Kineo | Ezgi Bakçay

Some lives are remembered with names and cities, while others are recalled with adjectives and exclamations. However, a life like Aydın Teker’s can only be expressed through verbs: running, reading, listening, touching, asking, pulling, pushing, stretching, falling, getting up, searching, opening, flowing, insisting, persevering, and dancing in any circumstance.

As I listen to Aydın Teker recount her life, I contemplate what choreography means not only in modern dance but in art in general, not just in education but in every moment of the day, and not only in movement but also in thought, feeling, and temperament. Despite immense challenges in life and on stage, I immerse myself in the flow of the mind and body, which gracefully and energetically improvises, anchored in time and space with uncompromising technique.

In Turkish, the interviews which cover a long period in a person’s life are defined by the word “river”. However I would prefer to distance ourselves from this world. Because the narrator of this interview, which we completed over nearly two years, reminds me more of a stream. The anarchist geographer Elissée Reclus explains why a stream, flowing comfortably in the bed of “the story of a stream,” is more exciting, passionate, and inspiring than a river. In its unpredictability and the present moment of its flow, the stream carves its own path. It bends, stretches, leaps, glides, and froths. Through the rocks it cracks, the passages it seeps through, the beds it opens, the seeds it nurtures, and the lands it greens, it writes its story. Our conversation is about this lively flow and the topography it creates. I am glad to share with you, our readers, the second part of this interview whose first part was published earlier this year.

A.T: In the early 1990s, Şebnem Aksan was removed from her position as department head, and I was banned from working with students. It was believed that I had become famous by using them. Meanwhile, Duygu Aykal passed away. On the anniversary of Duygu’s death, we were not allowed to present the piece “Diary,” which I had created with students in her memory together with Metin Deniz, in Ankara. It was a difficult time. One day, feeling very unhappy, I went to the American Cultural Center. I knew Meral Selçuk, the daughter of Münir Nurettin Selçuk. I told her, “I’m dying, you have to do something for me!” Meral Selçuk then loudly called out to the office staff, saying, “Aydın is dying, what can we do for her?” They thought it over, and finally said, “You should apply for a Fulbright.” I immediately went to the Fulbright Office and explained my situation. After about eight months of effort, I was awarded a research grant, and in 1993 I returned to New York with my daughter Çağrı—this became a new turning point in my life.

I was once again at NYU, but in the ten years that had passed, important developments had taken place in somatic practices. Techniques like Cunningham and Graham had been replaced by release technique, and many of the dance instructors had changed. While closely following the latest developments, I was also creating choreographies for students as a Guest Artist. Moreover, since I had started creating site-specific works in Turkey due to restrictions, I also began searching for spaces to work with in New York.

E.B.: Could you elaborate a bit on what you mean by “I started making site-specific work due to the restrictions”?

AT: Of course. I actually realized that I could no longer create anything within the school — not under its conditions or with its available means. I wasn’t allowed to choreograph for students. So, I rented a room at Manastır, formerly known as the Istanbul Art Center. I kept asking myself, “How can I keep developing?” Eventually, I came up with this project: I would make a solo. That solo would be performed twice in one day, back-to-back — in two different venues, with two different soundtracks, and two different costumes. The essence of the movement would stay the same, but its direction, level, and quality would change. Since I wasn’t allowed to work with any student from the school, I asked Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, a former student of mine now working at the City Theater, and she said yes.

Manastır was a cold place… you could see our breath! We taped plastic sheeting over the windows and began rehearsing the solo. I had another rule: that piece would only be performed once and never repeated. When shown in a new venue, the piece would be developed again from scratch. I told myself, “I’ll create a new work every month.” That didn’t happen.

In 1991, in the first part of “Aulos I”, Ebru performed in the Osman Hamdi Hall at Mimar Sinan University, in the second part, she danced inside the glass-walled cafeteria. The audience watched from the outside, as if through an aquarium. In the Osman Hamdi Hall, the flute solo by Alfredo Casella was performed live by Gülay Yetiz. On the other side, I used music by Semih Fırıncıoğlu and the New York–based Time and Space Limited group. The costume was designed by Zepür Hanımyan.

E.B.: At that time, were musicians, technical support people, dancers, painters… were these teams working together? Did you have that kind of environment? Was there a collective setting?

A.T.: I was trying to create that.

E.B.: Because you’re talking about multi-layered work.

A.T.: Yes! That was my intention. Because I had many artist friends. One would design the poster, another would compose the music. I received a lot of support in that regard. I couldn’t pay them, but I always paid for the fabric, accessories, tailoring, posters, etc. out of my own pocket. One day, my daughter Çağrı and I were watching a school performance. All of a sudden she said, “That’s my dress!” I had to use Çağrı’s dresses as costumes for the students! Things like that would happen—but despite all the limitations, so much was being created.

In 1992, “Aulos II” coincided with the 24th World Congress of the International Theatre Institute. Thanks to this, I was able to use the Silahhane and Hasbahçe at Yıldız Palace. At the time, Oktay Keresteci, one of the principal dancers of the State Opera and Ballet, had been suspended and began working with me. Also, around the same time, the American saxophonist Richard Hammer, who was living in Istanbul, joined the first part of the performance at Silahhane, which took “Aulos II” in a completely new direction from the very beginning. Silahhane was a long, wide corridor. The audience watched from the upper level. On one side of the corridor, Oktay and Ebru were slowly walking forward, while Richard improvised on his saxophone, approaching them from the other end. That walk alone was incredibly powerful. The costume for this section was designed by Ayşegül Alev, and the second part’s costume by Zepür Hanımyan. Oktay was supposed to perform a solo in Hasbahçe. That day, it began to pour like crazy. I was crying in despair while trying to sweep away the water that had accumulated on the ground. Suddenly, I threw the broom aside and said, “It will be performed in the rain!” In the second part, Oktay performed the solo in Hasbahçe, dressed in white, his breath visible in the cold, and water splashing with every movement he made. The presence of the rain elevated “Aulos II” to a whole new level. It was an extraordinary performance. Among the audience was Charles Reinhart, the director of the American Dance Festival, and he seemed deeply moved by the show. A few years later, I was invited to choreograph for the students of the American Dance Festival.

In 1993, I realized “Aulos III”. By then, everywhere I went, I found myself thinking, “Could I create a piece here?” I found a junkyard cemetery behind Hagia Sophia. I also decided to use the Basilica Cistern. Luckily, the poet Hilmi Yavuz was working as the municipality’s cultural and artistic advisor in the historical peninsula, and he supported me in obtaining permission. The water in the cistern was very dirty, and no performance had ever taken place in the water before. So, instead of putting my dancers at risk, I decided to test it myself. One Sunday, I entered the Basilica Cistern for the first time—first in a diving suit, and then, once I felt safe, in a regular swimsuit. The spaces were so unusual that I needed more dancers for the performance. I also ended up dancing in the cistern myself. Interestingly, Sibel Sürel, another lead dancer from the State Opera and Ballet, had also been suspended and joined the project.

E.B.: You all came together like a group of the penalized!

A.T.: Yes. In the first part, Selçuk Tollu, a set designer from the State Opera and Ballet, redesigned the space using materials he found in a junkyard. He painted a dry tree bright white and suspended it from above. We leaned a slide staircase against the tree. We gilded the corner of a rusty car. Ayşegül Alev created very unconventional costumes. I was covering all the expenses with my salary from Mimar Sinan Fine Arts University, but I didn’t care. For the first part, I wanted to use a quartet by İlhan Usmanbaş. It was such an interesting piece of music—there was no clear beginning or end. Like a circle, wherever you started, it would loop back and connect. But it took us eight months to gather the musicians.

For the transition into the second part, musicians led the way, followed by dancers and the audience, all heading together to the Basilica Cistern. Shortly before the performance, Sibel got injured. When the doctor said she shouldn’t dance, Yılmaz Zenger made us a fiber boat overnight and brought it to the cistern. Sibel was on that boat… Everything felt like a miracle! All the negatives were turning into positives!

E.B.: It seems like all the obstacles became creative elements for you.

A.T.: Exactly! Even standing on that boat was extremely difficult. We rehearsed a lot. We thought about what we would do if she fell. In the end, while we dancers performed in the water to music by György Ligeti, Sibel performed her most minimal dance on the boat, slowly moving from one end of the cistern to the other. My original plan with the first Aulosproject—doing one piece per month—didn’t come true. I could only realize one project per year, but I learned a lot. In this performance, I was joined by dancers Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, Olcay Karahan, and Oktay Keresteci. Lighting design was by Ahmet Defne, space design by Selçuk Tollu, and our costumes were designed by Ayşegül Alev. Makeup was done by Derya Ergun.

The first three “Aulos” pieces took place in Istanbul. “Aulos IV” was presented in 1994 in Antwerp. That year, Antwerp was declared the European Capital of Culture, and for this occasion, a ship with a stage was built. Every week, artists from a chosen city in a European country lived and presented their work on this ship. Istanbul was one of the cities selected. I received the invitation from Zeynep Oral. Among the artists were Ayla and Beklan Algan, Erol Keskin, and Genco Erkal. I arrived early to find a space outside the stage and decided to use a street in the harbor that had once been a tobacco warehouse, with a glass-covered roof. At the time, I knew harpsichordist Leyla Pınar, who was living in Belgium, from school. The first part of the performance took place inside the ship, accompanied by a live harpsichord and performed in baroque costumes. The second part of “Aulos IV” continued with the audience at one end of the street and the dancers running rapidly from the other end and stopping abruptly in front of them, followed by songs and dialogues from the film Cabaret. By then, my dancers had changed, and thanks to Ayşegül Alev, my costumes had become much wilder. The dancers were Mustafa Kaplan, Olcay Karahan, Serap Meriç, Tuğçe Ulugün Tuna, and Ziya Azazi.

“Aulos V” took place in 1994, during my return to New York on a Fulbright research grant. This time, I discovered the presence of a very elderly teacher named Bessie Schonberg. It was said that she had trained choreographers like Meredith Monk and Lucinda Childs, who had influenced me in the 1970s. She would interview applicants and select only ten for her workshop—I was among those selected. In the first week, each choreographer presented a part of their work. I showed the original version of the “Aulos” solo, because I had decided to use a ramped space I found under the Brooklyn Bridge and, nearby, the ugliest children’s playground I had ever seen. The conditions were tough. I had no idea how I would manage the project. My only advantage was that I had been invited to choreograph for students attending the American Dance Festival (ADF) in the summer of 1994, and the resulting piece had been met with great enthusiasm and a standing ovation. Because of this, while walking around New York, dancers would come up to me and say they wanted to be part of the project if I needed anyone. But to realize the project, I needed support. The scholarship money barely covered the daily living expenses of me and my 13-year-old daughter Çağrı, as well as rent.

I called ADF’s New York office and made an appointment with Charles Reinhart. When I arrived, his wife Stephani was also there. After I explained my project, Stephani told me I had no chance of finding support because I wasn’t an American citizen. Charles, however, gave me the contact information of a bureaucrat and told me to talk to him. I left their office feeling disheartened and immediately called the number he gave me. I said, “I have a great project. Charles told me to talk to you.” After a brief silence, he asked, “When do you want to see me?” “Now,” I said. He burst out laughing: “I love your energy, come here!” I rushed over. He told me, “I can’t give you money, but I can cover the insurance for the locations.” It turned out that I needed to pay for insurance in order to use those locations. The insurance didn’t cover me or the dancers, but instead the ramped area and children’s park—former brewery spaces built into the bridge supports, now abandoned and covered in graffiti.

The insurance was paid, the permit was secured. During our first rehearsal, people who appeared to be living in the abandoned breweries watched us with clear disapproval. The next day we found the ramp littered with Chinese food leftovers. Instead of rehearsing, I bought cleaning supplies, did what I could to clean the ramp, and hid the broom in the grass. When I arrived back at NYU’s Greenwich Village campus, I was filthy. The security guards looked at me in shock as I entered the elevator and went to my apartment. The next day, the broom was gone. Furious, I went to the building where the homeless people lived and banged on the door. When someone opened, I said, “Give me back my broom!” The man calmly handed it back and said, “Take this too,” offering a second broom. That day marked the beginning of an unspoken truce between us and the homeless residents under the Brooklyn Bridge. But during one rehearsal, eight or ten skaters suddenly appeared and created chaos on the ramp. While my dancers ran away, I marched into the group shouting, “Who is your leader?” One of them said, “I am.” After a short negotiation, they skated away.

Bessie was a tough teacher, but perhaps she was intrigued by my project, because each week she would ask me with curiosity what I had done, and I would describe how I was coping with the challenges of the environment. It was late summer. Every day we started rehearsals at the playground, with kids sitting silently outside the metal fence watching us, and then moved to the area under the bridge. Until, one day, a group of elderly women tried to stop the rehearsal, claiming I was setting a bad example by using the swings for purposes other than play. When I showed them my permit, they left muttering—but they got their revenge. On the day of the performance, the ground was covered in broken raw eggs. Despite all the obstacles and challenges, I think I was the only one who managed to develop a project from Bessie Schonberg’s workshop: “Aulos V.”

My dancers were Yang Sook Cho, Peter Davis, Lynn Marie Ruse, Mary Spring, Utafumi Takemura, and Christine Zaepfel. The music was composed by Tigger Benford. Lighting design was by Christ Dallos, and costumes by Jennifer Vogt.

There’s another significant, though embarrassing, experience I had during this project. The performance was filmed from two angles. For the first time, I edited it with a student from NYU’s film department. I didn’t want to cut any part of the dance. The student insisted it wasn’t possible. We nearly strangled each other in the editing room! In the end, I learned—difficult as it was—that moving from three dimensions to two has its own techniques, and that choosing and letting go are part of the process.

E.B.: Everything I have heard so far made me think about today. Today, we have unlimited possibilities. It is true that we are economically limited, but in many ways, with the support of technology, we are capable of doing so much. I have learned how fertile the atmosphere created by impossibilities can be—an atmosphere that drives you to find solutions and pushes you forward. I noticed that every time you say, “It was very difficult,” you smile more. It’s as if the word “difficulty” is just a word there. I can’t even imagine how hard it was, but that hardship left only a big smile on your face.

A.T.: It magnified me. It really magnified me, yes.

E.B.: That’s why it is very inspiring both for me and for the readers. For my own part, it was incredibly inspiring in terms of my own creative work. I’m listening with pleasure and delight!

A.T.: The “Aulos” projects ended for me in New York, and I realized that with these “Aulos” projects, I actually did not create site-specific works. While using the space as material, I conducted a study on all possible elements in dance. I learned a lot, together with the dancers and the audience.
My real discovery of working with space began in the second half of the 1990s. I was working site-specifically, but the work I did in those spaces wasn’t really site-specific. Because there was a fixed choreography and I was adapting it. That is not site work. I realized this more clearly later. The real relationship with the space is something completely different—and exciting!

E.B.: How does that develop? Does the idea come first by seeing the space, or do both evolve together?

A.T.: It varies a lot depending on the space. You make the work for the space, and its feeling is completely different. Among many different works, an early example I made for a space was in 1992: “Köm-ür,” at the Yedikule Gasworks, the second of the Seretonin exhibitions. I had never been inside any industrial facility before in my life. It had a strong effect on me. It was like a small town with piles of coal just past some beautiful historic buildings. Inside the town, workers and artists lived together. I gathered a large group for the project. The performance began with us exiting a building dressed in white. Along the way, we silently connected with the workers and the audience watching us, and entered a large area. The light coming through the windows turned into a natural light design in the empty space. I benefited a lot from this light in the choreography I created. Each dancer had a task: one was knitting, another reading a book, another sharing coffee from a picnic basket with a worker. A couple danced to music composed by Mete Sakpınar for this piece. After a while, one by one, we started climbing into a wagon at the end of the building and disappeared inside. When the wagon began to move, our screams rose from inside, and when the wagon stopped at one point, water began to pour down on us from above. Our screams faded under the water just like embers go out underwater. When the wagon moved again and exited the building, a worker opened the side door of the wagon with a tool, and we spilled out covered in coal.
The dancers in this work with me were Bahar Vidinlioğlu, Canan Şadalak, Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, Erdal Atik, Meltem Tezmen, Mustafa Kaplan, Olcay Karahan, Zeynep Arkök, and Ziya Azazi. Our costumes were designed by Ayşegül Alev.

E.B.: The Serotonin exhibitions hold a very important place in the history of Turkish art. Along with them, there were contemporary artists around, like Mehmet Güleryüz…

A.T.: Yes. “Köm-ür” was one of the works shown at the 90s exhibition at the Salt Stage. In fact, its photos were also used abroad, in Hamburg. It was a very special experience for me as well. Entering a still-functioning facility, creating work there, and being so deeply affected by the workers’ interest and their natural participation in the project.

After that, in 1995, I made “Road to Assos” organized by Hüseyin Katırcıoğlu. I was invited to the international performing arts festival held in Assos in October. The festival offered the opportunity to stay and rehearse in Assos for three weeks beforehand. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I had no dancers with me, and two days after the other participants, I went to Assos with Hüseyin Katırcıoğlu. All the artists were staying at the Eden Beach Hotel by the sea, and when we arrived around nine in the evening, the French were gathered somewhere quietly discussing their project. The Americans were trying shadow and light plays on a white screen they had set up in another corner. A bit further away, another group was selected by candlelight. The environment was so quiet that apart from the sound of the sea and the murmurs of people, nothing else could be heard. It was a magical moment for me. I was very moved visually, sonically, and emotionally. A deep sadness filled me. People were sharing things in groups in this magnificent place, and I was alone. The next morning, Hüseyin and I went to scout locations early. During breakfast, I had overheard the French saying they wanted to use the historic Sinan Bridge but changed their minds because it was too noisy. La Mama’s director, Erica Bilder, hadn’t seen the bridge either. Hüseyin took us there. My heart started beating wildly. Whenever I find the right space, I feel this. The bridge stood before us with very elegant curves. From the new bridge, built parallel to the old one, on the right side at the bottom of the slope leading to the stream, on wide rocks polished by water, Erica was waving to me. Looking from the new bridge, I realized how striking a human figure standing on the streambed or the rocks looked and shouted to Erica: “Erica, this place is wonderful, but I am very yal…” I was going to say “alone,” but I couldn’t. Suddenly something clicked in my mind. “Kids! Kids! Where are the kids here?” I ran to Hüseyin and asked for the location of the school. I had to meet the teacher immediately. Hüseyin looked at me smiling, affected by my excitement. Half an hour later, we were in the schoolyard. I met the only teacher of the single-story school in the garden where the historical stones from excavations were randomly left, and told her about my project. I asked if the children could take part in the project. As long as it was outside class hours, there was no problem. During the lunch break, when I went to the yard, children were playing. Their teacher introduced me. They looked at me curiously. I didn’t mention the project, I just said we would play games. We formed a circle. I gave commands like “walk,” “run,” “turn,” “fall,” “pose,” “more interesting pose.” The funniest were the confused expressions after the “fly” command. At the end of the game, when I asked, “I am going to do a performance. Would you like to be part of it?” all hands went up with shouts—except one child whose eyes were bulging from goiter. When I asked, “Don’t you want to participate?” his hand rose timidly. That’s how I completed the team. That evening Erica said if she wanted, she could join the project and that Perry Yung, another La Mama member arriving the next day who was both a musician and a dancer, could also be asked. Perry came and agreed to participate. I decided to create choreography on the bridge for them. Among the participants was Sarah Maul, an Englishwoman with opera training. Sarah also joined the project the next day. The team was growing rapidly. Since everyone I worked with was involved in another project, I had to organize the work schedule very well. Erica and Perry started working on their projects around noon. Therefore, we arranged a taxi to take Erica, Perry, and me to the venue every morning at 7:30, we rehearsed on the bridge until 10 o’clock. From 10 to 12, I worked with Sarah. Sarah, with her red hair, usually came walking and appeared like a point in nature. I decided she would sing from afar in the performance. At 12, I started working with the children. Working in the schoolyard and working on site were very different. On the first day, when I took the children to the site by minibus, I lost control completely. The children were running around wildly, throwing stones at each other’s heads, or tormenting frogs around the puddles near the bridge’s footing. That day, I decided to separate the first and second graders from the others. They were too young, and the space was quite dangerous for them. Erica said she could use the younger ones in her own project. Thus, I started working separately with the younger children during lunch break in the schoolyard. After school, we would come to the bridge with the older children. I could control the children on the bridge more easily. My only problem was 12-15 year-olds who had finished elementary school but weren’t in any project, they disturbed us and threw stones from above. One day I got very angry, put my hand on my hip, and said, “You want to work with me, right?” They said “Yes” in surprise. I called them all down and made them my assistants!

E.B.: How many were there?

A.T.: Three! They joined the project. On afternoons when I wasn’t helping with Erica’s project, I would go to the bridge alone and spend a few hours there. One day, while resting in the shade under the bridge, I noticed a shepherd and his sheep coming from afar. Suddenly, my heart started racing. The project absolutely had to include sheep. That evening, Hüseyin and I went to the village coffeehouse and told the villagers about the project, we said we needed a shepherd and sheep. They assigned a boy who knew Hüseyin well. I explained in detail what I wanted, and we arranged a rehearsal day close to the performance. Among those who took part in the project, there was also a man with a donkey. Every morning around 10:30, he would cross the historic Sinan Bridge on his donkey with the air of a knight and disappear from sight. One day I stopped him and started chatting. He knew about the project and immediately agreed to appear in the show.

By the last week, my body was starting to sound alarms from exhaustion, both my knees had swollen from climbing hills and rehearsing on the rocks. I was walking around with ice packs and putting them on my knees whenever I could. Luckily, a savior angel named Asiye Cengiz, a friend of Hüseyin from Istanbul, came and took over organizing the children. While they came to the bridge after school, I was able to think about and work on my own parts.

On the day of the full rehearsal, we all gathered at 4 p.m. The rehearsal went better than I expected. At the end of rehearsal, I thanked the shepherd and told him our show would be at the same time two days later. The shepherd said, “But I can’t come on Saturday!” There was a soccer match in the neighboring village exactly at that time. My head was boiling. Hüseyin and I headed to the coffeehouse again. This time, we had no trouble finding a shepherd. By then, the whole village knew me. The man selling ointments asked, “Aydın sister, would you like ointment?” and mothers sitting on the roofs invited me and offered soup.

E.B.: Where did you place the audience?

A.T.: The audience watched from the new road built exactly parallel to the historic Sinan Bridge.

On the day of the performance, we hid the sheep behind the bushes, but the sun’s position cast the shadows of the children standing under the bridge out into the open. The children who had been throwing stones at each other and tormenting frogs remained still and silent for a full half hour. The show began with the voice of a woman singing from afar. When Sarah, wearing a long red dress, came singing under the bridge, the donkey rider also started crossing the bridge and received great applause from the locals. Then it was the turn of the Sinan Bridge frogs. When Sarah approached the edge of the puddle, all the frogs jumped one after another into the water. While Sarah sat at the foot of the bridge and continued singing, a child suddenly sprang from under the bridge, resolutely reached a bush he was staring at, and hid behind it. The rule of the game was to stay still for a while where they hid, then set a new target and run to it. Those wearing slippers struggled among the stones but tried their best to reach their goals. As Sarah sang and moved under the bridge, the children slowly emerged from their hiding places and followed Sarah, disappearing under the bridge. Then, from one side of the bridge, the shepherd and his sheep and I began walking slowly from the other side. The bells on my fingertips, hung with the sheep’s bells, were carried far by the wind. Meeting the sheep was exciting. At first, they hesitated briefly when they saw me, then unexpectedly agile, they darted past me like arrows. After all the sheep passed me, I changed direction and started following them. As the shepherd, the sheep, and I left the bridge, Erica and Perry, dressed in white, entered from the other side. First, in a calm then a different energy, they performed a duet, while Sarah and the children collapsed onto the ground as if they had fallen off the bridge. When I appeared on the right side of the bridge, at the bottom of the slope descending to the stream, on the wide rocks polished by the water, a deep silence fell. While dancing, I occasionally heard Perry’s flute-like instrument and Erica’s sounds made with two stones and breath. At the end of my dance, I climbed onto the rocks. Sarah, the children, and Asiye followed me. When we reached the bridge, Sarah was in front, we were behind, and together with the children, humming a melody, we crossed the bridge and disappeared among the bushes.

E.B.: Amazing! You included every community there, whoever was there, whoever lived there — including the frogs.

A.T.: Yes. And interestingly, later a man came and said, “I had cows too, why didn’t you include me?” At first, when I was looking for a shepherd, everyone looked at me somewhat mockingly. It was a very exciting, surprising, and valuable process for me. Being able to integrate with the local people while working with them was a wonderful feeling.

E.B.: What did you name the piece?

A.T.: “Road to Assos.”

E.B.: That’s magnificent.

A.T.: After that, in 1996, “Permeable” was staged. “Permeable” was created for the interesting building of the Ayşe and Ercümet Kalmık Foundation in Gümüşsuyu. The building consisted of a late 19th-century house restored to its original form, along with a vaulted structure built in the backyard for exhibitions, and the two buildings were connected by a thin, transparent bridge. From the moment I first saw the building, it gave me the feeling of a glass palace. Every time I visited an exhibition there, I wondered what I could do in that building. The transparent vaults consisted of four parts, and the holes in the middle of each part winked at me as materials to use. During the performance, four dancers stood outside the roof, each in front of a hole, simultaneously using these holes. Without realizing it, I forced the audience, who had to watch from downstairs, to make a choice. Similarly, the work that appeared on the transparent bridge changed depending on the audience’s position. The performance began with the transformation and change caused by my face being pressed against the glass from outside, and ended with Sema’s powerful vocal improvisation as she crossed from one end of the transparent bridge to the other.

That same year, “Oblique Face” was performed in Copenhagen as part of the Orient Bridge Festival. Since I was making a site-specific work, I had to go early and find a venue. It was the middle of winter, it was so cold you couldn’t even ride a bike properly, but I was desperate and on the bike. A scientist friend, Zeynep Sümer, whom I knew through a mutual friend, gave me a lot of time. We toured the whole city but I couldn’t find anything. Time was running out and, reluctantly, I tried to decide on one or two alternatives. On the day my dancers Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, Mustafa Kaplan, Serap Meriç, and Tuğçe Ulugün Tuna got on the plane, the person helping me said, “This is your last chance!” and took me to an underground cistern next to the zoo. When I entered, I first noticed the columns, then a long wet and muddy ramp, and I went crazy with happiness! I was running screaming from one column to the other! After a while, when I came to my senses, I saw the person who brought me to the venue coming out from behind a hidden column, his eyes wide open. I said, “Sorry, I’m very happy!” that day. When my dancers arrived at the hotel after getting off the plane, I greeted them bursting with energy. The next day we first went to see the venue, then bought necessary clothes like coats, boots, and work gloves from a secondhand shop. I had worked with a ramp in New York before, but this venue, being wet and muddy, was truly defying gravity. During rehearsals, gloves tore, and the tips of boots got punctured. The difficulty was not only about gravity. It was so cold that our breath was visible. We went to the zoo, which was very close to the cistern, for the toilet. The cistern’s acoustics were amazing. While rehearsing, I was also looking for a composer to take advantage of this. After a while, composer Soren Berggren and sound artist Suzana Bozovic joined the project and contributed significantly. The process was a valuable and challenging journey for all of us. One dancer carried another, one slid on the floor, another grabbed someone else’s leg trying to pull them up…

The audience was brought by bus. The project was watched standing. Afterwards, we went to a cocktail at the Turkish Consulate. When Talat Halman entered, he greeted us saying, “We are proud! We are proud!”

I didn’t sleep that night. The street lamps in Copenhagen, the localized stage lights, created an effect. I wandered under those lights. I was emotional… I was very proud of my dancers. They had endured and overcome so many difficulties! Later, I learned that they too had stayed up all night. On the plane, all my dancers were sleeping miserably in the back, while I was thinking with love and compassion, “Oh, my dear dancers… How tired they are!”

The cistern in Copenhagen was a gift to me. It made me realize the true power of gravity. Planning in such a venue is impossible. You have to be present in the moment, seize opportunities, and not be afraid to try. Most importantly, you have to let the venue guide you. I think that is very exciting. You really learn these things when you spend time in the space. Honestly, I don’t think limited time can create something like this.

E.B.: Don’t they give you limited time at these festivals? For example, the one in Denmark.

A.T.: Of course, but I rehearsed all day long.

E.B.: You made time infinite.

A.T.: You could say that. Actually, I’ve always worked with people who could tolerate me. They were very special, they valued the work as much as I did, and they put their hearts into it. Otherwise, it doesn’t work. If they don’t put their hearts into it, it doesn’t work. It was a different era. I’m not sure if that’s possible now.

E.B.: How much our relationship with time and labor has changed.

A.T.: There are economic problems too. People have to find ways to live. The conditions we live in are getting increasingly difficult.

In 1997, “Co-(m)-pressed” took place at the Historical Mint, located opposite the Archaeology Museum, as part of the Disiplinlerarası Genç Sanatçılar Derneği [Interdisciplinary Young Artists Association] events. When I was invited to create a work in that space, I went to see it. A young woman with a big smile, Yeşim Yalman, welcomed me. Together, we thoroughly explored the entire area belonging to the mint. We went under the ruins and back out. The space was so impressive that I was afraid of missing something. Finally, Yeşim opened a door with a key. We started to climb a narrow winding staircase upwards. At the top of the stairs was a long corridor without a roof, extending to the old wooden balcony of a ruined building. On the right side of the corridor were large horizontal vats. Some of the round lids were open and eerie. Immediately to the right of the entrance stairs, there were iron stairs leading up to the floor built over the vats. On the left side of the stairs was a basin, and behind it a barrel. To the right, there was a small room with three shelves. The moment I saw the shelves, I thought I could make a work with them. Then I started spending time there every day. I carefully selected my dancers and who would be where. For example, there was a window with a yellow and tawny mix on the walls while going up the stairs. Meltem Tezmen, with her red hair, fit very well in that space. I thought of Mustafa Kaplan and Nadi Güler inside the vat. But before sending them inside, I got a tetanus shot myself and, with fear, entered the vat covered in cobwebs that hadn’t been used for years. I also made sure the dancers got tetanus shots despite everything. The best place for my friend and colleague Şebnem Aksan was the balcony. For the basin, I thought of Tuğçe Ulugün Tuna in a fetal position like a baby in the womb. However, creating a material similar to embryonic fluid without harming her body took us a lot of time. In the end, we managed it with starch. And I was inside the barrel. The bottom of the barrel was a cliff, and no nails could be hammered anywhere. But the workers placed wood inside a part of the barrel. During the performance, to protect myself, I had to wait upside down with my head crooked for half an hour. I still have problems in my neck from that time. On the shelves in the small room on the right, Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, Begüm Tüzün, Bahar Vidinlioğlu, and Serap Meriç danced. A very important point about the process was that all the staff working in the space gave great support to my project. Thus, we slowly brewed everything. I arranged rehearsals according to the dancers’ free hours, and I sat on a small stool I had brought from home, dedicating about one and a half hours on average to each part. Mostly, I spoke very little and just watched. Patience was very important. The goal was for the dancers to get to know the space and relate to it, and for the space to accept the dancers.

E.B.: The space accepting the dancers.

A.T.: Yes. The words I spoke were limited commands such as “Don’t run,” “No,” “Try again,” “Perceive the start of your movement.” After a while, bodies miraculously became like putty and merged with the space.

On the day of the performance, only 40 people could enter inside. When the audience reached the end of the stairs, they noticed a rope blocking their way and realized they could not go further. At that moment, a voice coming from above said they could see a pregnant woman in a window above. The pregnant woman lovingly and tenderly stroked her belly, which gradually hardened and roughened over time. Then she put her hand inside her skirt and began to masturbate. At the peak, dry beans poured out from between her legs! My daughter Çağrı asked, “Did you feel like this when you were pregnant?” It was totally unrelated! I had a very good pregnancy. But it developed like that while creating. I didn’t plan it. It happened spontaneously. A voice from afar guided the rope blocking the stairs to be removed by the guide Duygu Güngör. Şebnem appeared on the balcony wearing a long black robe-like garment and holding a meditation bowl. While continuing to play, she slowly sat on the balcony bench and directed her gaze towards the vat below. Two bodies inside the vat, Nadi and Mustafa, moved very slowly and released themselves from the vat. The audience climbed to the floor built over the vats following the guide’s directions. In the basin at the immediate left corner of the stairs, Tuğçe slowly moved in an embryonic fluid-like substance in a fetal position. After a while, my feet began to emerge from the barrel. The audience watching Tuğçe leaning on the barrel startled and stepped back. My feet and legs slowly rose to my groin and then went back into the barrel.

E.B.: Is this where you got injured?

A.T.: Yes! After the guide opened the room door and 40 people entered, she closed the door behind them. As Şebnem’s meditation bowl echoed through the mint streets, four dancers slowly slid from shelf to shelf and then to the floor. The door opened and the audience left the building.

E.B.: How long does it last?

A.T.: I don’t really know. Maybe just over half an hour. When people came out of the room, they threw themselves outside feeling overwhelmed. The next year, due to the 75th anniversary of the Republic’s foundation, the performance was repeated. “Sıkı(ş)tır-mak” became one of the works I was most satisfied with. I think I understood very well what space means. I discovered different ways of relating to it. What does space mean? How honestly can I relate to it? Why can’t you do anything pretending?

Then, “Dance Exhibition” premiered at the International Istanbul Theatre Festival in February 1999, starting from the Dulcinea Art Gallery space. When the gallery managers asked if I could do something there, I went to see the space. The gallery was still under construction at the time. What impressed me first was the iron bars on the ceiling. A few minutes later, I found myself climbing on the ceiling via the stairs. The architects of the gallery, Pelin Derviş and Onur Bilgin, were there and were excited about the idea of a dance performance happening in the space they designed. Their active presence inside the building was a big advantage for me. Since I was going to use the ceiling, they reinforced the iron bars. In the very center of the hall, there was a wooden structure. I had some parts of it removed from different positions without damaging the structure. This way, I was able to let the audience perceive different parts of bodies. As always, the emergence of the project took a long time. Sema was sitting in a crouched position in the ventilation pipe area on the ceiling, while further ahead Tuğçe was secretly waiting on the iron bars, hidden from the audience. Composer Jim Pywell, whom I met at a workshop in London and invited to Turkey, was there with his instruments brought from England. Serap, Bahar, and Rebeca were inside the wooden structure. I was lying at the entrance directly opposite, my head hanging a little down, my body covered with a white cloth except for my neck and shoulders. When the audience entered, they were confronted with my hanging head and small movements of my eyes. After a while, a scary sound coming from above made them look up and notice Sema’s crouched figure. After a while, noise and then confusion occurred among the audience. Mustafa and Filiz fell to the ground and improvised new relationships with other spectators. Then the wooden structure was illuminated with light accompanied by dramatic sounds. The audience changed their orientation and position in the space and started to watch the moving body parts. As the light slowly faded on the wooden structure, it began to illuminate the ceiling of the other part of the space, where Tuğçe’s silhouette appeared. We worked a lot on this section. The method was: The dancer would perceive the initial moment of movement, and as the movement continued, her center of gravity would change in a balanced way until she reached the bar she wanted to reach and hold on to it. That was it. Then she would decide where to go next, and everything would start again. It was very meditative to watch. People sat on the floor, leaving their belongings aside and watching. In the middle of this section, other members of the dance exhibition gently took the spectators by their shoulders one by one and silently guided them through the corridor next to the wooden structure. At the end of the corridor, behind a frosted glass, a naked female body moved. The audience was very affected by this unexpected image and wanted to watch it, but we did not allow them and led them to another corridor next to the frosted glass. Inside, a naked male body slowly turned around himself, and thanks to a red light, the point where the body met the light was visible as a line. Some noticed this line, others passed without seeing it. This section was the end of the performance for the audience. We led the audience out the door. After the hall was completely emptied, one person collected the remaining belongings inside and returned them to the people waiting at the door. Bahar Vidinlioğlu, Filiz Sızanlı, Jim Pywell, Mustafa Kaplan, Rebeca Lazier, Sema, Serap Meriç, Tuğçe Ulugün, and Vahit Tuna participated in “Dance Exhibition” with me.

In 1999, I saw an announcement at the British Council. It was about a week-long workshop in London for ten experienced choreographers and ten experienced musicians. On the last day, I applied to participate in the workshop. I was on the waiting list, but luckily, since someone didn’t show up, I was able to go. It became one of the most wonderful experiences of my life. It was very, very impactful. In the correspondence, I was told I was accepted, but my plane ticket never arrived. I called them and said, “My plane ticket hasn’t arrived.” They replied, “Then your cassette hasn’t arrived either.” It turned out they had sent all the choreographers a music cassette, and all the composers a choreography cassette without music. I was supposed to create a work with that music! The musicians were asked to compose music for the choreography sent to them. They said, “Okay, we will put a cassette player and your cassette in your hotel room.”
E.B.: At the last moment!

A.T.: Yes. They would put a cassette player and cassette in my room! When I got to London, the hotel room was so small that I could only enter and exit the bathroom. I tried to listen to the music, I can’t even count the beats! Desperate, I at least went outside to figure out how to get from the hotel to the Royal Festival Hall so I wouldn’t be late in the morning. Then I returned to the hotel and immediately fell asleep. The next day, I went early to the staff entrance of the Royal Festival Hall. It was quite crowded outside. A man arrived with a trolley full of electronic devices. I was amazed, wondering what he could do with all those devices in one week. Later, this electronic engineer named Nick Rothwell played a very important role in my artistic life. As soon as I entered the venue, I saw a gap between two walls and thought, “Okay, I will improvise here.” After all the participants entered, the project manager Alistair Spalding and the 20 participants introduced themselves. Then we started watching each other’s work. When it was my turn, I said, “Unfortunately but maybe fortunately… I couldn’t receive my music cassette. So now I’m going to improvise.” And I improvised with atonal music in that narrow space. A young musician, Jim Pywell, climbed onto a chair and played his music with an instrument between a flute and a recorder. I liked his attitude. Later, I invited him to Turkey. Every day, in the morning and afternoon, one choreographer and one composer would meet and spend time together in different places. How we spent the time inside was up to us. Then we all gathered and shared our experiences. This way, all choreographers and composers met each other. My energy was so high that new ideas were born in my mind at every meeting. At one meeting, I met a very young and shy musician, Paul Whitty, in a bar with a piano and windows overlooking Hungerford Bridge. As soon as Paul entered holding some drumsticks, without even looking at me, he started hitting the piano keys with two sticks. I watched him for a while, then suddenly grabbed his hand and said, “Let’s run.” After running together for a while, I took two sticks too and kept running after Paul. While hitting the sticks on the windows, I realized the sound could be heard outside and people were looking up at us. I suddenly turned to Paul and asked, “I have an idea. We can turn this into a project. Are you in?” He said, “I’m in!” Excitedly, we went to Alistair Spalding’s office. I told Alistair, “We have a great idea, but you need to come with us and see the space!” He was a bit surprised but got up from the desk and followed us. Inside the bar, in front of the windows, I explained the project. He said, “Okay, you can do it.” I was thrilled! Every composer and every new venue created new ideas in my mind. On the last day of the workshop, the composer I was paired with was Luke Stoneham. He didn’t play any instrument but composed music. We were told that live musicians would accompany us in the performance. The night before, I had attended a concert by a group called “Gogmagog.” The most interesting thing about the concert was that the musicians could move while playing their instruments. The idea of moving while playing struck me. The musicians who were going to work with us were the same musicians I had seen at the “Gogmagog” concert. Luckily, we got a violinist and a double bassist. I immediately put the violinist in the gap above the restroom. I asked Lucy Show, the double bassist, “Can you play lying down?” She immediately lay on her back and started playing. Luke, excited and a bit panicked, asked, “What am I supposed to do?” I told him, “Do nothing, just stand firmly.” When it was our turn, while the musicians played moving, I tried to climb on Luke. Right after the performance, I asked Luke and Lucy, “This would be a great project. Are you in?” They immediately agreed. We told Alistair about the project and he approved it too.

E.B.: How many works came out of that?

A.T.: After this workshop, we created “Glass in – Glass out” with Paul Whitty on the Royal Festival Hall’s railway-facing windows, and “DB-II-BASS” with Luke Stoneham and Lucy Show.

“Glass in – Glass out” took place in July 1999 as part of the Blitz festival. Initially, it was said that the plane tickets for my dancers would be covered by the British Consulate and accommodation by the festival. At the last minute, it was announced that no money was available for the dancers. I didn’t even want to consider canceling the project. Could I rent a place for a month? While my dancers were preparing to leave the next day, I still didn’t know what I could do. While walking with my costume designer Ayşegül Alev, she told me that Lale Mansur from the State Ballet had passed by. I immediately turned back and called Lale’s name. She turned and we hugged each other with surprise. She invited us to her home. Her husband, conductor Cem Mansur, was also there. After hearing why I was in London and my problem, she called Hüseyin Özer, the owner of the “Sofra” restaurant. Mr. Hüseyin sponsored us and opened an empty villa by the lake for my dancers. While we stayed in London, a Japanese chef and a Cypriot chef cooked delicious meals for us. The process in the space was as difficult as always. I had to direct the rehearsals from outside by radio. Paul put microphones on the windows. Whenever the dancers ran and hit the glass, the sounds reached the audience outside. Also, sometimes the sounds in the foyer were mixed with the sounds of dancers hitting the glass. The sharp edges of the aluminum frames of the windows hurt the dancers, they wrapped their bruised arms with elastic bands and wore long-sleeved shirts on top. After the show, I remember Richard Alston, one of England’s prominent choreographers, said, “How come it didn’t occur to me to use these windows!” The dancers involved in this project were Miranda Wilson, Morag Croos, Mustafa Kaplan, Olcay Karahan, Serap Meriç, and Tuğçe Ulugün Tuna. The costumes were designed by Ayşegül Alev.

At that time, I was not working only on Glass in – Glass out. Whenever I had the chance, I was also working with Luke Stoneham and Lucy Show on “DB-II-BASS”. The process was especially difficult for Lucy. Luke would compose music, Lucy would transcribe it, but later we sometimes decided that part wouldn’t work in the project and chose not to use it! Poor Lucy’s inner thighs were bruised. “DB-II-BASS” was performed in April 2000 at the Purcell Room, Royal Festival Hall, and received a lot of attention. Unfortunately, because so much time has passed, I can’t quite recall what methods I developed especially to ease Lucy’s situation. Most likely, I first worked on the relationship between Lucy and the double bass, and then Luke composed music according to that relationship. Costumes for this project were also designed by Ayşegül Alev.

E.B.: That’s amazing, I was really blown away!

A.T.:

1999 was truly an intense year. I had such an impulse inside me, my mind was constantly working, I couldn’t stop creating. I was happy. Actually, everything was very hard and risky. I am not very good at expressing myself in words. I guess that’s why I became a choreographer. But what’s interesting is that while producing work, I never had the concern of showing or telling something to people. Now, as I archive my choreographies, I realize that every piece I made was a deep, abstract expression of myself and the positive and negative conditions I lived in.

E.B.: I formed a kind of wholeness in my mind. I experienced it all as if I saw it with my own eyes, like a film.

A.T.: Thank you. Life always gave me beautiful things. I was a happy woman. I did everything with love. It was not just choreography — even while teaching, my heart beat with excitement: “What will we discover today?” Then the student understands and acts accordingly. Let me share an interesting anecdote: When the modern dance department was first established, a parent came and said, “What have you done to my child? I don’t recognize them!” I said, “I haven’t done anything.” But actually, like a few pioneering educators in Turkey, I was one of the idealists who wanted to contribute to the development of modern dance. I was there with my heart, mind, and entire being in everything I did. Of course, this had an effect on the students.

E.B.: I’d like to ask how you feel now.

A.T.: I don’t know. What’s happening both in the world and in Turkey is very upsetting to me. But despite everything, I am generally a happy woman because I can always get excited about something. Technology has advanced a lot recently, but I felt I couldn’t find my place in it, I felt outdated. But some former students sometimes send me articles they have written, and I read them. Now I realize my older works do not speak to this era. I think I am changing somewhere. I feel like I am moving from one place to another.

E.B.: Let’s see what comes out about the relationship between technology and the body from Aydın Teker.

A.T.: I don’t know either! Before moving to the new millennium, in 1997 I discovered Feldenkrais, the technique of awareness through movement. The person who brought this technique to Turkey was Bülent Turan. He lived on the European side of the Bosphorus in a waterside mansion with his American wife, Janet. The lower floor, at sea level, was used as a Feldenkrais studio. Feldenkrais changed both my worldview, the way I teach, and my choreography. I think in the first class, a sentence from Moshe Feldenkrais struck me like lightning. I don’t remember it exactly, but it was something like: “If you encounter a wall on the road, you don’t have to stubbornly crash into it. There might be other ways.” During my early ballet department years, I worked hard and thought that if I worked hard, I could succeed with muscle strength. I realized that’s not how it works. Feldenkrais was such a pleasant working method! We do tiny, tiny exercises. I became aware of the feeling experienced when moving from one point to another and its alternatives. It was very exciting. When going from one place to another, you can go this way or that way. The feeling of “This could also be” opened my mind.
At that time, my work became seriously minimal for the first time. The modern dance department had been founded and we had three students. One day, while chatting with one student, Tuğçe [Ulugün Tuna], she showed me a dress her mother had sewn for her graduation. It was a very tight dress going all the way down. On it, there was a spiral made of wire attached to the dress. As soon as I saw the dress, I said, “I will make a piece with this dress!” We immediately went to the studio. I started turning Tuğçe around herself. During rehearsal, I discovered a surprise: The body and its extensions — arm, hand, wrist, fingers… During rotation, the smallest movement of these parts immediately stood out. Suddenly, I gave up on using that costume. We started working on the body and its parts: With every turn, the hand gets a little closer to the head, the middle finger moves a little further from the palm… My heart was pounding with excitement! We named it Momentum. Güler Umur made a very minimal costume: a single-color costume with just a light gradient stripe from top to bottom on the right side. Ergül Özkutan, who creates conceptual works and also composes music, made the music, and Momentum was born.
At the same time, I brought together three women dancers with very interesting faces. I choreographed only with their faces. Only their mouths, eyebrows, and eyes moved. Of course, this was very frustrating work, but despite everything, my dancers did not give up.
During this time, one day while walking with my mother, who has Alzheimer’s, and my half-paralyzed father, my mother and father were walking arm in arm, and I was following them from behind. Each time my father’s right foot lifted, his ankle shook uncontrollably. My mother, getting weaker day by day, tried to keep up with my father’s limping walk. Suddenly, my heart started beating fast. This was not an ordinary walk. It contained very different energies. When we got home, I said, “I have a show coming up soon. I want you to be part of it. What do you say?” My father thought a bit and asked, “When?” I told him the date. “We’ll be in Ayvalık then,” he said. “Okay,” I said and went home. When I arrived home, I got a message from my mother: “Aydın, don’t listen to your father. I want to do that thing.” I immediately ran to their house. I said, “Dad, look, mom wants to do this, we will do it.” He agreed. I told my mother, “You don’t have to speak at all. Just walk like you do on the street.” Then my mother and father started walking down the corridor. My mother stopped every three steps and asked, “My dear Aydın, but can’t I talk about the weather and other things with dad while walking?”
At the first International Student Triennial held at Dolmabahçe Cultural Center in Istanbul, the first part of the show, Gezinti (“Stroll”), featured my mother and father walking from one end of the building to the other. My mother did not speak at all. The second part, Trio, featured three women — Meltem Tezmen, Ebru Anıt Ahunbay, and Begüm Tüzün — sitting on three chairs placed inside a window, wearing black dresses and pearl necklaces, performing face dance to Teleman’s music.
In the last part, Tuğçe [Ulugün Tuna] performed Momentum on a portable stage created at the base of the building. The night before the show, we had a general rehearsal. My mother, the most capricious artist I have ever known, couldn’t decide on a hat to wear. We struggled to please her. The show had very emotional moments. After the show, Cevat Çapan and Önay Sözen came and asked, “Who are these cuddly ones?” I said, “They are my mother and father.”

E.B.: Momentum, three women, parents all presented together.
A.T.: First, the walk of my mother and father, Gezinti (“Stroll”), then Trio, and finally Momentum. At the curtain call, the dancers brought my parents on stage. It was a very emotional and unforgettable night. Towards the end of the 1990’s, I started to feel as if I am at the edge of a huge change.

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E.B.: Amazing. So this brings us into the 2000s.

A.T.: When we reached the 2000s, I had been creating site-specific works for exactly ten years. I have only three stage works. One is G for the State Ballet in Istanbul. When I went to NYU as a visiting choreographer with a Fulbright scholarship, I created Locked Lips for the students there. And then ID for the American Dance Festival students. ID was very well received because I went there right after G. At the State Ballet, I was worn out… Some dancers did nothing, I showed them something but they wouldn’t do it. Those who had never worked with me. The others were my students but they also knew you can’t produce a piece in such a short time. But thankfully, they organized rehearsals during their free time and we started working.
The reason I was invited there was an Englishman named Richard Glasson, who was head of the department at that time. He came into rehearsal one day full of anger and said, “I will watch rehearsal. Start!” I was a bit happy, naive of course, I thought I’d get feedback. The rehearsal ended. Richard stood up and shouted, “Of course she’s gonna rehearse! This is art! This is real art!” It turned out they had complained about me — that they didn’t work themselves and complained that I was rehearsing with other dancers and that I shouldn’t rehearse. Yekta Kara was the general art director at the time. We went into his office, and in a very gentlemanly way, the complainers left the room. We kept working.
Those were very stressful times. What happened wasn’t easy. But right after, I went to the American Dance Festival. I was going to choreograph for students there. I was so helpless, tired, and unhappy… There was a meeting. There was a Korean choreographer, a couple from Venezuela, and me. The head, Charles, and his wife Stephanie were asking questions. When it was my turn, I said, “I don’t know, I have no idea.” But the Korean’s costume was ready. The couple’s costume too. Only I was unprepared. Charles and Stephanie just looked at each other… It was very strange. I left very unhappy.
Then someone called from behind, “Aydiin! Aydiin!” I had made a show there the first time I went in 1987, so everyone knew me. It turned out to be a pianist. He said, “I want to work with you. You are a very crazy woman.” I hugged him. Because at that festival, there was a collaboration system where choreographers and composers worked together. I envied them a lot. Suddenly I had my own composer. Then rehearsals started. I had a presentation like an exam, which I did. When the show ended, it was so well received that I was given a standing ovation. People had tears in their eyes. Because I went there to do very serious work but a funny piece came out. Americans laugh at everything anyway… But it was really very unusual. The day after the show, everyone came back to watch again. Later, when I went again with the Fulbright scholarship, dancers on the streets of New York would approach me and say, “If you ever need a dancer, we want to work with you.” They were that impressed. I think some of them were also in the piece I made at the Brooklyn Bridge.

E.B.: They wanted to become your dancers just by meeting you on the street!

A.T.: Yes, they must have seen the festival. That was life at that time. During those ten years, aside from those three works, I always did site-specific pieces. What does that mean? It’s like signing on water… It can be repeated at most twice. It was already my rule with Aulos: no repetition. We did a piece once and moved on immediately.
Then a feeling arose inside me: “Let me do a stage piece,” I said. I decided this after ten years.
Something very interesting happened. I was teaching a composition class, focusing on focus. I taught that class for maybe twenty years. Suddenly I became curious: “Focus. How do I focus? What can I do?” I excitedly started thinking. At that time, there were young teachers in Turkey. Kelly Knox was teaching because a new department was opened. Geyvan [McMillen], Kaya, İlhan, etc. had gone elsewhere. So we were alone. When a guest teacher came, I immediately handed over my class and joined theirs. That was our situation.
Kelly was very flexible. So flexible that her foot turned inward and outward. Her joints were very different. Her feet always caught my attention. She had something unusual. Then I made a foot dance choreography for Kelly, just for the foot… Later I also started choreographing with different body parts. I give meaningless names to all my works. The foot dance was called Stkh. I present it like this at shows. That foot dance was about 8 minutes long, I think. It went on tour to France. It was so unusual within itself…
Then I had an eye dance. I first worked with Köken Ergun. It was of course very difficult because the eye kept drying and bleeding. But we recorded a video of it. Later, in a show, Köken’s video played on screen while Nadi Güler did the live version. The screen and live performance danced simultaneously. I set different rules for different parts of the body. And these rules produce very interesting results. For example, one rule was: There are two dancers on stage. They move from back to front and then backwards, but their eyes never leave the front. We find the starting point of movement on different parts of the body. For example, if they move forward or backward, the movement starts from that point. They go and go and go, then return, but the eyes must stay fixed at the same point. Pushing the body to its limits…
There was a solo like that. There was another solo related to the mouth. For example, I stick my tongue out, whistle. One day I was threading a needle but couldn’t get the thread through. I struggled for probably ten minutes. I felt sick. Something happened… Then suddenly my heart started pounding. I said, “This is focusing!” Threading the needle is one kind of focus. The thread passing through the needle’s eye is another focus. If a camera records this, that’s another focus. Showing it as a film creates a new focus for the viewer. I immediately got an idea. I set up a studio under Dulcinea. The organization was done. Filming started. I realized something: what I see with normal sight and what I see on screen are completely different. I immediately had a screen set up. I hang upside down. My neck got injured again during this. We set up a table, I lie upside down threading a needle. First, people do it normally. I do it lying on my back, on my side. We filmed one take, which was nicely edited. That piece was part of the work. There was a finale where all pieces merged. Completing the work took me two years.
During this time, a man came and said, “I want to help with your work.” I was surprised because usually my name is not very well known, others get credit. I asked, “How did you find me?” He said, “Underground.”
He saw my works. There is a festival called Theater Spektakel in Zürich. “We want you too,” they said. They invited me. I went and looked at the venues. Everyone expected site-specific work from me because of my previous works. There was a building by a lake. They expected me to make a performance there. I said, “That wouldn’t be a site-specific work, but if you want I can show you something I’m working on.” I showed Stkh and the needle-thread piece. The man said, “Do it!” without seeing the rest. He gave permission and approval. Yeşim Yalman was very supportive. She helped a lot with production. We went to Zürich for this show. It was the first time we worked with lighting and such. Of course, it was difficult…
The dancers performed the work in parts. Mihran Tomasyan was the lead dancer. I used Ergül Özkutan and Nick Rothwell — the guy who worked with many electronic devices in England — in this work. I worked with Nick for years. He came to Turkey for this piece. We set up a studio in a room. I rehearsed during the day, and at night we made music together on the footage. It was very exciting. Then we went to Zürich. They told me, “We didn’t tell you before but there is a symposium on locality and globality, and they selected your work.” I was coming from Turkey, so I said, “Okay.” without hesitation. When the show ended, there was incredible amazement among the audience: art historians, aestheticians, many people. They didn’t know what to say. We sat on stage. They asked, “Can this be performed anywhere in the world?” I said, “Sure, of course it can.” Then someone asked, “What is beauty for you?” I said, “I design in a way that I don’t work to capture beauty. I research the body, the limits of the body.”
Anyway, the symposium ended. I returned to Turkey. Some time later, I learned that I was given a special award with a long explanation because I had broken all aesthetic values and taken the audience elsewhere.
But the interesting thing was: When the show ended, Kelly returned to America, Mihran went to France. My dancers disappeared. Both were difficult works. Actually, all of them were difficult works, not just those two. I couldn’t repeat this show for two years because I didn’t have a dancer who could put their foot in those positions. I worked with someone else instead of Mihran but it was very difficult. They could get injured. The work went to such difficult and strange places that it stayed dormant for a while.

But that way, “Density” was finished, I got it out. After “Density” ended, I created “aKabı” over two and a half years. At “aKabı”, students from METU (Middle East Technical University) were organizing performance days. None of them were dancers, but they organized festivals, and we supported them as a school. I was watching a performance there. On stage, a woman appeared with one foot in a high-heeled shoe… One foot with a heel, the other barefoot. She didn’t even do anything. Suddenly, in my mind, the concept of “asymmetry, imbalance” emerged.

As soon as the concept formed, that day I found a dancer in Ankara. But it became clear that I couldn’t work with her. Then I found another dancer, but I couldn’t work with her either. Ankara wasn’t going to work anyway. Ayşe Orhon came from abroad. Ayşe’s feet were already capable of anything. Slowly, I started working closely with Ayşe. I had a shoe made. There was a man in Istiklal Street, near the police station, who made shiny shoes at that time. For trans people and such. That shop always caught my attention. I kept thinking, “What if I make a piece there…” One day I went into that shop. “I want a big shoe, size 44—something like that—I want an ‘apartment’ shoe,” I said. He didn’t do much but slowly started working with us.

Since Ayşe was there, “Density” was able to be performed again. While it was playing, Ayşe also joined this new work. Ayşe became the first dancer because her shoe size was the same as the male dancer’s. Serap Meriç joined our group. Serap was already working in “Density”, one of my oldest students. After some time, Şebnem Yüksel joined, then Emre Olcay. It didn’t happen immediately but the work started to move forward.

Those shoes were not very high-heeled. Even working with normal shoes is very difficult. I could injure the dancer.

We’re working so slowly… First, for example, just being able to stand on the tip of that shoe, to sit back on the heel—that alone took weeks. I mean, just finding balance took weeks. We simply come in and work calmly, we have no idea what will come out of it. At first, I was working on one foot. Then came the feeling: “Let’s try two, let’s go with both feet now.” As they keep working, they get stronger, and as they get stronger, let’s say they’re able to stay in that position. Then I say: “Now, can you shift your balance a little and move in another direction?” They say, “Impossible!” But after a while, even though they say it’s impossible, they don’t give up. My dancers were amazing like that… They just don’t quit! Slowly, they start trying. Thud! They fall. Thud! They fall again! Eventually, they begin to use their center of gravity with great awareness. Their proprioceptive system develops—in other words, their ability to sense where they are without seeing it, in that position, improves. And with that, they started to be able to move to unexpected places while still in that pose. So the first piece started with that. After a while, we started to get curious about different kinds of shoes. One had a high toe, the other a high heel—rounded, like a gondola… We started making those kinds of things too. And while the shoemaker had shown no interest at first, he began to generate ideas. He was skeptical at first, then started to support us. His name is Master Ahmet. Master Ahmet never once came to our rehearsal, not even once watched the work, but the amount of contribution he made—it was incredible. Then the shoes started to get bigger and bigger. As they grew, we made things that fit them. The work slowly began to evolve. Just before the big shoes came about, I got a call from Zurich. A book was going to be published there, and they wanted me to be part of it. It was going to be a book involving both Turks and them. Later they said, “If you’re working on a piece, could you send us something?” I said, “Yes, I’m working on something, but it’s still in the early stages, and I would need a lighting designer if I were to present anything.” They said, “No problem, just send it to us.” So I sent them the photos. Ten minutes later, they replied: “We want it—and we’re sending you a lighting designer too.”

EB: Of course, they were shocked!

AT: That’s how it all happened. When I performed the piece, the man who had invited me to Zurich was there. After watching it, we went outside, and he told me he was no longer directing the Zurich Theater Spektakel—he was now in charge of the Berlin Festival, the biggest one. And he decided to invite me there. It was something truly extraordinary.

EB: How did you feel?

AT: I was constantly experiencing something so different, so I was just thinking: “What can happen? I need to keep working,” because the shoes were huge, and the school no longer allowed me to store my materials. I had to keep the giant shoes in another part of the building, and for example, I could only rehearse at AKM in the evenings after their rehearsals ended. We’d take the shoes by taxi and go rehearse somehow. Some days, they’d say, “We didn’t finish our rehearsal today, please go back.”

EB: Very difficult working conditions—despite all the creativity, all those ideas.

AT: Yes, very difficult. But then someone else invited me to a residency in Portugal, in Lisbon. My dancers and I worked on those big shoes there for a month. Support like that started coming in. After that, I returned to Turkey. Of course, it was still very hard. At the festival—and I hadn’t even realized this myself—Mihran had written something like: “Aydın Hoca will be mad at me for saying this, but he’s among the most prominent, most admired choreographers.” And I was listed among them. What really excited and kept me going was the process, not the result. Like, when a performance ends, I immediately feel: “Oh no, what now?” On my way home, I’m thinking: “What am I going to do now?” Because the baby is no longer mine—it’s out of me. It’s not mine anymore. That feeling is so strange. The same thing happened at the Berlin Festival. It ended, and there was a Q&amp,A. A guy was supposed to ask questions, but he didn’t even know what to ask. The outcome was so unexpected. Marcus even told me afterward: “Did you realize he couldn’t ask you a single question?” Then that piece received great reviews, and we actually started touring with it. “aKab” took about two, two and a half years to develop, but I think it toured for seven years. It really traveled across continents. Eventually, the dancers didn’t have the physical strength anymore. I started worrying they might get injured. We had tough days too… But that’s how “aKab” came to be.

During one of the tours, I was sitting in a café with Ayşe Orhon. Since I had done work in the UK with a double bassist and composer, Ayşe said, “You know, I actually studied harp part-time at the conservatory—I was also a harpist.” Ayşe was also a synchronized swimmer, she speaks four languages—she’s a truly special woman. Then she said, “You did such a project—do you think we could do something with harp too?” We got very excited! We went to Paris and bought a carbon-fiber harp. We came back to Turkey with a harp! While the tours continued, we also started working with the harp.

At that time, we still didn’t have a proper venue—I didn’t have a studio. And then, a miracle happened. My brother had become a textile manufacturer. They saw how much I was struggling. One day he said to me, “Someone couldn’t pay and gave me an apartment instead. Would you like to come and see it?” I went. In Şişli, near the Ziraat Bank—right where the road forks—there’s the Apex Medical Center now, but back then, it was a textile building. We went up to the top floor. I couldn’t believe it—sewing machines, equipment… 200 square meters, windows on both sides. I was walking around saying, “Oh my God, this is a dream, this is a dream!” And they gave it to me rent-free for 10 years. It was unbelievable.

EB: Thankfully! When did this happen, professor?

AT: It was sometime in the 2000s. But since everything I do is based on balance, I ended up investing 40,000 TL in it at the time. A 200-square-meter space with no columns—it was amazing! Made of beautiful, intricate wooden beams… Later, during periods when we had no school or venue—like before moving to Bomonti—I held classes there. I used to call it “our own studio.” But one unfortunate thing happened: after I started working on building everything in that space, it turned into a hospital. I was the only one left on the top floor. It completely changed.

EB: So your studio was above a hospital?

AT: Yes, it turned into something like that. The textile business wasn’t going well anymore. The space was vacated and rented out—maybe even sold, I’m not sure. It was so bizarre! We’d go up through the patients to get to the studio. It was surreal. We watched students’ assignments and projects there. We made beautiful curtains… It was a space we used really well. One morning, a student fainted during class, and nurses came up from downstairs to help immediately! Things like that happened—it was interesting. We created a big part of “harS” there. It was important because “harS”—well, the harp didn’t even fit in cars. We’d go places but couldn’t work or rehearse properly because we needed a large space. But then came another difficulty: I suddenly thought, “Oh no! I’ve lost my uniqueness. I’ve become too professional. What we’re creating is good, but this isn’t it… this isn’t what it should be!” That was a personal crisis. On top of that, we didn’t know what Ayşe would do with the harp. As a musician, what would her role be?

At first, she had an idea—she would play professionally. Then we invited a bunch of composers and showed them the work. They all said, “We can’t do anything—this is beyond us.” Only one person from the Netherlands gave us a few ideas. Ayşe was already improvising, and I kept recording everything. Later, using those ideas, we created it ourselves—I won’t call it music, but rather sound and body. The relationship between the body and sound. Something very different had to exist between Ayşe and the harp—a risky relationship. Slowly, the harp accepted Ayşe, and Ayşe built a new relationship with the harp. They truly bonded. They did many things together in many different ways.

Later, at an event, all the festival organizers came to my studio and watched the first rehearsal of “harS.” Right after that, some of them signed deals. “harS” also toured a lot. Everything fell into place. In the 2000s, I only created three pieces: “Yoğunluk,” “aKabı,” and “harS.” That was it. But during the final period of “harS,” my partner Simon was very ill. Its premiere was in Belgium. I was with Ayşe on the first day, but then I had to return because my daughter called me (maybe don’t include this part) and said, “If you don’t come, you won’t see Simon again.” We had six or seven performances left. I left Ayşe there and came back to Turkey. So there were really tough times happening all at once. Life was far from easy.

EB: Not at all. From everything you’ve told me, the one thing that keeps coming up is how you continued, no matter what. Every single time.

AT: It’s unbelievable—only later did I realize… At the same time, my mother had Alzheimer’s, my ex-husband (Çağrı’s father) had cancer, Simon had cancer, and my daughter was having panic attacks… All at once. And I stayed standing. Because (again, maybe don’t include this part), if I was teaching, I was 100% teaching. If I was choreographing, I was 100% choreographing. At home, I had a caregiver. Nurses worked shifts and lived in the house. When I came home, it was a whole different world. And I lived it. It’s crazy, but I lived through it.

EB: Truly fascinating. So, when did you move to Ayvalık?

AT: I actually bought my house in Ayvalık over 30 years ago—as a complete ruin. When we came back to Turkey, Çağrı was only a few months old. I wasn’t allowed to work, so we had to return in a rush—I was unemployed. We talked about this before. Çağrı grew up in Ayvalık. So back then, I used to come only in the summers, with the baby. I had so much energy I remember mixing concrete myself! My father and I would walk around together, and I started thinking—maybe I could buy something for the future in Ayvalık. It was a total ruin when I first entered, not really livable. But then I saw a garden after walking a bit further. I turned to the woman and said, “Auntie, I love this house!” We couldn’t even go upstairs—the first three steps were broken. Everything was difficult and in poor condition, but I loved that house. Because throughout my life—until my final studio—I never had a proper space. We were always underground, entering and exiting in darkness. But here, there was a garden… So we bought it.

A year before I retired, I had the house repaired. We were actually going there before that too. Of course, I had the stairs fixed. I used to stay for just one week a year. During that one week, the roof would leak or the windows would be broken—so I’d be busy fixing those things. But we spent three New Year’s Eves there with artist friends. The rooms had holes in the walls, and we’d talk to each other through those holes—we had some beautiful moments there too. But the house becoming what it is today happened much later.

EB: It’s a wonderful house—I’m so lucky I got to see it. So how’s your life in Ayvalık now? Your community, your relationships?

AT: It’s beautiful. Ayvalık is actually a bit too social. It’s like Istanbul—there are five different events on the same day, and you have to choose. Everyone’s retired. Everyone’s in this kind of… free-flowing state. It’s lovely. There are lots of artists now—galleries, residencies are starting to pop up. That’s how I’ve had the chance to perform in Ayvalık as well. That’s how it’s been. Ayvalık is beautiful!