Meticulously formed, it has the shape, the face and the clothing of a woman. These tiny figures were made with the aid of a body scan that can create a three-dimensional likeness of a person in a pose of their choosing. Following this, the relevant data are fed into an extruder which constructs a synthetic figure, layer by layer, that is perfect down to the very last detail.
The figure itself is painted using an airbrush. Although Karin Sander conceived the series, she does not interfere at all in the attitudes of the figures, and hence describes them as self-portraits by the models. Some distance away from this sculpture a Plexiglas box stands on the floor. It is the type of tape used for labels in items of clothing, for instance. So, right in the midst of Hausgenossen — and yet also on the margins — there are two self-portraits.
She is distancing herself from herself by, in one case, introducing a work by a colleague and, in the other, presenting an endless, inflationary repetition of the identification tag of her own name. It is as though she is setting up an idea in a situation that will only be realized when other people move around in it and experience it. This building, which the bank has occupied for some years now, consists of two wings and a connecting central section.
The wings, facing west, open onto an area extending as far as the Rhine with a few, relatively large buildings and numerous roads with underpasses and flyovers. It is at this point that the older parts of the city centre merge into the former docklands which have been transformed in recent decades into a business and leisure quarter.
The taller of the two wings of the bank is a fifty-metre high block, with a ground plan of seventy-two by sixteen metres. BANK wanted to stake its first claim on the cultural front and, in so doing, also symbolically take possession of its new home. Erkmen took her inspiration from the elongated shape of the larger wing and the fact that the ground plan reminded her of a racing track.
From the outset, therefore, her design had that element of movement that was to be so crucial to the work. The second element of the sculpture — its form — arose from the notion of contrast. Its dynamic nature is largely due to the angle of the two wings to each other and to the varied surroundings. Erkmen reacted to this with a form from a very different world, which adds a certain menace to the neutral reliability of the architecture.
In some respects Crystal Rock is a direct descendant of a work realized in Innsbruck in In the inner courtyard of a Baroque building a huge rock from the local Alpine region, weighing several tons, was suspended on steel cables above an internal glass roof. The direct connection with Crystal Rock is the shape of the piece. For the earlier work Erkmen sent a drawing to Innsbruck, so that the exhibition organisers could seek out a suit- able rock in the mountains.
In fact the process leading to the final form was even more complex than that, involving a series of transfers from photographs to hand-done sketches to computer drawings. The focus is on creating an object from the original idea, on transposing this into a real situation, and not on making personal statements or gestures. As the title, already present in the first sketch, suggests, the original intention for this work for the Bank was that the form of the rock should be created from cast glass. Although the effect of these two materials, used in these circumstances, would certainly be very different, the notion of a rock made from crystal is still present in the final version.
The almost fantastic contrast between this body and the pragmatism of the architecture was achieved despite this change of material. It is securely mounted on a trolley on tracks that constantly, slowly but perceptibly, transports it around the edge of the building. From a terminus at the rear of the building, the sculpture travels once clockwise along the track, and returns anti-clockwise.
An empty lift lined with shining steel travels slowly up and down in a former repository Wertheim ACUU, ; elsewhere every visitor to an exhibition passes through a detector and sets off a warning signal Portiport, ; long, flat coloured beams glide across the floor in magical circular movements choo-choo, ; fig. Sometimes the processes that generate the movement in the works are natural and uncontrollable.
However, in most cases motors or other propulsion devices cause the various changes to occur. The artist does her utmost to ensure that every stage of the production and every detail of a work of art is as efficient as possible. The very precise, sometimes highly complex devices that instigate movement in these pieces, are generally not specifically on view; usually they are hidden.
Thus the mechanism driving Crystal Rock is only visible from certain, rather high viewpoints or from the rear, narrow end of the building. It is invisible on the main viewing sides of the work. But there is nothing very mysterious about these hidden motors; in most cases viewers unquestioningly accept the reality of the movement because they understand its origins from other, similar everyday situations. On occasion the movement may be the initial attraction that draws one into the work, but often the element of movement is so slow, intermittent or subtle that one only fully registers it after some time.
Before Erkmen creates the particular situation by means of her work, there was already a real situation that supplied the parameters for her piece. Situation means experience and moment and implies change. The motion inherent in a work of art takes up this idea, extending and accentuating the real situation. Like life, the work is also in transition.
The stone on the roof is truly a foreign body. What do that thing sparkling in the light and the building have to do with each other? The surface of the sculpture is so irregularly faceted that, incessantly in motion — and given bright enough conditions — different gleaming faces are constantly, momentarily catching the light. Even at night on the least brightly lit sides of the building, street lamps and car lights reflect in it.
Almost like a supernatural being, its form disappears into the darkness leaving only an aura of gently pulsating lights. In addition to this, depending on the time of day, the weather conditions and its position at any given moment, the rock also changes its colours, ranging from gleaming-cool silver to an almost dull, inward anthracite. If one stands close enough to the building, for a split second one can make out different features of the surroundings in the reflective facets, a little as if through a telescope.
Since the object at the edge of the roof responds so intensely to the changing light, its size and weight are disguised by optical effects. The sense of menace, that certainly emanates from it — because one cannot see how it is secured up there on the roof — is balanced by the lightness and mutability of its visual appearance.
And it is astonishing to discover that the sculpture itself is only centimetres long, centimetres wide and centimetres high. From the street, from a distance of fifty or a hundred metres, it looks much larger. The slow but constant movement both heightens the menacing effect and gives it a somewhat unreal aspect. Particularly when it travels around the corners of the bank — suddenly appearing and seeming to be setting out along a curve — it almost looks like an alien creature that has taken possession of the building. However much the two — the building and the sculpture — are self-evidently products of the same high-tech civilization, even on closer examination they appear alien to each other.
Accordingly the symbiosis that they have nevertheless established is highly charged and quite discomfiting. She talked about the journey of glass to crystal, whereby the skilled polishing of the raw material adds value to it and it attains a new, higher cultural status. A bank, and particularly a development bank at the service of the region as a whole, is engaged in similar processes.
The raw material money is to be turned by expert handling into a more valuable asset, namely socio-economic progress. An association of this kind does not turn the sculpture into a symbol for the bank, but it does clearly show that on this level, too, the artist has responded to the implications of the real situation. The two works Hausgenossen and Crystal Rock are now neighbours for fourteen months, although they are wholly independent projects. Neither the two institutions nor the artist planned or realized these as connected installations or as an artistic entity of some kind.
Each work responds to its own given situation. It may seem a little banal to say so, but it may be that there is nevertheless a link in the sense that both are in elevated locations. The glittering rock and the lengthy bands of fabric are out of reach, high above the heads of passers-by and viewers. One pits itself against the dimensions and potential indifference of a so-called public space. Both works are comparatively reserved, even ephemeral interventions, that in no sense impose themselves on the viewer.
Some are so discreet that they require a second glance to be seen at all; others are immediately apparent but appear so simple, so straightforward or obvious that one might assume they are all too quickly dealt with. Could one even be so bold as to suggest that calculated disappointment is built into them, albeit a form of disappointment that is itself something like a vehicle for a different mode of perception and cognition? However, one should not imagine this process of appropriation as a clear sequence of single steps within a particular period of time, as some kind of a logical visual deduction.
These works have a subtle strength that comes into its own with time and grows on one, metaphorically joining one as fellow lodgers and companions. As such they show once again that they are truly situative works, artistic influences on real situations that neither induce stasis nor rigidify into monuments, but rather set an accent that is both willful and mobile.
Ideally, the author retreats into the background so that the work has the chance to fully become space and work of art. As Jorge Luis Borges once said of his writing, the good thing about some of it was that it no longer belonged to some individual but rather to language itself and to tradition. With this semantic readymade the artist has metaphorically arranged a large part of her previous work.
Precise as they are rich in allusions, serene as they are paradoxical, mischievous as they are saturated with experience, her interventions exist in the first instance for the time of the respective exhibition; thereafter they are memories. But the memories abide. They accompany the works, alter them, and turn them into companions.
The deeply human aspect of her art — which incidentally reveals a great deal about fidelity and continuity — lends the works, formally often intentionally austere, their peculiar conscientiousness, a quality that always sustains good art. For every work a different site, a different form, a different dramaturgy. Not a trace of torpor or rigidity. Along with a diverse array of experiences, all sorts of stories are told, stories one gladly listens to, at times in wonder. As the artist herself relates, people in Istanbul revel in telling stories, speak about what has happened to them, what moves them, and although the events often heard about are then changed a little, they nonetheless remain true.
Her oeuvre is just as multifaceted and free of constraints. Based on lore, tradition and research, at the same time her works reveal respect and interest. They exist across continents and fashion the topography of a world whose iconography is deduced from the context. This focus determines the leitmotifs evident in her oeuvre. The towers flanking the portal contrastingly reciprocate in their lower section the structure of the building, while in the upper section they repeat the round-arched motif of the portico.
Despite numerous building alterations, the clock set in the eastern tower and its companion piece, the decorative rosette in the western tower, have survived and retained their original functions. With nonchalant playfulness Erkmen succeeds in rendering the history and the present of the building both readable and visible.
The clock is the only element that indicates the original function of the building, it links into a past which had little to do with art. This is particularly the case for the Hamburger Bahnhof, for the metaphorical line running between its origins as a commercial station and its current utilisation as a museum housing contemporary art can hardly level the discontinuities marking its architectural history. From the exhibition Zeitlos, curated by Harald Szeemann and staged in the then ruins of the Hamburger Bahnhof from 22 June to 25 September , a work by Niele Toroni b.
The imprints of a paintbrush were originally planned as a site-specific work for the exhibition. In the meantime this conflict has been resolved and both works lead an engrossing coexistence. She is the first artist with enough self-confidence to seek and explore a connection with the two permanent artworks. These display analogies to her own approach in so far as both are closely tied to the history of site-specific sculpture, which emerged in the mids and led to a host of exhibitions and projects devoted to this theme in the s.
Publicly accessible for only a limited time, the consciously ephemeral character of these works represents a critique of monuments and the monumental, categorical qualities of sculpture for centuries. It is a passage and marks the line between safety and something else. Everyday life is left behind, and one enters the protected zone of art. The visitor stands in the first exhibition room and is irritated. Just a few manoeuvres suffice and the whole arrangement is out of joint.
The installation provides a glimpse into the gutted construction. At the same time, the original height of the rooms and the architectural interventions in the old structure are revealed, all its secrets lifted. The fluorescent tubes otherwise hidden in the illuminated ceiling are lowered on their own cables to various heights so that they become barriers, once again slowing down the normal tempo of a museum visit.
The usually invisible lighting fixtures can now be seen, becoming an exhibition object while the walls remain vacated. The House is thus full of allusions to the presentation forms dominant in contemporary exhibition practice. The lighting design of an exhibition site is one of the most contentious elements of museum architecture. The lowering of the lighting fixtures radically changes the intensity of the light in the room — the function of lighting is reduced to an absurdity.
Erkmen has emphasised this peculiarity, blocking simple accessibility with her intervention and hindering the flow of the normal exhibition routine. Various presentation forms overlap and interfere with one another. The glossy images of leisure time activities seem like foreign bodies, instantly evoking the question how they fit in with a museum exhibition and what is their function.
With their restricted period of utilisation, regulated by a fee to be paid to the agency, they possess the double character of the marketplace and the exhibition. The museum is not a site where art is to be separated from social reality. Works which enter a museum are tradable objects. The art trade is a decisive factor shaping the landscape of contemporary art, while being an artist is a profession. Silver was, and is, a popular and expensive commodity, and along with spices and textiles it formed the economic backbone of the whole Orient.
One third of the curved exterior protrudes into the large exhibition room of the upper floor. By virtue of the Imitating Lines, the elevator is not only perceived as a connective element between above and below, but also outside and inside. Its sculptural form prises open a distance with austere, green metal rods affixed to rectangular base plates, which capture the form like shadows and bring it to life.
The Imitating Lines belonging to the companions clearly allude to the benchmarks set by space-related works typical of Minimalism. In the large exhibition hall the visitor is greeted by the white-tailed wildebeest from the exhibition Kuckuck in the Kunstmuseum St. Gallen , p. The dead animal is lent a communicative function. Free-standing in space, the monitors fixed on pedestals draw their electricity from the illuminated ceiling. Similar to The House, a number of glass panels have been removed. The cables visibly connect the ceiling and the video monitors; they are pulled through the work Gezeiten Tide, , pp.
Through this industrially-manufactured, everyday material the artist practically binds the work Gezeiten together with the room, gives it a centre, free of any triumphal gesture. The two rows of rectangular pillars which dominate the exhibition room are energised and interconnected.
As its name indicates, the work evokes associations with the ebbs and flows of tides, the moon and the sun, the domineering motion of the world. This implies motion, a new beginning and an end, nothing stalls and breaks away, and so everything is interconnected. The alternating motion washes objects hidden at high tide onto the shore, while by low tide they may remain stranded.
It is like what happens in stories and exhibitions — they are there and leave something behind. The artist transforms these into a space that embraces her experiences in this process and their metamorphosisinto art. The meditative reflection leaves open all the possibilities of experience. Moreover, as a conceptual artist she keeps a cool head.
Kuckuck, ed. Kunstmuseum St. Gallen, Nuremberg , p. Her oeuvre reveals no keynote features — there is neither a material nor a technique one could consider to be particularly characteristic. As a piece of woven red silk, one that is not however inserted lengthways between the pages, but stretches horizontally from page to page, here marking a word by underlining it, resurfacing elsewhere in the margin to highlight a particular passage. The ropes in use in the royal navy, from the largest to the smallest, are so twisted that a red thread runs through them from end to end, which cannot be extracted without undoing the whole: and by which the smallest pieces may be recognised as belonging to the crown.
The novel is about two men and two women — a married couple living on their rural estate and their guests, a young woman and an old friend. During the day the characters preoccupy themselves with the layout of a park, planting trees, aligning them in avenues, setting pavilions at prominent places. During the parlour games in the evening they gush over wooden letters of the alphabet, play music in continuously changing line-ups, re-enact scenes depicted on engravings, play charades in lavish costumes.
In the same year as Elective Affinities was first published in the month of October, in , to meet the great demand for engravings, Anton Ignaz Melling bought a printing workshop in Paris. This contemporary of Goethe had lived for 18 years in Constantinople, enjoying close contact with the court household as an architect and fitter to Hatice Sultan, the sister of Selim III, who sought a landscape designer for her garden. In Paris he translated his sketches and paintings into engravings, generally regarded down to the present day as the most precise pictorial testimony of this opulent epoch.
At first, 48 engravings were produced in a loose series, before being collected in to form Voyage pittoresque de Constantinople et des rives du Bosphore. Engravers are astonished at the precise observations, a map attests to the geographical accuracy, while the attentive, deft touch evident in the detailed rendering of the gardens, buildings, palaces and interiors is still admired today — even the harem scenes, writes Orhan Pamuk, are drawn with an unobtrusive and delicate hand.
The individual engravings — and even more so when viewed in series — drift meanderingly into a single scene, the plates, writes Pamuk, whose uncle, a publisher, featured the Voyage pittoresque de Constantinople in his programme in the s, have no centre, no focal point; they sprawl, and thus run contrary to the panorama that became so popular at the end of the 19th century, which sought to capture the viewer by employing tricks of perspective or conjuring the illusion of an allround view.
It is very important that this city has a name signalling water. And the Main River crosses the city, dividing it into two, but nobody in Frankfurt uses the river anymore, a bridge is always just a minute away. I wanted to re-establish this water culture for a limited amount of time and so my proposal was to bring ships — and something definitely from Istanbul — on other ships to Frankfurt. There they travelled on the river as ferries. A possibility to see the city from another geography, from another point of view, because to see a city from water is to see it from another distance.
The city becomes something else. Shipped Ships was a resounding success — not only the art public wished that the crews would stay and continue to service the routes after the intervention came to an end. Although the existing Frankfurt transport system and infrastructure — bus, underground, roads — is quick and reliable, the ferry passengers wanted to keep the routes on the waterway which zigzagged between eleven landing stops; but the art project was complicated and costly — the transporting of the ships, the wages, the research involved… Nevertheless, Shipped Ships insists on lightness, as if it is nothing special to load ships onto ships and ship them to the other side of the world for a few weeks.
The accompanying catalogue documents the action soberly, showing the transporting of the ships and plotting in photographs and long texts the shoreline kilometre for kilometre, its forgotten havens, a Jewish lido, historical restaurants and inns popular amongst day-trippers. Her interventions create distance, enable a new perspective — and the effect is dramatic, even when one is not aware of the sensation at first. Anton Stankowski decisively influenced design in the public space of the past century, from colour coding through to corporate design; the Deutsche Bank bears his logo.
This is the reason why I often present contemporary models before all else and this is what I like doing best. I am surprised that contemporary artists are still overlooking this problem. Whether she hangs strip lights lower, has taxidermy models roll through her exhibition on a track system, collects and mixes video images, or as recently in the Basle Kunstmuseum, has brightly coloured plastic foil billow out of trapdoors: no matter how surprising and unexpected her art actions may seem, even when they bring together the heterogeneous, she always tries to realise her projects with technically appropriate concepts.
Am Haus , p. They are Turkish word endings, verb inflexions which are unknown in Western languages in this variety. Whenever these endings are used, one is reporting from hearsay. Something is being passed on that one had heard from someone else — and this source has in turn heard it from someone else again. In front of the building local Turks can now explain something to the Germans, at least if they still have a good command of the Turkish language.
Ideally, relations between locals and immigrants are reversed in front of the Turkish building blocks made of words. The exotic is not an efficacious category to an artist who has lead a nomadic existence for years neither is the boisterously debated globalisation. On the contrary: where her work mediates between cultures, in turn it insists on and adheres to a position beyond the poles, exactly in-between. She explains that all the students did this, simply for the reason that they had no storage space at their disposal, most of them not even a studio.
So you had to find your own space, a church, a garden, nothing is given to you. She soon comes across a house. She knocks on the door and as there is no answer she simply goes inside. Three bowls of porridge are on the kitchen table. Goldilocks is hungry. No one knows it in Germany, while everyone in Istanbul recognised it as I wrote its text on a store window for an installation. After Goldilocks has eaten from all the bowls and sat on all the chairs, she looks for a bed and falls asleep.
But the bear family — father, mother and baby bear — returns. Startled and scared when they wake her up, Goldilocks flees to the woods. And she never comes back to visit the house of the three bears. In the interview with Matthias Winzen, Erkmen remarks that the figure of Goldilocks reminds her of the role of the artist, who enters a place, meddles in what is there, and so changes how people perceive things.
But in fact the story is missing something. It is startling, impulsive, motiveless, scarcely interpretable — is it about theft, is it about triumph? Nobody is punished. Nobody wins. Solely a brief disorder remains. In other versions she breaks one of the chairs. But how does the story continue when the doors are locked, when someone stands in the way? I ask for your understanding regarding this decision. With friendly regards, Yours Josef Albers Dompropst.
The answer is formulated in abundantly clear terms. Art learnt to fly. Heavy stone figures from the 15th, 16th and 17th centuries, moored on steel beams, were hung from a helicopter. Then they circled above the city centre — until they were carefully parked on the roof ledge of the adjacent state museum. The idea is quite simple, but the planning must have been just as complicated as for Shipped Ships — very few artists have ever dared to call in a helicopter, and it is certainly no coincidence that the tumultuous, gyrating action recalls the film partly shot from the air which shows Robert Smithson working on Spiral Jetty.
Both in the salt lake in Utah, where in Smithson left behind an inward-coiling jetty made of massive rocks, and in the row of figures on the museum roof, a certain tranquil sculptural situation, discontinuing all lines of movement, remained in its heavy, immovable presence almost negating the preceding racket, the rotating commotion. She defines thresholds, finds shortcuts, sets destinations. Whilst in the installation the visitors can find themselves again for a moment and become aware of their position, their background and where they belong geographically or socially, the figure of the artist remains diffuse.
She neither narrates nor describes in detail; she insists on one of many points. Or wraps a green-white belt around a pillar like recently in the Basle Kunstmuseum for First Column. Or spans belts crosswise through a room. It seems as if she does not wish to unduly burden her work with her own person: as if she swiftly departs the stage after making a statement.
From the Jewish quarter of Izmir he made the leap to Paris, where he starred next to Brigitte Bardot and Yves Montand and pursued his career as a musician. Having died young, Dario Moreno remained an ambivalent figure of longing. In this way the video insists on historical distance, it foregoes illusion — and it is thus fully logical that the title bears two names.
Nonetheless, the viewer comes no closer to the figure of Emre: he plays a role, but wears the clothing of his time. When her son dances, then anyone could do the same, or even better, any son. And the artist is not a fisher who interlaces his name in the net. The idea of the signature, the name tag, of the star, voice pitch and style, and character is that something individual booms out in the artistic style, a hallmark becomes apparent.
It can unfurl the fixedness of a building with a carpet and loop each fibre from the thick rope calling itself identity, like a spool of silk ribbon. Kunsthalle Fridericianum, Kassel , p. When we are undecided about something — even if that something feels like it is something we are indeed very familiar with — it is useful to take a look at the related literature.
There are some kinds of events for which one is always unprepared — events which partake of a quality of unreality or otherworldliness. A painful memory? Slobin, Ayhan A. I would like to thank Eser Taylan who has drawn my attention to this text. Editorial note: for purposes of readability, omissions in the original are not indicated.
Part of the exhibition occurred in the Antrepo, a large warehouse on the Bosporus which formerly served as a customs house for the shipping industry, and which had been empty for quite some time until it was converted into an exhibition venue. Erkmen covered the interior of this elevator with gleaming sheets of corrugated steel — the same material once used for the shipping containers that passed through the building as a matter of course.
Once upon a time, back when the customs warehouse was thriving, and crates from the world were constantly entering and departing, this little elevator had a big job, and a hard one: lugging those crates upstairs and back down from morning until evening. Others had the authority and received the accolades, and other parts of the building were always much more noteworthy, but this humble elevator was the one doing the really heavy work. Years later, and after it had long since settled into neglect, Erkmen singled out this elevator, lavished attention on it, decorated it with special metal, gave it, so to speak, an impressive new suit, and made it seem, however temporarily, important and esteemed, like a janitor who is honoured by the bigwigs with speeches and a feast after thirty or forty years of gruelling, largely unacknowledged service.
For the duration of the exhibition, Erkmen also prevented anyone from using this elevator, by stretching a bar across its entrance, as if it were a rare treasure made of pure silver. Had Erkmen left things like that — a freight elevator operating as a bedazzling geometric sculpture — it would have been an excellent work, but she took things a surprising, giant step further.
As you gazed at her shining piece, it slowly disappeared, because it constantly shuttled between the two floors of the building. The work was hilarious — a sizable metal sculpture that periodically showed up, stuck around for a little while, and then departed — and motion is a recurring motif for Erkmen. I, and a great many others, took note, and immediately sought out other works by Erkmen, mostly through documentation, because most of her works, no matter how much they decisively alter a given space, are temporary and ephemeral.
In a time when the art world and a raging art market concentrate on collectable and saleable objects, Erkmen was then and remains an entirely maverick figure, making complex, masterful works that happen, then vanish, after achieving their dialogue with, and transformation of, extant sites and spaces. In lowering the lighting structures, Erkmen formed suspended horizontal planes in each room, which were interesting sculptures in their own right, but which also challenged, however implicitly, all sorts of power relationships.
Lights, which most visitors to a gallery hardly notice, even though they are essential and responsible for illuminating the art on the walls and floors, were suddenly prominent and unavoidable, and they also acted as brazen barriers, forcing viewers to acknowledge and physically respond to them. There was also a note of comical aggression: an installation that doubled as a slapstick accident waiting to happen. As viewers futilely looked for art on the walls or floors, they could easily bash into these lighting structures in an embarrassing Buster Keatonish way.
It seemed to me — and this has only increased through the years — that Erkmen has a rare ability to invest basic architectural forms with complex and surprising connotations, and an equally rare ability to approach matters of utmost seriousness with goofy humour and a sense of the absurd. For Sculptures on the Air , pp. In effect, Erkmen engineered her own miracle, which also doubled as an aerial circus act or a daredevil stunt, and while it had an element of mischief and irreverence, it was also exuberant and deeply touching.
Her approach to such spaces is cerebral and analytical, involving a great deal of research and investigation into what the possibilities are, and her concept of site includes the physical structure, but also its use, history, and its various cultural, political and psychological connotations. Still, this cerebral, much-investigating approach consistently yields works which have a streak of wildness and disruption; elegant, seemingly minimal works which have a note of gleeful perversity and alarm; and crisp, to-the-point works which are also freakish and outlandish.
As a result, the space or object as it normally is, and as Erkmen has altered it, coexist simultaneously, leading to a thorough conflation of the mundane and the bizarre, orientation and disorientation. Gallen, Switzerland. A griffon, zebra, pronghorn antelope, caiman crocodile, white-tailed wildebeest, and lioness, transposed from the science museum to the art museum, were motorised and set atop model train tracks.
- Migration, Familie und Gesellschaft;
- Mr. Bear and Mr. Frog.
- I Table of Content!
Dead animals sprang to fabricated life, wild animals became eerie automatons, dead wild animals were like a demented parody of a circus act, and in the meantime everything conspired to tell time exactly, in a send-up of punctuality and reliability as solid virtues. With this work, inspired in part by her status as a Turkish part-time resident in Germany, Erkmen arranged for three foreign ferries from Turkey, Japan and Italy, complete with their uniformed crews, to be shipped to Frankfurt. In Frankfurt, these boats took up residence on the Main, offering regularly scheduled excursions conducted in the respective languages of the crews.
Residents of Frankfurt could experience their city from the perspective of foreigners, while tourists expecting an authentic German experience were suddenly whisked into an unfamiliar elsewhere. For all its humour, this project forcefully addressed fractious issues in Germany, and indeed throughout the world, having to do with national identity, mixing cultures, majorities and minorities.
Rather than commenting on these issues, Erkmen created a real-life situation, which was also a kind of spectacle and collective performance, in which people could live and think differently and more openly, temporarily unfettered by the usual rules, temporarily unburdened by ingrained biases and rigid habits of thought. SculptureCenter is located in a former trolley repair shop on a side street in Queens. With its non-art related history and unusual installation opportunities, the structure proved a perfect site for Erkmen.
Her spare yet complex response to the building, which traversed both its new design and its historical traces, was altogether wonderful and unorthodox. Titled Busy Colors, the installation began outside in the courtyard, with a huge, specially designed flooring rising a few inches above the ground.
Erkmen fitted the entire surface with the self-adhesive vinyl cover that one could walk upon. The cover was actually a digital print, with a background half in blue and the other half in yellowish gold; it featured two large images, mostly green, but with other colours factoring in.
These dual, giant-size images were baffling and ambiguous, difficult if not impossible to view in their entirety. They could have been machine parts, repair shop gadgets, some kind of toy, or a design invented by the artist. Several years ago, working from a photograph of an actual land mine, Erkmen crafted a sculptural version, which she digitized and incorporated into weirdly hypnotic videos p.
At SculptureCenter, the digital images were related to this film project. To enter the museum, one literally walked across the land mines, which were curiously colourful, festive and appealing, and which also looked a bit like paintings, or perhaps spray-painted graffiti. Land mines, or similar ordnance, explode all the time in Iraq and around the world, killing or maiming thousands.
They are manufactured in some of the countries that have so assiduously positioned themselves as fighting terrorism, notably the United States. While they conjured amok geopolitics and multiple wars, they also looked like playthings or some computer-designed science-fiction prototypes. Vivid and enticing, the colourful land mines made for a strange mix of menace and seduction. Inside the site, Erkmen focused not only on the main exhibition hall, where largescale sculptures can be shown, but also on peripheral machinery 25 feet above the floor. When the gantry crane kicked into noisy motion and began moving on its track from one end of the room to the other, one fabric expanse, which had been descending toward the floor in a gracefully curving arc, stretched out, elongated, and rose high up, while the other slowly descended on the opposite side of the room.
The play of colours was enthralling and meditative. It was best to spend considerable time with the work, to be there in the morning, afternoon and at dusk, to notice how the colours responded to the changing natural light from clerestory windows and, intermittently, the open garage door. As with space and light installations by artists such as Robert Irwin and James Turrell, here a minimal device becomes expansive, enlisting the whole environment. The dual colours glinted in upstairs windows as reflections, as if emanating into the space.
The grinding, metallic sound of the gantry crane resounded, and when it periodically stopped, quietude seemed intensified.
Dr. Jan-Hinrik Schmidt
One was easily persuaded to be open and attentive to both the work and everything else about the space, including its volume, walls, windows, light, upstairs office partitions and palpable history. As is usual for Erkmen, Busy Colors had multiple resonances, some lovely, others troubling.
There was something elegant about this aerial dance of ethereal hues, but also something manic and obsessive. At the same time, they functioned as marvellous thresholds, radically enhancing an experience of the space and acting as a ritual pageant of fluctuating concealment and revelation. Kunsthalle Fridericianum, Kassel , pp. Turkish artist Ayse Erkmen is known internationally for her provocative installations. For a recent exhibition at the Sculpture Center in Long Island City, she transformed the main space with huge swaths of colored fabric, and the courtyard with digital prints of land mines.
Ayse Erkmen is hardly a familiar figure in the New York art world, or anywhere else in the U. Prior to her recent exhibition at the Sculpture Center in Long Island City, she had shown only once in this country in a group show that I curated at Apex Art in New York , and her work has rarely been critically addressed here. Internationally, her reputation is much broader. The Turkish Erkmen, who has long divided her time between Istanbul and Berlin, has exhibited extensively and been widely acclaimed for mostly impermanent works that temporarily, yet decisively, transform pre-existing conditions, be they architectural settings or social situations.
Erkmen's materials have varied widely--lighting fixtures, walls, columns, a huge rock suspended just above a museum's glass roof, two live tigers, several taxidermied animals that mechanically danced, sightseeing boats on a river and statues dangling from a helicopter in flight, to name a few--and probably her chief medium is thought itself. Erkmen extensively researches her sites before devising intelligent and oftentimes eccentric responses that both utilize and disrupt what is already there, and that also come with a host of psychological, cultural and political connotations.
Throughout Erkmen's work, familiar things assume new roles and take on new meanings, peripheral details that you'd hardly notice at first glance assume unexpected prominence, and startling elements appear to abruptly shift the entire context. When the exhibition concludes, the work very often vanishes, to be preserved only in documentation--which means that Erkmen is a contrarian figure in a time when built-to-last art is prized by a resurgent market. I first encountered Erkmen's work at the Istanbul Biennial, at a time when her career outside Turkey was beginning to grow. A section of that biennial occupied a large warehouse on the Bosporus, formerly a customs house for the shipping industry, which had been empty for quite some time before being temporarily converted into an exhibition space.
Erkmen covered the inside of a freight elevator with gleaming sheets of corrugated steel--the same material once used for the shipping containers that passed through the building as a matter of course. Turning this otherwise undistinguished elevator into a luminous sculpture--it was not otherwise accessible--was already impressive, but Erkmen took things a step further.
The work was hilarious--a large-scale sculpture that periodically showed up, stuck around for a little while, and then departed. There was also something restless, manic and oddly contemplative about this sculpture-in-motion and motion is a recurring motif for Erkmen , which marked the "in-between" as a locus.
Erkmen's piece evoked arrival and departure, desire and loss, presence and memory--and the awkwardness you can feel when you're not sure where you belong. It also conflated such interior consciousness with the rhythms of shipping and commerce, so integral a part of life in Istanbul.
With this work, one discovers a favorite tactic of the artist: a mundane, non-art element is accentuated and diverted from its usual purpose, so that it acquires a surprising, transformative power. Although she has often worked with ordinary architectural features, Erkmen's transformations can involve an outlandish streak. A exhibition in Essen, Germany, featured two live tigers, named Ketty and Assam, who lived in a section of a former coking plant for a month.
The project provoked lots of impassioned debate on a variety of issues, from animal rights to the piece's status as art--but Erkmen is no stranger to controversy. For the "Munster Sculpture Project" exhibition, featuring works placed throughout the city, the artist chose as her site Muster's famous cathedral. She submitted first one, then another, then a third reasonable and interesting proposal, all of which were turned down by church officials. It became apparent that all further proposals would likewise be rejected, whether because of Erkmen's art or, as some suspected, because that art was being proposed by a woman from a Muslim country.
Instead of taking no for an answer, Erkmen determined that the church's legal jurisdiction only extended to a certain height above the steeple. Thus, for Sculptures on Air, 15th- and 16th-century figurative sculptures from the Westfalisches Landesmuseum's storage facility were fitted into a harness, attached to a helicopter and towed through the sky, hovering for a while above the church before being gingerly deposited on the ledge of the nearby museum's roof.
References included the famous helicopter scene in the beginning of Fellini's La Dolce Vita, as well as angelic flights, Christian ascensions and fantastical dreams. In essence, Erkmen engineered her own "miracle," which involved a great deal of disturbance and com motion, and outfoxed the fuming officials. Flying through the air and later precariously standing on the roof, Erkmen's figures were both magical and ungainly, and her piece became one of the signature projects of the exhibition.
Erkmen's most elaborate work to date, called Shipped Ships, which in inaugurated Deutsche Bank's "Moment" series of public art projects in Frankfurt am Main, was inspired in part by her status as a Turkish part-time resident in Germany. She arranged for three foreign sightseeing boats from Turkey, Japan and Italy, complete with their uniformed crews, to be shipped to Frankfurt. The photographs of this voyage, with small ships piggybacking on big ones--which Erkmen has likened to children "sitting on their mom's lap"--are an important part of the project.
The sightseeing boats took up residence on the river, offering regularly scheduled excursions conducted in the respective languages of the crews. Residents of Frankfurt could experience their city from the perspective of foreigners and of other cultures, while tourists, perhaps expecting an authentic German experience, were suddenly whisked into an unfamiliar elsewhere. For all its humor and humor is pronounced in Erkmen's deeply cerebral work , this project powerfully addressed fractious issues in Germany, and indeed throughout Western Europe, having to do with national identity and immigration, familiarity and otherness, "us" and "them.
With projects like that in the background, Erkmen's exhibition at the Sculpture Center was a welcome opportunity for a U. In , the center moved from its longtime home in Manhattan to a former trolley repair shop on a side street in Queens. Titled Busy Colors, the installation began outside, in the courtyard, with a huge, specially designed platform rising a few inches above the ground.
Erkmen fitted the entire surface of this platform with a self-adhesive vinyl cover that one could walk upon. The cover was actually a digital print, with a background half in blue and the other half in yellowish gold; it featured two large-scale images, mostly green, but with other colors factoring in. They could have been machine parts, repair-shop gadgets, some kind of toy, or a design invented by the artist. In fact, they were images of land mines--or, rather, Erkmen's highly mediated adaptation of land mines.
Several years ago, working from a photograph of an actual land mine, Erkmen crafted a sculptural version, which, in turn, she digitized and incorporated into a weirdly hypnotic video of various bouncing, rubbery land mines making an endless, goofy parade. At The Sculpture Center, the digital images were of Erkmen's fabricated device. To enter the museum, one literally walked across the land mines, which were curiously colorful, festive and appealing, and which also looked a bit like paintings, or perhaps spray-painted graffiti. Land mines, or similar ordnance, explode all the time in Iraq and around the world, killing and maiming thousands each year.
As with everything else having to do with Erkmen's work, however, the land-mine image resists easy or straightforward interpretation. While, as a lethal device, it conjures amok geo-politics and multiple wars, it also looks like a plaything or some computer-designed, science-fiction prototype. It might also be a tongue-in-cheek reminder of Erkmen's own role as an occasionally controversial and incendiary artist who comes to both beguile and disturb. Vivid and enticing, the colorful land mines make for a nice mix of menace and seduction.
In researching the site, Erkmen focused not only on the interior space of the main exhibition hall, where large-scale sculptures can be shown, but also on peripheral machinery 25 feet above the floor. Here, inside the building, two great expanses of translucent fabric, one magenta Polysilk and the other greenish-blue nylon, were attached to an overhead, ton gantry crane remaining from the building's industrial days. That's how it went, an austere system of rising and falling colors, at times conjuring theater curtains, billowing flags and parachutes, and at other times forming vertical, rectangular expanses that suggested an admixture of walls and monochrome paintings.
The play of colors was enthralling and meditative. It was best to spend considerable time with the work, to be there in the morning, afternoon and at dusk, to notice how the colors responded to the changing natural light from clerestory windows and, intermittently, the open garage door. As with space and light installations by artists such as Robert Irwin, here a minimal device becomes expansive, enlisting the whole environment.
The dual colors glinted in upstairs windows as reflections, as if emanating into the space. As is usual for Erkmen, Busy Colors had multiple resonances, at times lovely, at other times troubling. There was something elegant about this aerial dance of ethereal hues, but also something manic, obsessive and unnerving.
Erkmen's fabrics operated as barriers, restricting the space, and they also felt slightly threatening, especially when bearing down on the viewer. At the same time, they functioned as marvelous thresholds, radically enhancing an experience of the space through a constantly fluctuating concealment and revelation. Gregory Volk is a New York-based art critic and curator.
In their colorful lightness, these images at first seem to lack the seriousness that we inevitably associate with professional verbal pronouncements. However, the illustrations are anything but a refusal. In this respect, we are given a particularly suitable portrait of the artist, who is perpetually en route between Istanbul and Berlin and all the other places where she realizes her works, mostly conceived with an eye toward the concrete situation and executed in various materials and forms. In her interdisciplinary practice, drawings and photography are among the less often employed media; spoken or written language is also utilized only once in a while, most pointedly in in the installation Am Haus on the house in Berlin.
These owe their calligraphic allure to a grammatical particularity of the Turkish language which was written in the Arabic alphabet until the s, when in the course of secularization it was replaced by Roman : the punched plastic letterforms with dashes designate verb endings and describe events in the past that were not experienced by the narrator, but were conveyed to him or her by a third party.
Thus, these are the accounts of another, not present, and are identified as such through the suffixes: accounts that ultimately may or may not be faithful to the way it really happened.
Culture and Time | Publish your master's thesis, bachelor's thesis, essay or term paper
As is well known, an essential characteristic of the oral transfer of knowledge and experience is the strongly subjective coloring of what is being told by the one speaking. In this way, the letterforms indicate the overlay of narrative voices in a story, the original author of which remains absent. The artist herself as author and authority remains scarcely graspable, ghostly behind her interventions into spatial and social situations, which nevertheless always result from her concrete engagement with and presence on the site.
Indeed, with her formally reduced interventions she inscribes the architecture or the site of the particular context markedly and distinctly. What are the reasons behind it? Furthermore how can we be able to detect such reasons or misunderstandings? And how can we avoid or react? There are a lot of parts of culture which differ. In this paper we want to talk about the aspect of time. So first of all what is time? How do we feel time? And how do we handle it? It is clear that there are cultures which are more affected by natural influences and some which are a more affected in a technical way Hall , p.
Of course there are a lot of different definitions of culture, because it is a complex and difficult term used in different contexts. As basis for this paper culture is used according to Trompenaars and Hampden-Turner , p. These authors think about culture like an onion as you can see in Fehler!
Verweisquelle konnte nicht gefunden werden.. So values have a strong influence on the ideals of a group. The core comprehends the basic assumptions about existence of life. It includes the ways of survival depending on certain environmental situations and is solved automatically e. Trompenaars and Hampden-Turner , p. First of all it is necessary to mention that human beings have a biological time. It evolved because of environmental influences like day and night cycles, temperature changes, ebb-flow rhythm and other.
Generally there are two time concepts, one of them express the biological time which is important to put our physiological functions like sleeping in a certain order. The second time concepts depend on solar, lunar and annual cycles Hall and Hall , p. Of course when we as Germans think about time we will think first about seconds, minutes and hours, time as a straight line of discrete events. But this view is not the only one.
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Another idea of it would be time as a circle. It means that everything is repeating minutes of the hour, hours of the day etc. Trompenaars and Hampden- Turner , p. First of all it should be mentioned that there are different attitudes to time which influence our sense and handling of it. The following subchapters will describe some of the most important attitudes to time.