Silva Bingaz and Opus 3c: In Pursuit of the Unseen and the Unrecorded

Artist photographer Silva Bingaz’s exhibition, Opus 3c, opened on February 17 at Öktem Aykut Art Gallery. Showcasing photographs taken by Bingaz in Latvia in 2017, the exhibition constitutes the third phase of her project Coast, which she began in 2002 in Yeşilköy, Istanbul, and describes as “the backbone of my personal photographic journey.” The artist held the first exhibition of the series in 2007. Later, in 2010, she was invited to an artist residency program in Japan, where she published a book titled Japan Coast based on her work there.

Bingaz’s photography goes beyond the conventional act of “taking a photograph” (capturing an image and taking it away). Through her predominantly black-and-white frames, she translates the divine moment of encounter between images and the gaze into an infinite narrative in the most intimate way possible. Drawing from her new exhibition, we spoke with Bingaz about the processes of documenting the acts of “giving birth; and the efforts to record the act of bringing into existence, the act that remains unrecorded and rather traditionally unknown”

Is the title of the exhibition ‘Opus 3c’ because it is the third step in your ‘Coast’ journey?

Yes. Although ‘Coast’ began in 2002, it was actually my third project in sequence; before that, I had worked on ‘Where, if not at home?’ and ‘Beyan’. ‘Opus 3c’ signifies the third part of my third project. In Latvia, I felt as if I were transcribing the notes occupying a composer’s mind onto paper. There was a piece of music in my head from beginning to end, and I felt like I was turning it into music, complete with its parts. It was as if I already knew I would write all the parts without needing any revisions. I had set the duration myself: three weeks. A composition to be written in three weeks.
This series plays, at an increasingly loud volume, the score of the unseen, unrecorded, and often overlooked poetics of motherhood. The other parts of the symphony in my mind accompany the main score with their own presence, without overshadowing it. When I shared this musical reference with dear Tankut, one of the founders of Öktem Aykut, we found the title for the exhibition together.
In ‘Opus 3c’, I tried something new. The exhibition space contains many partitions. On the surface of one of these partitions, I become another photographer—Ed van der Elsken, a photographer I deeply admire, whose work had a cult-like influence in his time, inspiring many to shoot like him…

Can you share some details about the invitation to Latvia, the locations where you took the photographs, and how they connected with the women on the coast?
I first went to Latvia in 2017 for a three-week photography trip. However, my reasons for choosing Latvia were not entirely about Latvia itself. My main motivation was to establish a connection that would allow me to feel safe and, at the same time, make others feel comfortable trusting me. The availability of financial means that would allow me to relocate if needed and the presence of a modern environment where a female photographer could move freely also made my decision easier.

I traveled to Riga somewhat in haste to avoid missing the midsummer celebrations. But unlike my previous photography journeys, being a mother myself, this time, I was more interested in questioning the role of motherhood—particularly societal motherhood. Before leaving, I had written to Julia, my only contact there, expressing my desire to meet people who would volunteer to work with me, especially women with children. After announcing my request, Julia told me that a few people were interested in meeting me. The last person I met during the first phase of introductions was a mother who was also deeply interested in photography. My journey in Latvia began by pushing the stroller of Ilze’s baby—Ilze had arrived at our meeting with an old baby carriage.

In one of your writings about your work in Japan, you said: “Wherever I go in the world, I try to build my own cocoon. But I am also influenced by the uniqueness of the place and time. When you dig a little deeper to see what lies beneath the surface, you realize that every city has its own mysterious and unique spirit. This uniqueness causes small shifts in my work as I build my cocoon.” When you went to Latvia, the musical piece was already composed, the coast was different, the people were different, and you had a cocoon. Is your cocoon the ‘musical piece’ you mentioned was pre-existing, or are you referring to a different kind of cocoon?

What enables me to write the music in my mind are my questions. The volume of this questioning fluctuates throughout my journey in life, which in turn leads to the formation of a new cocoon. Of course, the region itself also has its own spirit. For example, in Latvia, the birth rate of girls is higher. Or, in former Eastern Bloc countries, the feminist struggle of women who were able to participate in the workforce has been dulled. Labor rights have not necessarily prevented children and mothers from being left to their own fate or from having to struggle with poverty and psychological difficulties.

In one of the photographs in the exhibition, there is a woman with a tattoo of a crying woman on her right breast. She is breastfeeding her baby on the other breast, and milk is dripping from her right breast as well. The parallel between the tear in the tattoo and the dripping milk moved me deeply. I suppose we can approach the stories of women who have been left to raise their children on their own through this photograph. We cannot fully understand, but we can come closer to these stories. There is also the story of a woman who keeps sheep in her home and has a sheep’s head in her house—something I am very curious about.

I always ask, "Where are the animals of the city?" This question makes me think about human-animal relationships. Unfortunately, it is very difficult for an animal to survive in the city without having some kind of relationship with humans. I come across interesting people who interact with animals. The woman in the photograph you mentioned is an ‘old-fashioned’ person who looks after her sheep the way others look after dogs. The sheep wear collars, and she takes them for walks. One of her sheep was going to die, and people told her, "Why don’t you slaughter and eat it? Otherwise, the meat will go to waste." She was so devastated by this remark that, after the sheep died naturally, she kept its head and later stored it in the refrigerator.

Mikiko Kikuta, in her writing about your work in Japan, said: “What cannot be seen cannot be photographed. (…) However, what is produced here from the works of Bingaz must be a sort of bare feelings of extreme pain, or somewhat heart-wrenching caused by unbearable sadness or borderline madness, which cannot be precisely explained in words, even if with any concepts, techniques, philosophies, or histories of fine arts as available.” The photographs of mothers, in particular, can be interpreted through this lens of pain. There is also an element of playfulness in the mother-child relationship.

Playfulness is present in men. But in the series, we mostly see women as caregivers, while men are more engaged in the ‘play’ aspect. I had sent you some photographs. One of them was taken when I traveled to Latvia for the second time, to visit my friend Soula, who was undergoing cancer treatment—it captured a moment where Soula was feeding her husband with a vitamin dropper. Another was of a woman breastfeeding. When you saw these, you said something that stayed with me: “We feed the husband, we feed the child.”
This reminded me of Umberto Eco’s concepts of ‘the author’s intention,’ ‘the reader’s intention,’ and ‘the text’s intention.’ Here, what is at play is my intention, your intention as the viewer, and the intention of ‘Opus 3c.’ Once images meet the audience, they embark on a journey of their own. As much as I can, I try to allow for that journey to unfold.

During the webinar we held with you as Parrhesia Collective, you mentioned that at a very young age, you were exposed to stories too heavy for your age to carry. Are there intersections between this experience and the women’s stories in your exhibition?

The artist Anselm Kiefer asks this question about Paul Celan, who lost his mother, homeland, and mother tongue to World War II: “What did Celan feel as a Jew writing in German, the language of those who had taken everything from him?”. If art is something that can be learned and practiced, then it is also the place where what cannot be learned, what is unlearnable and unexpected, is revealed. This, truly, cannot be explained; I believe it comes from being the Other, from an unexplainable pain, a wound. There are, of course, many artists within the dominant nation and dominant gender. But in recent years, I have come to believe more strongly that those who manifest the unexpected more often emerge from marginalized artists. That is why I say, you cannot go to art.

You set out to become an artist, you do many things, you become an artist, and you even earn the prestigious title of an artist. But to me, it should be the opposite—art should come to you. Art is something that comes to you; your life brings art to you. Of course, today, with the increasing number of art schools and art production operating within the networks of the modern world—these exist and make themselves heard. But there is also another undercurrent, something moving beneath the surface. There are people whom art visits. And in that sense, it is not just about who these people are, but rather, where they come from and what they have lived through—that, I believe, is far more significant.

The French psychoanalyst Gaudilliere, who works on historical trauma, once said: "What cannot be spoken cannot remain silent either." When I came to the exhibition, you led me to a photograph and asked, "What do you see in this photo?" In the image, at the back of a boat docked at the shore, beside the ladder, there is a clock displaying the time: 19:15. I’m sure there are others who, like me, immediately thought of 1915 upon seeing this frame. We can’t see anything else—there is that reality as well.

Yes, in the photo, there is an electronic clock and a sailor. The reason I took that shot was because the clock happened to show 19:15 at that moment. When I saw it, I said to myself, "Ah, whenever you see these numbers—even on a clock—you immediately interpret them differently." I initially wanted to keep this frame as a personal memory, thinking it was something only meaningful to me. But later, it became one of the words in a sentence that wasn’t so clearly formed in my mind before the exhibition. The theme of the exhibition is definitely not 1915, but an image related to who I am has also become part of this exhibition.

In your photographs, each visitor will find a different narrative, perhaps another meaning related to their own journey. It feels like you have made space for this in the exhibition, and that it is also reflected in the overall design of the show.

It’s true that I wanted to allow the audience space. Rather than presenting fixed and definitive contexts, I aimed to create open areas within the exhibition space. In my mind, I was envisioning Bosch’s triptych paintings. At this stage, I worked with Sevim Sancaktar and Yavuz Parlar on the exhibition design, and together we created structures that float in the air, form gaps, and have curved elements. The story I was trying to tell unfolded throughout the exhibition like chapters in a book. In both the production and installation phases, dear Doğa, one of the founders of Öktem Aykut, also made significant contributions. In short, it was truly a collaborative effort.