Artists’ Imaginary Zones

I found the “room of one’s own” that I was searching for to think and write at Tokatlıyan Han.  In keeping with the spirit of the han, instead of calling my room a studio, I called it yazıhane  (bureau), as lawyers and accountants do. Although I did not aim to observe the han from the  inside as a researcher, from the moment I settled in, observing it like an ethnographer and  accumulating the acts of witnessing turned into a dominant reflex. As this reflex turned into  documentation, it gained the potential to make a small contribution to writing of today’s history.  One of the first notes I kept regarding my relationship with the han from an ethnographic  perspective was as follows:  

I have been wandering through this han like a ghost for years. For almost fifteen years, mostly when I am  alone in Beyoğlu, as I pass in front of the han, I suddenly turn the wheel inward and take a short walk  between occupations or rushes. Every time I enter the han, another shop that I knew has closed or its  owners have left the han. No fresh people take their place either. When those who spent their lives  producing inside the shops leave their place, the colourful shop windows slowly begin to darken. The  remnants visible behind the glass display cases are quickly covered with dust. The smell of time here is  sharp. At the entrance of the han, I catch the intense scent of lavender wafting from the sachets in the  basket of the woman dressed in purple who greets me at the door.  

What would happen if those remaining in the han were to leave as well? Can this place carry its past  without people, solely through the rough skeleton of the space and the traces within it? If the signs left  from the past lives cannot be embodied through the memory of the living, how will lifeless architecture,  history that has lost its subjects, or interrupted memory be of use to us? With these questions in my mind,  I search in this han, able to preserve its spirit in some extent, for that room I will make my own, facing the  back garden of the church, where I will settle. (Mayıs, 2022) 

The han where I settled to establish an intellectual base turned into a shared living space, a  collective sphere that at times allows autonomy. This place, where the sense of dilapidation and  abandonment was dominant, which had been imprinted on memories as something no possible  to revive, and where circulation and liveliness inside have gradually decreased from the 2000s to  today, came back life together with the artists. Although it cannot be compared to its flamboyant times, it partially continues its function as a place of production with its handicraftsmen.  Handicraftsmen and artists form parts of the same ecosystem by sharing this common space. In  order to stand against the dispossessing nature of gentrification that has deeply affected Beyoğlu,  it is important to be able to preserve this cultural ecosystem.  

Tokatlıyan offers a distinctive spatial experience for the artists: It is both central and out of sight,  suitable for creating seclusion within liveliness. It has not been cut off from its history, therefore, it has not been lost; and with the arrival of artists it has found its rhythm again. Among the  passages and hans in Beyoğlu surrendered to capital, it remains a structure that has not  completely drifted away from its old spirit. There were artists[1] here long before those who settled  on the second and third floors of the han[2] later. Alongside Kalan Müzik, musicians who have  made the han their nest over time and the music group Vomank, which has been producing  alternative music focused on Armenian music in its studio here for nearly ten years, are present in  the han.[3] The presence of musicians in the han not only diversifies the sounds of the space but  also makes possible an interdisciplinary interaction between visual arts and music. Let me also  remind you that Tokatlıyan Hotel was, in the past, a frequent meeting place for the worlds of art,  literature, and music.[4]  

I also happened to play a role, albeit coincidentally, in the han’s transformation into a living space  for artists. After I rented a bureau here, I took the initiative to help artists and cultural workers  who were looking for studios to rent rooms, which created a snowball effect. As familiar names  kept inviting other names here, a community emerged who knew one another and valued  solidarity by forming new acquaintances.  

Shortly thereafter, the fact that building where the Akademililer Art Center resided on Balo Street  went into renovation became another factor in this transformation. Due to its proximity to  Tokatlıyan’s old buildings, they shifted their new studio spaces to the han. As a result, within two  years the han turned into a small neighborhood. Not only did the number of artists renting  studios increase, but the number of people who formed a bond with the han and visited from  time to time also grew considerably. Guests became more and more frequent, and current  debates in the art field became the subject of lively conversations. Artists take turns modeling for  one another; sketches, drawings, and paints spread out in front of the han’s doors and turn into  individual ex-libris. The difference between the time that envelops the space and the time of the  outside world becomes perceptible.  

A couplet from my field notes in which I describe the flow of a day at Tokatlıyan with an  ethnographic reflex:  

I like the early hours of Beyoğlu. While everyone is busy opening their shops, sweeping the shopfronts, and  unloading goods, I witness the awakening of life. Among all the different states of Beyoğlu, these are  probably the moments when labor and life are felt the most strongly. Crows rummage through thrash left  over from the night. If I have a load, I take the tram; otherwise, I walk from Tünel toward the han, thinking  about how I will spend my day there. I usually enter the han from the main entrance. If it is not too early,  Sevinç Abla, lavender seller, is at the door. Starting the day by talking with her feels good. In front of the  elevator, İsa greets me with his brightly colored shirt and smiling face. Since I began coming to the han, we  have a special bond with him. I tap my card for the elevator. When I reach the second floor, if no one has  arrived yet, I flip the electrical switch in the corridor and turn on the lights of the floor. Glancing at the  images on the doors of the artists’ rooms, I come to the window facing the “botanical” garden. If it is a  summer day, I check who is there from the open windows in the void of the han. I take a breath. After  turning down the corridor, I reach my room, jangling my keys. The first thing to do is to make coffee and  water the plants while the coffee is brewing. This is how the days begin. (March 2023)

The artists’ approach and production practices, and thus the relationships they establish with art,  are quite different from one another. There is an atmosphere where proximities vary according to  the need for solidarity, political view, and the rhythm of life. While the han’s non monolithic and  non homogeneous character is an advantage, differences in attitudes toward intergenerational  communication, horizontal organization, and hierarchical discourse also stand out in collective  decision making processes for collective work. It seems more accurate to say that the artists of  the han are not an initiative gathered around shared principles, but rather a community of artists  brought together on the basis of neighborliness. As the groups who live and produce in the han  change over the years, the memory of the space is also reconstructed through narratives, and  while a layered and deepening knowledge of everyday life accumulates, the fact that rent levels are  no longer affordable for artists deepens uncertainty about the future.  

The Monastery of Tarlabaşı  

Another example that can be considered a terrain of artists like Tokatlıyan, the Monastery has a  unique story shaped by its architectural and historical qualities. Known as the İstanbul Art  Center, the Monastery has turned into a living space for artists in Tarlabaşı. The Beyoğlu Anarad  Higutyun School, which originally began serving as an Armenian Catholic Girls’ School in 1843,  was closed in 1982 on the grounds that the neighborhood was no longer suitable for a school.[5] In  1988, becoming the set of the TRT television series titled Cahide, based on the story of Cahide  Sonku, marked the starting point of the adventure for artists. With an agreement reached with the  Anarad Hığutyun Foundation, the space began to function as a film set and to form relationships  with artists. This process continued until 2006. Theater practitioners, painters, performance  artists, dancers, actors, associations, and well known figures gradually settled into the space.[6] This  place, where innovative theatrical forms were realized through site specific performances, where  music performances and parties were held on the terrace at night, and where painters continued  to produce, also found a place in the memory of independents and social movements.[7] In 2007,  the Monastery was allocated to Toros Incorporated Company in return for rent on condition that  maintenance and repairs be carried out in accordance with the original structure.[8] In 2013, news  began to circulate that the five floor building would be converted into a thirty bed hotel within  the scope of Tarlabaşı Renewal Project.[9] 

The 1990s, shaped by the destructive effects of the 1980 coup, marked a period in which  neoliberal economic accumulation was decisive in the relationship between capital and art, while this structure, where artistic expression and creative forces were spatially organized, existed in an  informal and independent manner. The space, shrunk by political pressure, became home to a  collective stance oriented toward the reflex of swimming against the current. The Monastery can  be considered a symbol of togetherness between residents and artists that refuse gentrification in  Tarlabaşı, a neighborhood that became a dwelling for marginalized identities, local and foreign  migrants, and underground culture.[11]  

When I first saw this building in Tarlabaşı in the 2000s, its brick red plaster, the spacing between  floors indicating ceiling heights, its arched windows, and its ornamentation caught my attention.  However, at the time I did not yet know that this was a former school building that had turned  into an oasis for artists. 

Watching the movie Tarlabaşı… Tarlabaşı…directed by Hilmi Etikan, which tells of Tarlabaşı  being severed from Beyoğlu by means of a boulevard, like a cut drawn with a ruler, was a  shattering experience.[13] In that film, reminiscent of scenes specific to the Second World War and  making one feel the sense of ruin to the core, there were people whose eyes revealed their anxiety  about the future, who were forced to watch the destruction of their neighborhood with pain and  astonishment from their windows.  The opening of Monastery, which blossomed from the lives of artists on the edge of Tarlabaşı  Boulevard, had not yet reached its first anniversary, the movie Tarlabaşı… Tarlabaşı… received an  award.[14] It has been more than twenty years since I watched the movie. These days, images from  the movie depicting Madam Anahit, the accordionist who never lacked a rose on her lapel in  Çiçek Passage, mourning with her music in front of building ruins, have begun circulating again  on social media.

At this city changes form through destruction accompanied by neoliberal policies, its creative  subjects search new caves where they can breathe, and only on rare occasions, they find them.  However, new dynamics also transform these spaces, and in the end, they are too lost. Despite  this, the auras of places, extraordinary people, and witnessed events are inscribed into a shared  memory. Losses are spread over time, yet they continue to exist in minds.  

There are many common points between the Monastery and Tokatlıyan, such as their ownership  structures, their management through Armenian church foundations, their formation through the  heritage of non Muslim communities, and their ability to function as spaces of multiculturalism  and multiple disciplines. There are also shared tendencies between Monastery and Tokatlıyan,  such as the deliberate selection of artists among those who wish to rent rooms and the attention  paid to creating shared concentrations on certain floors. In Tokatlıyan, in the consideration of  past experiences, those who wished to rent space were met through a conversation seen as an  interview. The realization of acceptance into the space through conversation was intended to  safeguard the neighborhood ecosystem there. Another common point of these two old spaces  may be their lack of comfort. For instance, while reading an interview in which İnci Eviner[15], one  of the artists with a studio in the Monastery, emphasized how poor the toilet conditions were, I  am reminded that despite the fifteen year gap, we have been engaged in a similar struggle for a  year in Tokatlıyan to have the toilets renovated. Despite shortcomings in meeting the  expectations of modern life, like İnci Eviner, we too go to the han every morning with great  excitement. We share a sense of being in a place where worn surfaces and objects expand time,  and where smells, colors, and encounters shape everyday life.  

Narmanlı, Deprived of its Home and Spirit  

In Beyoğlu, Narmanlı Yurdu was one of the places that artists are backed in terms of art and  cultural history, directly influencing artistic production practices while also becoming a  nourishing source and a frequented point of the social sphere beyond this role. It was one of the  sites that carried water to the multicultural universe of a livable Beyoğlu.  

Like the Monastery, it was a world where artists’ rooms looked onto the same courtyard[16], and  like Tokatlıyan, where different cultural understandings and forms of artistic expression shared  the same living space. The moment one turned inward from the intense pedestrian flow of  İstiklal Avenue, it revealed a texture that surprised us with its scale, as we passed among cats,  acacia trees, and wisteria surrounding the pool. Knowing the past of Raşit Bey and his family,  who took the guardianship of the han for more than seventy years[17], and partially witnessing the life of Miktat Şahin, who came to the han in 1970 and lived there from that point on, has enabled  me to think about the history of the han together with stories of displacement. Thanks to the  narratives of those who passed through the han, as well as artists and writers, the story of the han  has reached the present day. 

The Abdullah Brothers’ photography studio was in Narmanlı. In the 1940s, Ahmet Hamdi  Tanpınar wrote his novel Huzur here, and his presence in Narmanlı was reflected in the  characters of the book and permeated his relationship with Istanbul.[18] It is known that Tanpınar  covered the windows of his room with newspaper sheets instead of curtains and paid a  reasonable amount of rent.[19]  

Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu and Aliye Berger, the sculptor Firsek Karol, and Zühtü Müridoğlu were  also artists who had studios in Narmanlı. Among those who frequently came and went to the han  were Haldun Dormen, Sabahattin Eyüpoğlu, and, one of Turkey’s first women sculptors, Mari  Gerekmezyan[20], as well as the painter Zeki Faik İzer, Adalet Cimcoz and Mehmet Ali Cimcoz.  Tables, songs, and conversations…

The first painting exhibition of the D Group artists was opened here. The Mimoza Hat Shop,  where painting exhibitions were held, was also on the ground floor. Neş’et Atay, who worked for  Ulus Newspaper, Jamanak Newspaper, Andrea Bookstore, and the second-hand bookstore and  record shop Deniz Bookstore, which was noted for its association with underground culture,  were located in the han.[23] The Greek language newspaper Apoyevmatini, whose administrative  office was in the Syria Apartment, was printed here.[24] With the 2000s, tenants began to leave the  han and it started to empty. Arif Keskiner’s testimony summarizes this atmosphere as follows: 

Inside Narmanlı Han there was Bedri Rahmi’s studio. Later it became a gallery and so on. On the upper  floor there was Aliye Berger, the sister of the Halikarnas Fisherman, she had her studio upstairs. About  once a month Aliye Abla would host a cocktail there. We would join too, to drink free alcohol. She would  make yellow vodkas […] Years later, Abidin Abi’s first exhibition opened in Narmanlı. In Bedri  Rahmi’s Gallery. I bought a few paintings from there, and I had my brother buy some as well. I  had met Abidin Abi years earlier in Moscow. Narmanlı Han had such a thing like that. Also, Atıf  Abi had established a company there called Yerli Film, which was his first partnership. He  partnered with Orhan Günşınay. His first office was there in Narmanlı. At the entrance, straight  ahead on the left. It was a beautiful place.[25]  

Narmanlı Han was one of the oldest buildings of Beyoğlu, constructed in 1831 as the Russian  Embassy Building. From the mid nineteenth century onward, it was used as a Russian prison, and  after the October Revolution of 1917, life in the han revived with the arrival of Russian refugees in Istanbul. Trotsky also stayed in Narmanlı and at the Tokatlıyan Hotel before going to  Büyükada.  

In 1933, merchant brothers Avni and Sıtkı28 Narman from the Narman district of Erzurum  purchased Narmanlı. Thanks to the brothers’ lack of concern for making profit, their love of art,  and their modest disposition, the rooms of the han were rented to artists and publishing houses  at low prices, and the han became a habitat, a home for artists.[29] Sometimes the socialization of  spaces begins with a modest invitation to a shared area woven through human relationships. The  world established here transforms property owners into the true owners of the space, to whom  gratitude is owed.

At Narmanlı Han, protests were organized with the participation of the members of social  movements and components of civil society, on the grounds that the building’s original fabric  was not preserved, its place in collective memory was wounded, the trees in the courtyard were  cut down, and the space was commercialized. The transformation of Narmanlı Han in  contradiction to its own history was criticized.  

There are things from the past that remain in my memory. I would look in through the gate of  Narmanlı. If Miktat Amca was in the courtyard, I would ask how he was and have tea with him.  As my visits became more frequent, I slowly began to recognize the cats as well. I would bring  along dried fruit or fruit leather that my mother prepared in season, that I know he and his family  enjoyed. At our last meeting, Miktat Amca said, “I need a little more time to tell the past.” Before  the time he needed had passed, he was forced to leave Narmanlı, and shortly thereafter he passed  away. We are witnesses to their sorrows.  

Zeki Müren, Orhan Gencebay, Müjdat Gezen, Atıf Yılmaz, I will tell you about all of them, but  give me time. I am going through a difficult period. I am even thinking of writing a book about  Narmanlı. As I speak now, everyone comes before my eyes. Aliye Berger, Bedri Rahmi, Ferit  Edgü… My father remembered Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar well. He apparently always carried a  black cat in his arms. I always lived here with distinguished, cultured people. There was Sarkis  Bey, who brought food every day to the cats of Narmanlı, and Meral Hanım, who carried food to  them from the fish market. Meral Hanım gave everything she had to feed the cats. She and my  father would feed them together. There was Turan Bey, who stayed for three years with the Dalay  Lama, who knew almost everything, from law to judgeship to veterinary medicine… (May 2015)[32]

The questions in my mind multiply. I wonder where the sign that once hung at the entrance of  the han reading “Narmanlı Han No. 390” is now. Today, we encounter only an imitation of this  sign. 

What follows is a process in which the subjects change but similar stories are encountered.  Narmanlı Han was purchased for fifty seven million dollars by Mehmet Erkul, the owner of  Erkul Cosmetics, and Tekin Esen, the owner of Eteksan Textile. The restoration work lasted  nearly two and a half years. Not only Miktat Amca and his family, but also the cats living in the  courtyard were displaced. First they were moved to the around of Tünel and then dispersed to  different corners of Beyoğlu. For this reason, Narmanlı is the site of a story of displacement  involving a family and hundreds of cats.  

These examples, which concern what cannot be converted into money, carry references that  enrich our imaginations regarding the relationship subjects establish with space and require us to  think about needs in the field of art.  

The Monastery and Narmanlı, which we lost over time along with their artist ecosystems, have  ceased to be spaces that producing subjects can appropriate. Tokatlıyan Han, beyond the context  in which I have tried to convey its potentials, is also moving away from being a permanent space  for artists due to rents in Beyoğlu approaching market rates. It is turning into a temporary place  where commercial expectations are prioritized in its management. While worrying about the  difficulties and impossibilities of establishing a new studio in Beyoğlu, it is also necessary to  remember that this is an economically chronic and painful problem in another district of Istanbul  or in another city as well.