“What Do We Do Now?,” Acts of Political Imagination, Gothenburg : Vector and Parse, University of Gothenburg (text co-authored with Merve Elveren, publication edited by Cătălin Gheorghe, Mick Wilson)
What Do We Do Now?
Vasif Kortun and Merve Elveren, 2021
Thinking about the past
2015 was a year full of uncertainty: In the aftermath of the June general elections, the Justice and Development Party (AKP) lost the majority, and the pro-Kurdish Peoples’ Democratic Party (HDP) entered the parliament; after unsuccessful attempts in forming a coalition, the president called for new elections; continuing turmoil set the stage between the June and November elections with human rights violations, investigations, detentions, arrests, assassinations, and bombings; the Resolution Process (Kurdish–Turkish peace process) which had been going on for two years was terminated irrevocably. In the public space, security forces brutally attacked Istanbul Pride which thousands have celebrated since 2003; attempted rape and murder of Özgecan Aslan sparked mass demonstrations to raise awareness of the increasing femicides and violence against women; the community of Cerattepe, in Northeastern Turkey, started protesting against approval of a gold mine construction. The year was charged with emotions and resentments, and growing uncertainty about the future. Six years later, conditions are even more overwhelming. As despotism unfolded, debilitating civil society and diminishing personal freedoms, the dissolution of society became almost tangible.
The cultural institutions, and the actors of the contemporary art ecosystem, received their share of this insecure climate. A hefty segment of academics and cultural producers left Turkey. Those that stayed found themselves slowly but unavoidably drawn to the ongoing dissolution. On the one hand, they sought to maintain their critical programmes; on the other, they tried not to be drowned by the unpredictable and ever-changing political environment. They were caught between the desire to protect their institutions, and turning a blind ear to the arbitrary use of power and total alignment of the juridical system with it. In this schizophrenic climate, institutions like SALT were trying to respond to the local context and embed the ongoing discussions in their programmes.
In the early fall of 2015—two months after the June elections—SALT opened two exhibitions at its Beyoğlu space. The ground floor housed “Lost Shadows,” the one-person presentation of Vahap Avşar, which comprised fifty images from AND, a local postcard publisher. From the beginning of the late 1970s AND sent photographers to different parts of Anatolia to document the streets, squares, buildings, and the region’s distinctive geography with the intention to use these on postcards and posters. For “Lost Shadows,” Avşar selected images that were never printed and therefore had never been circulated. These photographs revealed unexpected moments, things that are not supposed to be in the frame, and inimitable poses, allowing them to unfold utterly different stories. The other exhibition, “How did we get here,” hosted in the upper floors of SALT Beyoğlu, continued to explore issues of representation that “Lost Shadows” raised. Through periodicals, videos, films, photographs, objects, documentaries, infographics, and artworks of the period, the exhibition focused on different forms of civic opposition, resistance, and democratization attempts that surfaced in the authoritarian yet formative years following the September 12, 1980 coup d’état. By the late fall of the same year—a few weeks after the November 1 general elections in which AKP returned to power with a majority—SALT Beyoğlu was closed down by the authorities with the pretext of building code violations.
The same year, researcher and curator Marianna Hovhannisyan was a resident researcher in the context of Hrant Dink Foundation’s research exchange between Armenia and Turkey, and was working on SALT Research’s Archive of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. (1) SALT invited Hovhannisyan, at the end of her residency, to curate an exhibition about the Museum of Anatolia College, the first natural history museum, developed due to the college’s mission with an inventory of 7,000 specimens. During the Aghed, Great Catastrophe of 1915, the Anatolia College was destroyed, and its Armenian and Greek staff unaccounted for.(2) The exhibition, “Empty Fields,” which opened in April 2016 at SALT Galata, explored the void between the archival metadata and persons, images, and objects, temporarily suspended in an orphan status. The erasure of physical bodies, objects, and buildings, to which new significances, functions, and services were ascribed in the aftermath, made the archiving work inconsolable. The curator of the Museum of Anatolia College, Prof. Johannes Jacob Manissadjian, wrote, in 1917 after he was released by the authorities: “The universal war put a stop to all scientific work, except the continuation of arranging, labeling and cataloguing the specimens.” (3) His life was spared apparently because his mother was German, and Germany was the Ottoman State’s ally in World War 1.
We opened and closed these projects at the planned dates, and we did not encounter any issues. However, we did not expect “How did we get here” and “Lost Shadows” to connect the threads to the contemporary moment so directly and unequivocally, but rather to provide markers suggesting a plurality of pathways or multiversal perspectives. The E-publication Empty Fields was completed but never published and is not likely to come out from the institution. In late 2016, Turkey decided to pull out of the E.U. ‘s Creative Europe Programme after unsuccessfully seeking the defunding of Germany’s Dresdner Sinfoniker orchestra’s project, entitled Aghet and dedicated to 1915.
Here we are, more than a century after the violent historical period of the Aghed, four decades after the tumultuous late 70s and 80s, on the same geography, and within a mercilessly similar script; discussing openness and closedness, opacity and transparency, innocuous scientific and research-based work. Without having a clear sense of what tomorrow will look like, it is difficult now to perceive “exhibition-making” as a critical practice and an attempt to respond. Instead, the exhibition waits for other, more acquiescent days, that come after the event fades out of memory and loses its urgency.
Exhibition-making
The conditions of each context, politically and publicly, vary widely. There is no international body, no brigades that come to its protection when an institution and its actors are under duress or threat. International petitions and campaigns have no effect, at best, and can even put institutions in more harm’s way. Discredited as the “enemy within” and supported by “suspicious” outside powers as agents of “foreign” agendas, institutions endure the heroics of the petitions by those who do no more than sign an electronic form. The sense of isolation, being connected to the world, is very real and concrete. These pressures on institutions are happening worldwide. So much so, it seems impossible for any potential support structure to converge on one incident and have a real impact. In such a grim ecology, are there other alternatives from “postponing critique” to waiting for things to sort themselves out or bracing for other possibilities, such as relying on constituencies and communities of solidarity to see each other through these dark days? Perhaps one could have a few more options and alternatives in those contexts where the local/city rule is more favorable, acting in dissonance with central governments, or where one has the support of the wider society. But this, alas, is not the case in Turkey.
Since the 1980s, private companies have mainly supported arts and culture, becoming institutions of scale and sophistication for which the state institutions are no match. Business, as such, is entirely at the mercy of the government and autocracy. Any friction perceived as a threat to the status quo creates unfavourable conditions for a company to compete in the marketplace. Moreover, most cultural institutions are set up as commercial enterprises, and this has been a reliable model to keep the state from interfering in their operations. Today, this structure is also at risk. Such cultural institutions are subject to legal action by the government on the accusation that they conduct their “activities without profit, similar to associations and foundations.” The ongoing lawsuit of Anadolu Kültür is a recent example. (4) Therefore, there is no ideal and general model that can provide an angle to speak from.
A kunsthalle-type institution, which more or less produces exhibitions and public programs, differs from an institution that offers similar programs but is fundamentally based upon the archives and collections it safeguards. Especially if the archives and collections bear witness to different interpretations of history, the risk for institutional collapse is much greater and more urgent. You do not only lose the current moment, but you also lose the future. When the government halted the activities of Şehir University (5) in İstanbul—due to changing power relations within the AKP—and incorporated it into Marmara University in 2020, Şehir’s amazing online archives were shut down. The university’s closure was political, but the academic and cultural fallout will be even more catastrophic.
Whether it is a public or a private institution, programming for preferred audiences, embodying the same concerns, and speaking to the converted in a language that both institution and audience already share contributes further—intentionally or not—to the polarization of society. It is irresponsible to make bold claims about the political weight of exhibitions from within a void. In that respect, while exhibitions such as SALT’s did have social gravitas in the flux years of 2013-2015, and although they did not address the converted nor belittle their audiences, they also became impossible to make during the state of emergency that followed the failed coup d’état in 2016. When the emergency was lifted two years later, the executive presidency model in Turkey had already given the president sweeping powers to suppress any dissent.
When will it become possible again? Does the exhibition surrender its urgency if the conditions are no longer urgent? What do we expect from a museum? An exhibitionary institution that claims some rectitude? If we start from a position of public service, the answer is simple: we expect a museum to make the best argument possible and provide the tools for people so that they make their own decisions with prudence. Unfortunately, we are at a time in history where even such naïve and decent approaches will cause disturbance. The question is, if there is no institution remaining, who will pick up the remains? We are not making a case for protecting institutions at any expense, but essentially, their role as good public tools—especially in contexts like Turkey where state institutions are under heavy regulation—continues to be important. But then the question is: if these institutions lose their criticality and position, how can we assess their credibility? And can they still propose new survival tactics?
Self-censorship in times of crises
In 2015 and 2016, before the coup attempt, we considered archival exhibitions as safe ground. The documents, photographs, maps, personal notes, and other materials were witnesses and testimonies of the unresolved and unanswered historical moments. These exhibitions were not about reconciliation or unmaking of history—terms which are problematic for practical and ethical reasons—but rather they were about the institution’s responsibility to society. For us, the “past” was a valuable tool for asking questions around overlooked histories and a useful vehicle for addressing shared concerns. Naturally, we encountered obstacles such as red lines, interventions, warnings, and pressures, as the local context was not conducive. However, at the time, we were also very much aware of what would be considered sensitive and disputable; therefore, we continued confidently in our comfort zone without falling into self-censorship.
As the situation became more dire, the line between the past, present, and future blurred. The past, like the future, is at stake. Taking a critical stance toward the government’s present and future policies could easily cause defamation and be targeted, while looking at the past is no longer a safe space. What is more intimidating than power is the arbitrariness of the ways it is used. In such circumstances, contrary to its familiar negative connotations, self-censorship holds the potential to be a strategic tool to continue working.
When projects are on hold indefinitely; when sponsors ask for exhibition materials and works to be removed; when programs are heavily monitored by undercover police, informants, and bots; and when the artists, academics, writers, activists, and researchers that we exchange ideas with are blacklisted, sued, and let go of their jobs; when social media posts are controlled and, often, used as incriminating evidence; then redefining self-censorship becomes necessary. That is not to say we are deferring critical exhibition-making or abandoning the institutions, and withdrawing from the public sphere to wait until better days. On the contrary, self-censorship can offer a recipe to reconstruct our language, communication strategies, exhibition-making tools, and even provide new terrains of operation. Self-censorship has its problems and requires a thorough rethink. Today, we are neither able to recommend long-term solutions, nor play heroism and risk our colleagues and constituents. What we need is to find temporary and immediate solutions to survive today’s conditions.
Self-censorship is defined as “the act or action of refraining from expressing something (such as a thought, point of view, or belief) that others could deem objectionable.” (6) It can also mean becoming familiar with the context, recognizing the risks, and acting accordingly. It does not imply being on the safe-side but rather moving the institution into a safe place. Instead of putting a hold on the critical programmes, we can strategize. Does the outcome of critical programmes have to be just exhibitions? If not, then can public programmes, publications, closed meetings—which are under the radar—replace the exhibition format? If the answer is “yes,” can we rethink presenting the materials and works? Or move the exhibitions to places with similar political contexts to prevent isolation and start a structural alliance? Instead of communicating all the programmes and activities, can we be more selective? Can opacity offer a way out? We don’t have ready answers to these questions. However, over the past six years, we’ve tested different survival modes in our personal lives: We very well know how to maneuver between the cracks and understand when to be visible and invisible. Critical exhibition making is no different.
1- The American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions (ABCFM) was a Protestant agency founded in the United States in 1810 with the aim of sending missionaries abroad for religious and altruistic work. The first missionaries of ABCFM’s Turkish office Amerikan Board Heyeti (ABH) arrived in İzmir in 1820. Up until 2010, when ABH closed permanently, ABCFM and its successors pursued education, health, and publishing work in Turkey and the surrounding regions. The archive consists mainly of administrative records that were held by ABH at its headquarters in Istanbul. Url: https://archives.saltresearch.org/handle/123456789/1
2- The term Aghed, The Great Catastrophe, is used here in reference to 1915.
3- Empty Fields exhibition pamphlet, 2016. Url: https://saltonline.org/media/files/empty-fields_exhibition-pamphlet-1.pdf
5- Şehir University was established in 2008 in İstanbul by the Foundation for Sciences and Arts (BISAV), whose founders included Ahmet Davutoğlu. Davutoğlu was one of the founders of AKP, and served as the Prime Minister between 2014-2016. In 2016, Davutoğlu announced his resignation.
6- Url: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/self-censorship
vasıf kortun 