make the camera work and has little control over how the picture looks (a common attitude no matter how naïve). 

The analogy has not escaped some religious writing

Icons Unite: photographs, films, videos of people we love can make them seem very close. The icons can make us feel very close to Christ and the saints - and this feeling of closeness is no illusion.... 

The analogy between the photograph and the icon allowed me to see how a believer in the identity between an image and the thing represented embodies attitudes that can easily be seen as expressions of faith, the one clearly a religious belief and the other a fuzzy material faith or belief. 

I was able to look again at the Byzantine icon with a heightened awareness of just how precious pictures can be.

While thinking of the Osama photographs

Photographs reveal more than the subject. A photograph always speaks of the intention of the maker or the intention of the subject cooperating with the maker. Alexander Gardner’s Civil War “What Do I Want, John Henry?” speaks volumes on the social attitudes within the Army of Liberation . The decision of Roy Stryker to widely release only one image of the Dorothea Lange Migrant Mother series tells us about a sway from reportage to poignancy. The several views of Che talk to us about the cooperation of the photographer in establishing the fame of the hunters (everybody gets his chance).

So, I do not want so much to see the Osama bin Laden death photographs as I would like to see them and think about what they mean, to see if I recognize an emotion or an illusion. Or maybe myself.

But I am also content to wait for the release. After all, that will not be long. I can see them in the grocery store checkout next week.