Wildfires in Los Angeles, floods in Libya, earthquakes in Morocco, and droughts in the Horn of Africa deepen not just anthropocentric environmental damage, but social and political inequalities. In shared agony, these crises demand reflection on our entanglements with the planet and its systems.
The exhibition States of Earth at Yapı Kredi Culture Art in Istanbul explores these entanglements in artistic practices; from organic materials, recycled artifacts, to narratives of destruction and regeneration. It offers a space of autoreflection, but it also considers how art might embody the Earth’s wounds and its potential for renewal.
Yet, questions arise: Is it enough to address the scale of these crises without complicity? How does an exhibition reflect Istanbul’s own environmental challenges? And can it transcend symbolic gestures to provoke real change? We speak with Didem Yazici and Burcu Cimen about these tensions in curatorial possibilities for greater depth.
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Let’s start on the surface: Can bodies and ecosystems be regarded as separate entities in this exhibition? If so, how do we approach both bodies (and) ecosystems as sites of conflict, resistance, and healing within colonial and capitalist frameworks?
Didem Yazıcı: The work of Gözde Mimiko Türkkan is a compelling example of how bodies and ecosystems are deeply interwoven. In her immersive installation Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River (2024 - ongoing), the river Seine itself assumes full agency, becoming the subject rather than an object of the piece. The river speaks for itself, while the artist assumes the role of translator, witness, and mediator rather than primary voice. This work examines the intersections between water as a body and the human body, questioning identity politics in relation to embodiment. The starting point for this work was the historical and contemporary efforts to clean the river Seine in preparation for the Paris 2024 Olympics. Yet, the river has been a silent witness to numerous tragedies, from the 1961 massacre of Algerian protestors—where at least 100 people were killed, many thrown into the Seine—to the recent death of a beluga whale that strayed into its waters. An archival photograph in the installation features graffiti on the embankment reading, “Here, Algerians were drowned.” The French state still refuses to fully confront its history of anti-Arab racism. The Seine, in this work, is not merely a river but a graveyard, a political instrument wielded by the populist French government, and an unnatural home for lost creatures. The piece meticulously addresses these histories through archival materials, images, poetry, and a video installation that mimics the movement of water reflections.
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Burcu Çimen: Another work that engages with the impact of political and capitalist forces on urbanization and fundamental rights is Cengiz Tekin’s Sand (2012). His minimalist yet evocative photographic work constructs a narrative about the consequences of inadequate urban planning. The image presents a living room filled with sand, a surreal juxtaposition that critiques ecological destruction while maintaining a wry sense of humor. By layering ecological concerns with social critique, Sand provokes discussions on the absurdities of capitalist-driven environmental degradation while also suggesting resilience and potential healing through its aesthetic playfulness.
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Many of the works use organic or recycled materials, engaging with their aesthetic possibilities while risking co-option within the consumer-driven art world. What guided your selection of these works?
BÇ: We wanted to challenge the limitations of how ecology is conventionally approached in contemporary art. Our selection of works sought to bridge different methodologies, moving beyond a single, dominant narrative. While the exhibition centers on artists from Turkey, their works engage with issues that transcend national boundaries. For example, Müge Yılmaz’s Umay Ixa Kayakizi (2024) reinterprets Anatolian cultural motifs through an ecofeminist lens, creating a dialogue with Judy Chicago’s Garden Smoke series (2019). Similarly, Buşra Tunç’s New Extremophiles (2024) reimagines plastic waste as future archaeological relics, forcing us to consider the ecological legacies we leave behind.
DY: We also aimed to shift away from an anthropocentric worldview. We were inspired by Turkish poet Birhan Keskin, whose work engages with ecofeminism. She writes, İçimde yeryüzü konuştukça anlıyorum ki bölünmüş bir hatırayım ben dünyaya dağılan, which translates to: As the Earth speaks in me, I realize that I am a fragmented memory scattered across the world. This poetic approach resonates with the artists in the exhibition, who each bring forth different earths speaking within them. The works are not literal translations of Keskin’s themes but rather parallel reflections that encourage audiences to rethink their relationships with nature and the world. Ekin Kano’s Ancestor Worship employs cellulose waste-based paper, produced through the interaction of acetic acid bacteria, yeast, and sugar. The microorganisms come to life when exposed to water, and their lifecycle ends when the paper dries. Inspired by the Torajan tribe’s tradition of exhuming and caring for the dead, Kano draws a connection between this cultural practice and her own artistic process of preserving the remnants of life forms. This research-based work proposes new meanings in the co-creation between human and non-human agencies.
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How does your curatorial practice make injustices visible without aestheticizing activist struggles?
DY: We intentionally avoided a didactic curatorial approach. The juxtaposition of visually striking works like Begüm Mütevellioğlu’s stained glass paintings with Rozelin Akgün’s research-driven Wild Herbs (2024) creates a layered discourse on ecological justice. While vastly different in form, both works emphasize the equal significance of all living beings within the cycle of life. Speaking of injustices, Cengiz Tekin’s Sand (2012) again comes to mind. By transforming a mundane interior into a desert-like expanse, Tekin critiques urbanization policies while humorously nodding to the absurdity of contemporary ecological crises. His work exposes the tensions between nature and human intervention without reducing the topic to mere aesthetics.
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The Anthropocene is often framed as a universal concept, despite the uneven distribution of ecological crises. How does the exhibition address the challenge of grounding the artworks in Istanbul’s local context while connecting to global narratives?
BÇ: Sibel Horada’s work is a great example of this. It emerges directly from her immediate environment, and we took this aspect seriously when curating the exhibition. We considered perspectives from both within and beyond Istanbul, constantly questioning: Where is the inside? Where is the outside? Rather than narrowing the focus to the city itself, we sought to explore the intersections of boundaries—both conceptual and geographical—allowing for a dialogue between the local and the global.
DY: Yes, Sibel Horada is an artist who lives on Burgazada Island and has a deep connection to its ecosystem. In her series Shaped by Water, she takes the island, where she spent her childhood, as a point of departure. Her practice is shaped by her surroundings—she collects waste, observes transformation, and focuses on details that might otherwise go unnoticed. The sculptural series Shaped by Water (2019) brings together notions of damage and resilience, blending ecological realities with poetic storytelling. The works in the exhibition are made from plastic foam fragments found along the shores of the Marmara Sea. In these sculptures, Styrofoam and other foam-based materials appear as they were shaped by the sea, waves, rocks, and marine life—without direct intervention from the artist.
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The exhibition critiques, if only generally speaking, power structures contributing to the climate crisis. How does your curatorial practice critically reflect on its own dependencies on institutions and resources that may be complicit in these very structures?
DY: The exhibition does not claim to be something it isn’t. Contemporary art in Turkey exists within a challenging landscape, where governmental support for critical and socially engaged art is limited and often precarious. As a result, the art scene relies heavily on private institutions with long-standing traditions of supporting critical discourse. At Yapı Kredi Gallery, we have the freedom to address pressing questions of our time, to work with artists and themes that are urgent. But with this freedom comes responsibility—the responsibility to remain mindful of the local context, critically aware of the system we operate within, and conscious of the realities that shape it.
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Many of the works evoke a sensual connection, reinforcing an intimate relationship with the Earth. Can sensuality in art act as a counterstrategy to alienation, or does it risk becoming an aesthetic indulgence for a privileged audience?
DY: It depends on context and the politics of display. The challenge is to engage both the intellectual and emotional dimensions of the audience. Sensual connection is fundamental—we cannot rely solely on intellectual understanding to navigate the complexities of our world. We need intuition, empathy, and a range of emotions to process these entanglements. This is particularly relevant at Yapı Kredi Gallery, located on Istiklal Street—an artery of Istanbul, a site of political encounters, and a passage for nearly three million people each day. We actively challenge the notion that contemporary art is for an elite audience by curating and designing exhibitions in ways that are accessible, inviting, and open to all, regardless of generational or educational background.
The exhibition reflects on cycles of destruction and regeneration. What role does the concept of time—linear or cyclical—play in the presentation and the works themselves? How is this notion of time linked to the urgency of current crises?
BÇ: The urgency of crises differs across contexts, but what matters is how art transforms into a form of resistance and intervention. While artists may not always engage in direct action, their work carries the potential to shape discourse, influence perspectives, and contribute to movements. The exhibition acknowledges this power—art as a response, a protest, and a reflection of societal concerns.
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How do the exhibited works and your curatorial decisions address the challenge of building global solidarities without re-centering Western perspectives?
BÇ: Instead of reinforcing Western-centric narratives, we foreground local perspectives and histories. This means engaging with research-based works, tracing the origins of materials and practices, and creating dialogues that are rooted in lived experience. In doing so, global solidarity emerges not as a top-down imposition but as a web of interwoven local realities.
DY: Materiality plays a crucial role here. Many works in the exhibition are created using local and natural materials, actively challenging the conventional economies of exhibition-making. For example, Berna Dolmacı’s painting Foggy Blue (2022) is composed of coffee, henna, tea, clay, and seeds, while Ekin Kano’s installation Body Living Itself (2019) explores the relationship between mushrooms and acetic acid. Rozelin Akgün’s Wild Herbs (2024) revisits traditions of cooking, medicine, and healing in Southeastern Anatolia, reminding us that sustainability is not a new concept but rather a set of intergenerational practices.
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Does the exhibition aim to be a transformative practice that opens concrete spaces for action, or is its strength rooted in symbolism and reflection?
DY: Primarily the latter. The exhibition invites audiences to engage with the ecological crisis through an ecofeminist lens. Works such as Judy Chicago’s Garden Smoke Series, Müge Yılmaz’s sculptural and research-based practice, and Berna Dolmacı’s landscapes made from scrap paper all cultivate spaces for contemplation.
In the end, does the exhibition call for action, or does it remain within the realm of symbolism?
BÇ: It’s not a question of either/or—action and symbolism are deeply intertwined. As Beuys famously said, everyone is an artist, and society itself is a work of art. The goal is to create connections, initiate dialogue, and foster a sense of agency within those who visit us.
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The exhibition runs until March 30, 2025 at Yapı Kredi Museum, Istanbul.
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- Image credits
Cover: Buşra Tunç, New Extremophiles (2024) Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Emirkan Corut
Fig. 1: Gözde Mimiko Türkkan, Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River (2024 - ongoing). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 2: Gözde Mimiko Türkkan, Giving (Oneself) to the Seine River (2024 - ongoing). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 3: Cengiz Tekin, Sand (2012). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 4: Müge Yılmaz, Umay Ixa Kayakizi (2024). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 5: Begüm Mütevellioğlu, Discover All the Beauties With Us This Summer (2023). Courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 6: Sibel Horada, Shaped by Water (2019). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 7: Rozelin Akgün, Wild Herbs (2024). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 8: Murat Yildiz. Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 9: Ekin Kano, Body Living Itself (2019). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
Fig. 10: Berna Dolmacı, Foggy Blue (2022). Copyright the artist, courtesy of Yapi Kredi Gallery. Photo by Koray Şentürk
