Painter Nurettin Erkan: "We did not disappear because our memory resists."
Jînda Zekioğlu
March 24, 2020
"In Nurettin Erkan's recent works, you can see the traces of Diyarbakır's Sur district, the hope that remains amidst the ruins, Kurdish women, and the marks of othering. We talked with Erkan about his paintings, which he describes as a form of resistance, his childhood memories, the pains in the politicization process of Kurdish art, and the much-debated themes of pornographic imagery and politics."
Nurettin Erkan was born in a tent in the mountains as a member of the nomadic Bertiyan tribe. In the 1970s, state assimilation policies brought them down from the mountains and settled them in residential villages around Diyarbakır. He spent his early youth in the Diyarbakır of the 1980s. The dreams he could not fit into the streets found little reflection even in the painting workshop of a university by the Bosphorus. He grew up with shattered dreams. However, he did not delay in forming new dreams; one day, he said goodbye to Istanbul, which he described as a "country within a country."
He was invited to many countries, including England, to continue his work. He has shared his paintings with thousands of people in dozens of countries. One of his most notable works was the painting installation "Enfal Massacre," dedicated to the memory of civilians, exhibited at TÜYAP.
While creating the "Enfal Massacre" piece. TÜYAP 2006
In Nurettin Erkan's latest work, "Divine Comedy," you can see the traces of Diyarbakır's Sur district, the hope that remains amidst the ruins, Kurdish women, and the marks of othering. We had an extensive conversation with Erkan, who still lives in Madison, Wisconsin, about his paintings, which he calls a form of resistance, his childhood memories, the pains in the politicization process of Kurdish art, and the much-debated themes of pornographic imagery and politics.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Your early youth coincided with the Diyarbakır of the 1980s. What kind of childhood and youth did you experience, and what influenced you?
Nurettin Erkan:
I had a very beautiful childhood. It is filled with fairy-tale memories. Let me tell you about one of my childhood villages: it was a beautiful village by a creek, and there was a huge iron bridge made of railroad tracks over it. That’s why it was called "Demirgülü," but everyone referred to that village as "Hacarı." Hacarı was a magical village surrounded by gardens, reeds, swamps, lakes, lush pastures, and salt fields. When the salt ran out in the houses, people would go to the salt fields and collect salt from the places dug up by moles. There was also a ruin in the middle of the village. I learned long after that this ruin was once an Armenian church and that the village used to be an Armenian village. Such "ruins" could be found in many villages in the plain. I started school in this village. My mother insisted I go to the schoolyard and play with the children to learn Turkish, but I began school without having learned much. By the second grade, I had completely learned Turkish, though.
One day, a long train came, tearing up the tracks behind it. We, the children, watched what was happening. This long train removed all the tracks and the bridge, loading them up heavily as it passed through the plain for the last time. I remember it as if it were today: there was a stork's nest on the very high bridge; they took that down while they were dismantling the bridge. When the train left, it only left the trace of the tracks and a horrific sight behind. Pieces of abandoned train tracks scattered here and there, and the dream of a train that would never return.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
What did the train's farewell signify?
Nurettin Erkan:
One day, we heard the sound of a helicopter. The numbers increased little by little. They were dropping papers from the air. These yellow state papers were threats to the people who did not leave the plain. They said things like, "If you do not leave by such and such a day, the water from the dam will be released into the plain." The people resisted until the last moment; they did not leave the plain, but then they really did release the water. We saw the waters coming from between the mountains above Harozig from Hacarı. Our homes, gardens, crops, animals, and our school—the Shirin Stream, where I learned to swim for the first time… everything was submerged under the dam's waters…
Everyone fled the plain with whatever means they could find. We did not disappear, but something else happened instead. History is like our childhood; we cannot escape from it. Eventually, the roads turn back there. It may seem like much was destroyed, but I think it has actually deepened and become more enchanting. We did not disappear because our memory resists. My childhood was filled with such things, but my early youth coincided with the post-80s era. In my poetic youth, there were house raids, visiting days, road checks, and convoys, waiting for hours for the convoy, being forced to stand all day in the city squares because Kenan Evren was coming...
Jinda Zekioğlu:
And in such an environment, you began to paint. Who noticed your interest and talent in painting first? Did you have interests in other fields of art?
Nurettin Erkan:
Like all children who start drawing in elementary school, I started in Hacarı primary school. However, the painting workshop at Bitlis Teacher's College, which I attended after the 1980s, played a significant role in my development as a painter. Most of the time spent at school was in the painting workshop. Honestly, until I decided to enter the Academy in 1986, I was also seriously involved in writing, and I had no intention of becoming a painter. I was pursuing writing and painting in parallel, but writing was more prominent. I didn't enter the Academy with the intention of giving up writing, but over time, painting took over my life, and I could no longer allocate enough time for writing.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
You won a place in the Painting department of Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University in the late '80s. What did it mean for a Diyarbakırlı who had migrated to study painting to engage in art in a completely different world at a highly popular school by the Bosphorus during those years?
Nurettin Erkan:
Yes, the school's reputation is well known; it meant a lot to me at first. I entered the school with great enthusiasm, but shortly after starting, it turned into a complete disappointment. Mimar Sinan University became the first place of my endless disillusionment with the art world and art academies. However, Istanbul is a country within a country; the value of drawing from there cannot be measured by anything.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
In 2010, in her column in Radikal newspaper, Necmiye Alpay compared your works to those of painter Fernando Botero, stating that Botero is not merely a painter of the fat but rather the painter of "Do Not Be Deceived by Appearances," and that you are a painter completely opposite to Botero. I interpret this as "See the unseen." What do you think are the unseen realities in your paintings?
Nurettin Erkan:
It is valuable to me that dear Necmiye Alpay has thought about and written about my paintings. I send my regards to her from here. The unseen in my paintings transcends my consciousness. This is also a situation that applies to everyone, not just to me. Therefore, artworks transform into much more than what the creators thought during the production stages. But of course, it’s possible to say flowery things. For example, we can talk about the importance of the rock from the formation of the universe to the present and say something like: "A rock brought life to our planet on its back, and another rock will take life off our planet and leave death behind."
In an interview we did with dear Latife Tekin, she said, "In your paintings, there are no objects from our contemporary life, but it’s as if you have placed them there, as if they are there." This idea intrigued me as well, and I tried to look at my paintings from another perspective. The only answer that came to my mind was that rocks conceal our secrets, encompassing everything between beginnings and ends. Rocks hide or harbor some things for me, but above all, they are an emotion, and my homeland is filled with endless rocky terrains. Who knows what memories those rocks hold.
"EUROPEAN MUSEUMS COULDN'T KEEP RACISM OUT."
Jinda Zekioğlu:
When looking at your works, I always thought, "What is this darkness?"
Nurettin Erkan:
Yes, it is true that my paintings have a dark aspect. We can add the concept of "people of color" to this. In English, all non-white people and all other races are referred to as "People of Color." That is what I mean by colored people; I don’t know if there is a better equivalent in Turkish.
European painting has developed parallel to the racist history of whiteness. The figure of Jesus bathed in light is continuously depicted with bright white skin, blonde hair, and colored eyes. Angels are also white in these paintings. For this reason, European museums have not been able to keep racism out until now. They exist as tools of world assimilation.
The nationalist art established by Kemalism also began to structure itself by integrating into this so-called art history. According to them, we are the tail-end black Kurds, and of course, for this reason alone, my paintings will not be integrated into the whiteness; they will remain black.
My paintings embody both blackness and darkness. I say this because darkness and blackness are separate concepts. Moreover, the other paintings are very white, and since people's eyes have been conditioned to this, a kind of blindness has emerged. In its purest form, this resembles the whole world's desire to be blonde and fair-skinned or to harbor animosity towards black cats. I love our darkness, our blackness. Everything that is unsaid resides there. The truth is black.
“Our poetry is black, brothers.” It’s impossible not to mention dear Ece Ayhan.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
You mentioned in an interview you gave in the U.S., “My paintings are resistance paintings.” Whose resistance is this? What are you resisting?
Nurettin Erkan:
In the context of my paintings, my answer will be: “The body’s resistance against all forms of power.” The body has always been underestimated. They are both the sites of resistance and the deepest assimilations, silences. Forms of violence over the mind are not particularly useful or effective in assimilation policies; the state knows this. Therefore, in the dungeons of states, it is the masters of bodily violence that are on duty, rather than masters of mental violence. States are bloody-handed and armed. No one self-censors their cultural or political production processes or forms of resistance out of fear of being hurt by words, but they can be completely silenced due to attacks on their bodies.
THE LAST SUPPER AT DAĞ KAPI
Jinda Zekioğlu:
The streets of Sur, where you spent your youth, have been devastated. It is one of the places that suffered the heaviest blows of war. You explored these in your latest work, Divine Comedy. The Last Supper at Dağ Kapı and Ophelia in Sur are among the most interesting of these works. What do these paintings convey?
Divine Comedy, Dağkapı.
Nurettin Erkan:
Let me say from the start, we Kurds are in one of the boats that can swim in the hell of the world, offering hope and heralding the future, and we are steering it toward the shores of the New World that will be established. The world sees this. The "Divine Comedy" series conveys this, with the backdrop being Diyarbakır and elements belonging to it. The traces of destruction and hope are together in these paintings. All the women of the world are gathered around a table set in front of Dağ Kapı for the Last Supper, and the table seems to have nothing on it, or perhaps it does, but we cannot see what they are discussing.
I conceived this series based on the painting "La Barque de Dante" (Dante's Boat) by the French painter Eugène Delacroix, which is located in the Louvre Museum. In Delacroix’s depiction of hell, Dante is present alongside the poet Virgil. In the seventh piece of my Divine Comedy series, Ahmet Arif is depicted with Adiloş Bebe in his lap. In the eighth, Yılmaz Güney appears with his horse that died in the film "Umut."
In this series, I am breaking the molds of Western painting, just as Kurdistan is breaking the molds of world politics. This is why, at the Last Supper, alongside the Kurdish woman, women from around the world and an Aboriginal woman, whose language is nearly extinct, are seated in place of Jesus. You know that in Leonardo’s painting, there are thirteen male figures consisting of Jesus and his twelve apostles.
In the background of this series, you will see many details from Diyarbakır, such as Dağ Kapı, Surp Giragos Armenian Church, the Four-Legged Minaret, ruined streets, flying rocks, and Sur motifs. But above all, there is a mixed sense of sorrow and hope.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Kurdish art/artists have become quite popular in recent times. Of course, we are still discussing war, unfortunately, but it is encouraging to see more avenues for production. In this context, how do you view political art production?
Nurettin Erkan:
There are good productions not only in art but also in science and other fields. However, for a people’s plastic arts to develop, many things are necessary. Time is one of the foremost factors. Nations with art have developed it over hundreds of years or even longer. For Kurdish art to develop, we need a Kurdish state, cultural institutions, museums, galleries, art funds, a high standard of living, habits of consuming art, accumulation, and awareness. After that, we also need Kurdish artists who resist being guided by all of this, perhaps living in Kurdish metropolises. Due to the lack of these elements, artists find themselves at the mercy of other environments. This hinders the formation of a character unique to a nation in the produced art.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
What do you think Kurdish artists are influenced by in this sense?
Nurettin Erkan:
Politics, propaganda, and art have very complex and deep relationships. This has become even more complicated with the sectorization of art and the contributions of technology. To put it simply, there is no such thing as a non-political work of art if we are to speak of genuine art. However, problems arise in the aestheticization of politics. I believe this is where the problem begins. The sharp, long-range nature of politics makes it invisible who is at the trigger and what their purpose is.
Populist art environments and the artists within them are quite rotten as well. Their only concern is to enter through one of the doors of the art monopoly. Then, occasionally, the monopoly takes a liking to someone or, for unknown reasons, absorbs others into its gears. Don’t look for reasons in an artistic context, because you won’t find any. It doesn’t matter if they produce garbage; from that moment on, they start to exist everywhere. Thousands waiting in the wings are eager to become soldiers of this nonsense they don't believe in, equipping themselves with the qualities of the chosen ones, hoping to be the next selected! Because they know they won’t be like the chosen ones, and if they criticize the monopoly, their careers will be over. Thus, the monopoly operates through these useful weak individuals. Which sectoral institution would support someone who criticizes itself and exposes all its ugliness starkly? Would the Nobel committee knowingly award the Nobel Prize to someone who would refuse it? Certainly not.
As long as this system remains unbreakable, the table for its dirty dealings will always be set somewhere, and the mediocrities will gather around that table. Art will thus become a world of garbage.
Divine Comedy, Hope
‘BREAD CAN BE MADE FROM SUFFERING’
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Is the production of Kurdish artists a social necessity or mission, or is it simply the language of suffering?
Nurettin Erkan:
First and foremost, it is our right as Kurdish artists to exist with our oppressed identities, and it should be this way. I believe the realities of being Kurdish guide us artists to create in accordance with our consciences, and these productions can certainly carry strong political characteristics. The “Divine Comedy” series I am currently working on will also be woven with political allegories.
It’s worth noting: just because artists do what I mentioned above does not mean they are producing “Kurdish Art.” Concepts should not be confused. Just as a novelist who writes in Turkish but remains within the framework of Turkish literature cannot be called a “Kurdish Novelist.” However, a person who writes in Turkish but whose writings carry the qualities of Kurdish poetry or literature can certainly be considered a “Kurdish Poet.” Moreover, not everyone who writes solely in Kurdish can be deemed a “Kurdish Literary Figure.”
Jinda Zekioğlu:
So what do you think about the criticism of “making bread from being Kurdish”? Can suffering be a source of sustenance?
Nurettin Erkan:
Yes, bread can be made from suffering. This is a frequently discussed topic. The representation of others’ pains being presented in the galleries or museums for the enjoyment of audiences raises debates. There are significant issues regarding how art is represented, as well as serious problems in its circulation within the art industry, and these are also debated. Europe and North America hold a monopoly over cultural dominance and direct its industry. There are major issues in their perspectives towards countries like ours and the productions of artists from those countries. Emotions such as sentimentality, compassion, or pity play a huge role in this perspective. If we are in prison, if we are starving, if we have been tortured or raped, they are fascinated by us. Therefore, there are very serious problems regarding how our sufferings are expressed in the West.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
There are certainly similar examples around the world…
Nurettin Erkan:
After the attacks on the World Trade Center Towers in New York in 2001, the increased circulation of violence as an object in the art field brought an old discussion back to the forefront: the pornography of violence! Displaying documents left over from war, death, or any kind of violence as art or defining them in other ways accelerated discussions about the entry of the pornography of violence or fascism into the realm of art. However, certainly not all forms of this fall under the category of violence pornography. Whether it is considered art or not, it is important what you take from the realm of war or violence and present as a work of art. This act places the artist in a critical field in every case, but as I said, the situation may vary according to the nature of the details. Exhibiting a severed human arm is different from claiming a garment stained with blood from a human wound or a pot with a bullet hole and displaying it in an art gallery. If the artist exhibits a bullet hole or a bloody garment instead of a real human arm, this choice may keep them somewhat distant from the pornography of violence, but the artist does not do that.
For these reasons, criticisms of “making bread from suffering” are not unfair if they are directed at those who bring the pornographic representations of suffering into the realm of art.
‘Pornography is one of the crises of representation.’
Jinda Zekioğlu:
In all visual arts, the image of blood is defined as pornography. This is also a technical definition. In a life so intertwined with death and war, is using pornographic themes in blood and body imagery a criticism?
Nurettin Erkan:
Walter Benjamin speaks of the difference between the politicization of aesthetics and the aestheticization of the political. According to him, the aestheticization of the political leads to fascism. He indicates that this extends to Nazism and constructs his thought within this context. After the 9/11 attacks, composer and theorist Stockhausen and the English artist Damien Hirst, who described his works with dead animals or the animals he killed as “art,” claimed that the attack was the greatest work of art of the cosmos. In my view, this statement represents the aestheticization of the political as the “greatest artistic and fascist encounter of the cosmos.” Three thousand people were killed in that attack! There can also be artists and writers who do not conform to Benjamin’s generalization. For example, Mutlu Konuk Blasing, one of Nazım Hikmet’s English translators and an academic, states that Hikmet transformed his own ideology into aesthetics, thereby not turning into fascism like in Benjamin’s generalization, because he believed that Hikmet’s political thought was contrary to fascism, which is a valid point.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
So what is your opinion on this matter?
Nurettin Erkan:
Although the definition of pornography is ambiguous, it is a developed concept in terms of its content, especially in the context of producing art that involves violence. The presence of pornography in art is a situation that arises from the representations of art (a “crisis of representation”). In other words, for something to be considered pornographic, it often must be a representation rather than the thing itself. Objects taken from battlefields and exhibited cease to be themselves at the moment they are displayed, undergoing a transformation into a representation. The events themselves, despite all forms of abstraction, cannot be pornography; they are tragic or something else. However, the exhibition of unaltered fragments taken from tragic events or the production and exhibition of representations that closely resemble them can be considered pornography. So, there is a very important point that often gets overlooked. The representation of something is no longer that thing; it possesses a completely different function. This concept has developed alongside the emergence of what you referred to as visual or, more commonly, digital representations.
Divine Comedy, Ophelia Sur
Why is pornographic art criticized?
To give two very general examples, the first being one of ISIS's execution events: if you take a photo or video of this event and place it in the public sphere, it immediately undergoes a transformation, severing itself from its truth and context, and turns into a representation that is something entirely different. This is undoubtedly pornography of violence. Feminist writer-academic Roxane Gay criticizes the aestheticized language of sexual violence in U.S. media in her writings. However, of course, the representation of photos or videos of events that do not involve such violence may not be pornography.
The second example is the scenes in Fatih Akın’s film Kesik (2014) that depict women being raped and killed during the Armenian genocide. These scenes are almost as grave as the events themselves. Without a doubt, these scenes are more pornographic than tragic, and this mistake is frequently made in cinema. Attempting to film a direct or closely resembling representation of an event like genocide is entirely a failure of representation. It is also irresponsible in the face of the memory of the entire Armenian people. Undoubtedly, these scenes possess a pornography that has no relation to the realities they represent. It’s akin to someone pulling out a gun to shoot another person in the head to illustrate how their grandfather killed their grandfather, because that’s what their grandfather did.
“THEY MAKE POLITICS IN THE SHADOW OF TORTURE AND DEATH”
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Why do Kurdish artists often say they feel “left alone”? Do you think this way too? Perhaps this is not unique to artists, as the people themselves are currently marginalized...
Nurettin Erkan:
You’re right. Our problems are not exclusive to artists. Given all these issues, I think it’s normal for artists to feel isolated. It shouldn’t be that way, of course, but I mostly accept it as ordinary. On the other hand, it’s known that those who have nothing to do with art are forced to become artists, while those who create art are left alone. This is not unique to us.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Are you able to follow current politics? How do you evaluate the dynamics of the Middle East?
Nurettin Erkan:
Yes, I’m following it. We’ve gone far, but the mind remains in the same place. It’s an exhausting situation. In my opinion, it has begun to be understood by the world as well. The Middle East can no longer continue its history without Kurdistan. Kurdistan and the Kurds are now the only hope for the stability of the Middle East. It is impossible for existing states to continue with all the peoples they have assimilated, including the Kurds. Every state that insists will crumble; it will fall apart. Turkey is not evolving into the world of the future; on the contrary, it is regressing by leaps and bounds. The insincerely and reluctantly given democratic rights, dispensed in small doses just as a ruse, are merely a way to silence, and they are no longer credible to the Kurds.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
What do you think about the trajectory of the Kurdish political movement? Whose language, style, or methods do you appreciate?
Nurettin Erkan:
Kurdish politicians are acting under pressure, paying great prices, and risking their lives. This must be stated first. A politics conducted in the shadow of torture and death can never be compared to the politics of a free country. Despite all this, they are braver than many politicians in free countries and are engaged in an exemplary struggle. My dream is to see a political formation that addresses all Kurds in all states, uniting them around the struggle for an Independent Kurdistan, but for now, this is not possible; it’s not easy. My criticism is that Kurdish politics insists on remaining within the system and clings to meaningless partnerships instead. Of course, it’s easy to say; the conditions are very harsh, as you know, but other alternatives can be considered. During this time of such oppression and imprisonment, I hope for everyone’s freedom.
“WE DON’T HAVE TO BE GOOD KURDS”
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Don’t you think policies like "Turkification" for peace are necessary?
Nurettin Erkan:
I don’t think it’s necessary. In fact, by doing so, the Kurds are harmed. This Turkification of Kurdish politics not only causes the Kurds to remain fragmented and weak, but also slows down and even destroys the development of the idea of an Independent Greater Kurdistan in the world’s memory. The status quo, which is preserved hand in hand with the state, unfortunately continues the massacre of us Kurds as well. If a Kurdish party distances itself from the ideas and individuals labeled as “terrorists” by the state and participates in the parliamentary system, it certainly reinforces the state’s justification for the extermination of those left outside. The state has established the good Kurd, bad Kurd paradigm from the beginning, and it allows the existence of Kurdish parties through this paradigm. The pressure to be a good Kurd has also partially shaped our recent parties. It’s hard to say that the state has failed in this aim because today our parties, which are supposedly representing us Kurds, find themselves having to be the state’s ‘Good Kurds.’ In the name of being a good Kurd, they constantly engage in Turkification or democratizing Turkey, becoming a party of Turkey, and ensuring they are not seen as a “divisive element.” At that point, the Kurdish identity labeled as the bad Kurd becomes subject to extermination, making it impossible to stand by them.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
What do you think will save the Kurds? Politics? Art? Money? None of these? All of them?
Nurettin Erkan:
All of them, but the right ones, of course. Politically, I believe the first thing that needs to be done is for all Kurds to set aside their differences and engage in dialogue. The biggest problem facing the Kurds is this lack of unity.
Jinda Zekioğlu:
Who do you listen to? What do you watch? What have you been reading lately?
Nurettin Erkan:
In our home, we listen to music from various peoples, but lately the song I’ve been listening to the most is “Qasimê Meyro” by Seîd el Kurdî. The film that has influenced me the most is Transit, made in 2018. This magnificent film was adapted by German director Christian Petzold from the novel of the same name published in 1944 by author Anna Seghers. The last book I read is The Turkishness Contract by Barış Ünlü, published by Dipnot Yayınları in 2018.
