Tightly Knotted to a Similar String

Tightly Knotted to a Similar String

After the sudden loss of my dear friend, artist and academic Gülçin Aksoy, I came across the sentence “we are not free yet” while looking through one of her notebooks. Since April 2024, I’ve been reflecting on that phrase — “we are not free yet” — which Gülçin had pasted into her notebook in large letters. What she meant by this sentence led me into long mental exercises, and those exercises, in turn, pushed me toward creating an exhibition about freedom. It’s an exhibition about feeling trapped, about gender norms, about living in Istanbul. The result of the questions I’ve been asking myself: Is freedom an illusion, or are we being objectified under the guise of it? Are we caught in a fantasy of freedom, or are we aware of being trapped? Is it possible for women who are afraid to walk freely and alone in the streets to feel free at all? As Kazantzakis once proposed, is the prerequisite for freedom to expect nothing and fear nothing — as inscribed on his gravestone: “I hope for nothing, I fear nothing, I am free”? Even though freedom is a universal and somewhat weary concept, debated for a very long time and supported by a vast body of literature, it is still worth thinking about — and remains relevant today.

The phrase “Tightly Knotted to a Similar String” was the title of an episode from Anne with an E, a series I love deeply. Adapted from Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables, the show explores feminist transformations in 19th-century Canada and also delves into the layers of emancipation. The title is derived from a line in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, spoken by Mr. Rochester to Jane: “Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you. Especially when you are near me as you are now. It feels as though I had a string tied here under my left rib where my heart is, tightly knotted to you in a similar fashion.”

For the exhibition “Being Tied to a Similar String”, I invited five artists whose work, either directly or indirectly, engages with the concept of freedom — whose practices evoke, for me, forms of freedom or a sense of entrapment. The exhibition is concerned with the burdens we carry, with the ways gender norms chip away at our freedom, and with the ongoing effort to carve out spaces where we can breathe. It points to the fact that the struggle is not yet over — and perhaps can never truly be. It focuses on the residues, slogans, words, modes of expression, and possibilities that remain in the wake of March 8th — a day that should be celebrated with joy and freedom — and the broader gender awareness that stretches across the month.

Eylül Ceren Ersöz’s painting “Gulf War”, created for the exhibition, is a quiet act of resistance — a gesture toward remaining human in the midst of destruction. The lamb held in a child’s hands is not only a creature in need of protection, but also the last fragile thread anchoring their existence. In the heart of violence and chaos, the effort to stay human transforms into an instinct to protect another life — an instinct tied not only to survival, but also to freedom. A body that has lost control over its own life yet still chooses to try and save another becomes a symbol of freedom in its purest form. This figure chooses to resist, to assert its presence in the shadow cast by collective catastrophe over individual existence. It fights to carve out a subjective space of being. Here, freedom is not tied to a place or to boundaries; on the contrary, it lies hidden in the power to choose — even in the most restricted moments. Against the erasure imposed by war, against the twist to reduce a life to mere statistics, this small gesture becomes a declaration of identity and freedom: “I am here, I still feel, and I still choose.”

Merve Dündar’s “What Accumulates” series has been evolving since 2017, composed of words that have occupied her mind — terms frequently used in contemporary discourse — brought together in a spontaneous and experiential way. Over time, new words are added, layering over earlier forms and creating new strata. In these works, the artist treats words as materials. The resulting forms offer glimpses into an inner landscape, while simultaneously evoking a sense of disorder and boundlessness — intertwining with the manipulations born from today’s rapid flow of information.

In her stitched works on paper titled “Legacy: Woman” and “Legacy: Man” (2024), Dündar explores the ideological dimensions of language. The Turkish Language Association’s dictionary, first published in 1945, is regularly updated to reflect changes in language, with its 12th edition released in 2023. By tracing the shifting meanings of certain words over time, the artist follows the trail of cultural and social transformation, posing questions such as: “Where do our social codes originate? What are the codes carried and passed down by our mothers, fathers, and elders? How much of these codes have we inherited, and how are we transmitting them to those who come after us? Through words, what kind of authority is established over us?”

Meltem Şahin, whose work makes visible the relationship between digital and physical modes of production, draws on the legend of the Waqwaq Tree in her piece “Rupture”, created specifically for this exhibition. In the myth, women are depicted hanging by their hair from the tree—passive objects of desire. In contrast, in this work, the women reclaim their narratives: the central figure refuses to be torn apart, refuses to be violated, and instead severs her own hair—claiming her freedom. As she falls, she throws the scissors to another woman—one woman’s escape becomes the possibility of liberation for others. “Rupture” is a reimagining of the Waqwaq Tree illustration from the manuscript Kitab al-Bulhan (The Book of Wonders). The Arabic inscription accompanying the original image has been altered by the artist to read “The Woman’s Liberation from the Waqwaq Tree.” This work not only reinterprets a historical myth but also gestures toward the Jin, Jiyan, Azadî (Women, Life, Freedom) movement in Iran. The cutting of the hair is not a sign of loss—it is a symbol of revolt.

For Erdem Varol, taking photographs is a way of staying alive. As an artist, his greatest source of inspiration is Istanbul—a city where every corner reveals a different story. Even when he travels to other places, he finds himself taking photographs shaped by the imprint of Istanbul. Over the years, he feels he has begun to resemble the city he lives in: caught between East and West, modernity and tradition, the crowd and the self. Always in motion, yet somehow motionless. The photographs from his series “Lean on the Sun When Night Falls”, shown for the first time in this exhibition, take shape through emotions that surface in chance encounters.

Irmak Dönmez, who transforms ceramics through feminist interventions, has created new works for the “Tightly Knotted to a Similar String” exhibition. In her porcelain pieces shaped like envelopes—what she calls “letters to the sisters”—the artist inscribes feminist slogans such as “dump him,” “i can’t fix your fragile masculinity,” and “if you fear the dark at night we’ll burn the city down,” invoking the spirit of March 8th Women’s Day marches. Addressing the threats women face and the femicides they witness, her piece “Dear Past” (2021), which features a t-shirt worn by Çilem Doğan reading “dear past, thanks for all the lessons,” also takes its place in the “Tightly Knotted to a Similar String” exhibition.

Nergis Abıyeva
Translation: Oğuz Karayemiş