Ayse kucuk's Page

Website

www.aysekucuk.com

Relationship status

in a relationship

College / University

YEDITEPE UNIVERSITY FINE ARTS

Program

BA GRAPHIC DESIGN

Member type

Artist

If you're an artist, what kind of art do you make?

Drawing, Installation, Painting

About my artwork

The present age may be the age of space instead. We are in an era of the simultaneous, of juxtaposition, of the near and the far, of the side-by-side, of the scattered. We exist at a moment when the world is experiencing, I believe, something less like a great life that would develop through time than like a network that connects points and weaves its skein" (Foucault - Different Spaces p.175).
"What is essential is that verbal signs and visual representations are never given at once. An order always hierarchizes them" (Foucault - This is Not A Pipe p.195)

I will write on some paintings, aiming at covering them perhaps (in order to uncover them, maybe, at the end), rewriting them, erasing them. This is a revengeful act indeed, but an act that is, perhaps, in vain, for no matter how many words I use, no matter how successfully I cover this empty space, this void that has been given to me, because of the rigid, impenetrable frames of the field of operation that I use, I will never be able to flood outside the margins, to reach the outside of the text, to spread, spill, invade, penetrate the paintings on which I try to write desperately. Enclosed in a place of its own, perhaps it will stay next to them, above them, under them, or who knows, perhaps it won't even be visible but be read to people, disseminate and vanish in the thin air at the moment it is read outloud, or maybe it will be hidden, in a page or two, the numbers of which will not be remembered, among other pages, as far away from its objects as possible.

Dispersion : How could I write about dispersion in a language that gathers, organizes and defines the functions of diverse elements? I see non-geometric lines, lines that could have been hands, lines that could have been faces, lines that could have been animals.. Dispersion is not the dispersion of separate entities; entities are never scattered, the thing is scattered in and out of itself: Where the thing becomes its could have been, loses its identity but still continues to insinuate the thing, only then can we talk about dispersion proper. What is the thing that suggests the existence of an animal in the basement of wonderland : The paint. Where we are in lack of pain-t, where there is nothing but the lines in their purity, in their abstract particularity, we cannot think of a singular thing, but are left only with suggestions. The man that spits the wonder woman from its brain which is also a half-eaten apple, the woman which is also a smoke coming out of a hole which in turn transforms the man ointo a gastube, but it is also the woman which is at the same time a running animal which transforms the man into a hunting gentleman: There is always a metonymic quality in pure lines. The abstract particular that makes the thing that thing changes rapidly, flows, creates entities that do not stay the same but only suggest other things, give rise to other things which turn back and alter, mutate, mutilate the thing that has given rise to them. Lines define what Foucault would call the "desacralization of space". They always escape : They escape paint as much as they escape my words. I could never speak about lines.

What is painted is handcuffed. This is the proper way of trapping and arresting someone : First get the hand. Hands as the doers of evil. Macbeth's hands in blood. Yet an arrest is never complete without the face. We have got the hand, we have even got the brain, but have we not lost the face, precisely that for which we were looking for, in our lobotomy? We could always try to trace the lines with our white paint, try to find the face to which the hand belongs, but whenever we do that, we either end up finding a face with no eyes or a monster. The human face that we look for is always lost, without eyes, without expression, the guilty face, the face in shame, the face that expresses : it is nowhere except in the background, as in checkmate where it looks through the black paint, in nostalgia and mystery of a loss. We could even call it the absent object of our desire. The face, the unreacheable totality of that which is human, recedes into infinity and escapes from our gaze. What else could it be but the paint itself, the paint that paints the depth, the concealed, the temporal, in which the face both gets incarnated and at the same time falls into oblivion? Yet, at the moment when it aspires to attain concreteness in the defined shapes of lines, it disperses,leaving eyes or facial contours with its totality lost. As opposed to the face and the paint, lines are superficial and atemporal : they define the simultaneous of our time. The human is ultimately lost in the web of lines.

We have spoken of lines and paint, of dispersion and of the face. What can we say about writing? For the letters are also lines, lacking dimension, depth and time. The letters, as far as our civilization is concerned, are worms. Armies of worms following each other, in perfect lines. Remember what was said in Greenaway's Pillow Book : we are merely scribblers. Whereas 'I' is an other within the darkness of the paint, that other which always escapes us, gives us the nothing itself, il y a which dreads us, when lines are concerned, it is only a frozen worm, the perfectly frozen one indeed. For sure, there are other frozen ones : letters in print. We can speak of two different types of representation of the Real : I remember the hand and the face in the Bach Lesson, and also the fork in little space. The perfect image, coming from the outside, is immediately assailed by the paint, such that the image which aspires to emerge onto the surface, to participate in the simultaneous, is immediately forgotten, worn out, destroyed. The printed letter is the second type of the Real. Take kont : The printed letter is torn away from its context, rearranged, manipulated, put into a different order such that it questions its own discipline. Lacking color itself, it questions the color of disciplinary societies. Does the printed letter have a color? The printed writing, as the exemplary disciplined organization of nomadic lines, calls for the paint, for oblivion, for depth, at the moment it is put into an order. Take a clearer example : What is this little space through which writing shows itself? This painting has no lines, no flights, but only an army of frozen worms that are covered by paint. The perfect way of censoring writing : Make it say what you want it to say, cover other areas, give it a little space through which it can say only and only what you allow it to say. Die or separate : The motto of fascism taught to the Mass that is watching and being watched. Separate the worms from each other, dissect the lines in order to form definite shapes from them, aquire perfection, accuracy, precision. Three layers : The writing that comes from the outside, that says God (or the painter) knows what, that organizes the worms to give a message, to add some depth to the lines, to be an image of the paint. The paint that assails the writing, manipulates it thanks to the junctures between each letters (these separations between letters could only render lines more fragile, more defenseless against attacks),. and the image, the ultimate Real, that catches the bug, makes a meal out of it, The End. Where there is paint, this tragedy always follows. The generous hand of the paint that offers the land of the lost is also a man caught and tied up : No word could capture this equivocacy.

But there could also be another outcome in this battle. What is the thing that triumphs at the end on the black surface of melancholy and mourning in alinti? Another quotation : We are always sexual. Or is it rather : We are always quotation? The paint that quotes us in our sexuality, that makes us us as sexualized bodies, is desacralized, humiliated and ridiculed by the becomings of the lines. It is not surprising that the strings of the master are at first connected to the face, but the face is not the face anymore; it disperses into different strings, different shapes, legs, hands - sexuality itself explodes when lines speak; lines are the joyous mockery of the unquotable.

Writing on some paintings : Isn't this exactly the revenge of the letters, the letters which, in their nostalgia, aspire to be like the face, to organize the lines, to try to make explicit which knowingly escapes explanation in order not to be caught, not to be quoted, not to be mentioned? The printed letter : Pasting it onto a painting and drawing lines on it, confusing the order of its letters. This would, perhaps, be a way to respond to its insidious violence.

My artreview.com URL:
http://www.artreview.com/profile/aysekucuk
You can use this URL in your email, on your website, or on your facebook profile.