see u in the other side, 2019: a reading in seven lenses
Acrylic on paper, 59.4 × 42 cm (23 ⅜ × 16 ½ in). Painting by Yiğit Özen.
At a Glance
A vertical border divides the paper in a three-to-two ratio, and the amount of paint carried to each side is the exact opposite of the other. On the left the acrylic is laid on undiluted, ultramarine from above, sea blue from below, covering the paper from end to end; on the right the same paint is opened out with plenty of water, in each patch the cream of the paper working from within, and the brush's broken marks read one by one. On the same surface two separate saturations, two separate hand pressures, stand side by side. On the left yellow and orange limbs are tangled together, how many bodies cannot be counted; at least two bodies overlap, four or five legs, arms reaching back and forth, but a single small face is too little for so many limbs. The orange mass in the middle could be an embrace or a crushing, no decision made between the two.
The title is a sentence of farewell, and before us stand two parties in truth: on one side the body, on the other the non-body. The grid on the right resembles writing but cannot be read; signs divided into boxes recall the pictograph canvases of the forties and fifties, Gottlieb's alphabet-less script, only here the grid is set up with no symbol placed in it. The same net resembles a circuit board or a floor plan too, that cold order which renders a living thing measurable. To put a person into a system one must first turn them into a number; the converted copy does not object, does not come late, it is the one that drops onto the insurance screen. The scattered body on the left, though, does not fit into the forms, too many-limbed and too alive.
The black band in the middle is the one element joining the two fields; it enters the left half and cuts the ground, passing beneath the figure's feet. It stands like a road too, and like a crack where the earth has split. The figure walks right upon this line but does not cross, a step taken, a foot left in the air. Bodiless red hands reaching from the edges join the scene with their hands alone, whose they are unclear. Red rounds circulate in both halves, so the border is not as closed as it looks. There is no trace of a light source, black used not for shadow but to draw a border. The signature is placed only on the figured half, the other half left unsigned.
Form and Composition
The surface is divided into two regions by a vertical boundary three fifths of the way in from the left, with a single dark mass on the left and a light linear net on the right. As the dominant direction is set up with slanted limbs on the left and with a vertical and horizontal square order on the right, the two direction systems collide at the boundary and no unit crosses over.
The surface is divided into two regions by a vertical boundary. The boundary is about three fifths of the way in from the left, descending almost straight from top to bottom, and shifts slightly to the right near the bottom edge. On the left a dark area with a single large mass inside it; on the right a light area with a net built from small units inside it. The two regions do not mix, and there is no transitional tier at the boundary. The ratio of widths is about three to two.
In the left region the mass is composed of overlapping limbs. There are four separate extensions that could be counted as legs; two stretch to the right and break at knee level, two descend to the lower left. The longest begins in the upper right and comes down to the lower central region, its length about three quarters of the region's height. The limbs are all of the same thickness and all surrounded by a dark line. At the centre there is a compact body of a darker value, separating from the limbs around it. The head is in the upper central region, standing at the point where two extensions intersect, and its scale is a third of the body.
The ground of the left region shows two horizontal tiers. Above there is a darker area, below a lighter area, and the boundary between them is a broken line descending from left to right. On top of this line a straight black band also rides, beginning at the right edge and coming as far as the centre. In the lower left corner the same black band appears a second time, this time slanted and descending towards the corner. The two bands are not parallel to each other.
Five red roundnesses are scattered on the ground. Two in the upper left, one in the middle of the left edge, two in the lower central region. Their diameters are close to one another, their placement irregular. They do not touch the mass, all standing on the ground, and in scale about half the head.
The right region is entirely linear. Short horizontal and vertical units are arrayed leaving square-like voids, and long slanted lines enter between them. These slanted lines go from the upper left to the lower right and cut across the region from beginning to end. The scale of the units is small, the largest about half the head on the left. At the middle of the region there are two concentric arcs, the only round unit. Towards the right edge the fills thin out and the paper itself shows. The difference between the two regions is not only fill but also a difference of direction. On the left the dominant direction is slanted, the limbs going to the upper right and lower left; on the right the dominant direction is vertical and horizontal, the units settling into a square order. The boundary between is the place where these two direction systems collide, and there no unit crosses over. The mass of the left region touches the top edge of the crop but not the bottom edge; below, a hand's width of ground strip remains. In the right region, meanwhile, the fill approaches all four edges.
Colour and Light
Two saturation regimes are at work on the same surface: on the left the blue has fully saturated the paper, on the right the cream of the paper stays exposed, and so while the cadmium yellow on the left rings at full strength with the blue, on the right it fades to terracotta dust. The colours have not changed, their neighbours have; the painted cream white comes out cooler than the bare paper beside it.
On the left the blue saturates the paper from top to bottom, while on the right the paper's own cream is left exposed. Two separate regimes of saturation are at work on the same surface. The upper region of the left half is ultramarine, its lower region a sea blue close to turquoise; between the two there is a horizontal black strip and the transition is cut off there. The paint is thick, it has fully covered the paper, the brush marks are broad. The figures are painted in cadmium yellow. In some places the paint has been watered and the paper beneath shows through the yellow, in others it is full and opaque. Yellow and blue stand face to face and both are left at full strength; between them there are only thin blue contours, and that is all. This encounter keeps the left half of the surface ringing constantly.
In the middle of the bodies there is orange. It looks as though red has been mixed into the yellow, between melon and carrot. A register darker than the yellow and a step warmer; because of this the middle of the body comes forward and the arms and legs stay behind. The red used in the neck and the arm is thoroughly dark, almost a wine colour. The same dark red is scattered everywhere in round patches. Three at the upper left, four in the lower region; all of the same size and all at the same saturation. Within the blue these maroon dots stand like holes, because they are darker than everything around them.
In the right half the same paints look entirely different. The same blue is laid there in thin lines, and because the white of the paper passes through it it has dropped to a sky colour. The same orange red is pale there too, almost like terracotta dust. The colours have not changed, their neighbours have changed; next to the white both have lost their force. In the upper right corner there are mustard and grey patches in a few places, left over from the mixing of the two colours. The white too has been used like a colour. One of the long legs in the left half is painted in cream white, and the difference between it and the blue around it is at its highest point. The same cream comes out in small areas in the head region and on the shoulder. In the right half, on the other hand, the white is not paint but the paper itself; when the two come side by side it becomes clear that the painted white is cooler.
The black is little but decisive. A thick diagonal band at the lower left, a horizontal strip in the centre, and in the right half as long thin lines. It is the only real darkness on the surface and nowhere does it do the work of shadow, it does the work of a boundary. There is no trace of a light source. The blue in the lower region stands like water, but there is no reflection on it. In the lower left corner there is a small red mark, set directly onto the paper and its surroundings left empty.
Iconography, Myth and Title
The surface is divided by a vertical line down the middle; on the left the body, on the right not-body signs, and the sentence of farewell in the title sets up the unvarying boundary of transition narratives. The signs boxed into squares on the right resemble an unreadable talisman writing, and that threshold, where a sign whose meaning is unknown frightens more than one whose meaning is known, is painted here.
The surface has been divided in two down the middle. On the left there are bodies, on the right signs. In the left half yellow and orange limbs are tangled together; how many people there are is uncertain, but there are at least two figures. Above, a head appears, its face marked in red. Legs reach down and near the ground there are red rounds. In the right half there are no figures at all; blue and red short lines, squares, hooks, and black diagonals passing over them. Between the two halves no crossing has been left.
The title is a sentence of farewell. When one says see you on the other side, the first thing that comes to mind is the threshold of death, but the same sentence is also uttered at border gates, at aircraft landings, and before surgery. The scene meets this sentence with a surface divided in two. One side is body, the other not-body. In all transition narratives there is such a line: a river, a bridge, a curtain, a door. The line here is vertical and sharp, and the two areas do not mingle with each other. In transition narratives, on one side of the line there is speech, on the other there is not. This distinction never works in both directions.
The area on the right resembles writing but cannot be read. Signs boxed into squares, repeating verticals, red patches squeezed into the gaps. The letters scratched into gravestones, the lists on temple walls, and talisman papers all give this image. The other side has been shown as the place where the meaning of the word is lost; there is a sign, but no equivalent. The black lines passing over it, on the other hand, stand as though striking through and cancelling the page. Talisman writings too were written not to be read but to be carried; a sign whose meaning is unknown frightens more than one whose meaning is known.
The posture of the figures on the left is uncertain. They could be embracing, struggling, or one carrying the other. Part of the arms has risen up, one reaches to the left and ends in a red hand. In transition scenes the carrier and the carried are most often shown in the same mass; the one who shoulders and the one shouldered are inseparable. This inseparability says that the transition cannot be made alone. The red rounds at the lower edge stand like drops fallen to the ground, and the same rounds are also in the upper left corner, that is, they set up a line from top to bottom.
The black strip in the middle is the only element that binds the two areas to each other. It enters the left half, cuts the ground and passes beneath the figures' feet. It stands like a road, like a crack. This line opening in the ground shows, in earthquake or grave narratives, the place where the earth splits. The white ground on the right, on the other hand, is a surface with no depth at all; there is neither shadow nor distance. The place where the earth splits is the only point where the two worlds touch. On the left, behind the figures, a dark blue area stands, opening downward and its bottom not visible.
Psychoanalysis and the Unconscious
The paper is split in two right down the middle, and while overlapping bodies stand on the left, the right half is made of lines and boxes the body could not enter. The figure in which two bodies fit into a single face walks upon the boundary line but cannot cross to the other side, and its red hands leave traces that mark everywhere they touch.
The paper is split in two right down the middle, and on either side stand two worlds unaware of one another. On the left there are bodies, on the right none at all. The right side is full of lines, boxes, intersecting traces; not a single limb, not a single face can be made out within it. It is like an area the body has not entered, could not enter. Nor has a door providing passage between them been drawn. The two halves share the same paper but one cannot look at the other. Where the division is there is a thin black line, which could also be the paper's own fold mark. Whatever it is, the two sides are cut off there.
I could not make out how many people the figure on the left is. One body has stepped forward, opened its legs, extended its arm. Through it or over it passes a second body; an orange belly, a second hip, an extra leg. Two bodies are laid over one another and have not separated. There is one face; a small face, red-mouthed, with two eyes. For this many limbs a single face falls short. Who is taking the step becomes uncertain. The eyes are of different sizes, one lower than the other; the face has not quite settled either.
Red rounds are scattered inside the scene. Three in the upper left, another three or four below. What they are is not said; they could be drops, they could be fruit. They stand near the ground where the legs end, as if fallen from the figure. Like the traces a body leaves behind it. The hands are red too; painted all the way to the fingertips. Imagine a hand that marks whatever it touches, it leaves a trace everywhere it goes. The fingers of the left hand are open, those of the right gathered; the two hands do two separate things at the same time.
The place the feet press on is dark blue, the upper part lighter. The boundary between them is marked with a black band, and that band stretches to the right and joins the division in the middle of the paper. The figure walks right upon this line. It stands like someone about to pass from one place to another, but it does not pass. The step has been taken, the foot stayed in the air. On the other side nothing appears to be waiting for it. In the right half I searched for a single form resembling a human, and could not find one. There is no body there; there are only edges and corners.
There is another thin arm reaching from the left edge, with a red hand at its end. Its body has stayed outside the frame. A limb entering the scene from outside. We do not know whom it belongs to and the figure has not turned towards it. In the upper right corner too a similar hand trace stands at the edge of the paper. Both are bodiless; two beings that take part in the scene with their hands alone.
Society, Power and Technology
The line that divides the paper in two separates a disordered body on the left from a diagram resembling a circuit board on the right; to put a person into the system you must turn him into a number, into a useful copy that does not object. When none of the options on the form fits, we mark the nearest one and that trimmed answer stands in our place.
The paper is divided down the middle in two. On the left there are arms, legs, limbs tangled into one another; on the right only lines, rectangles, intersecting straight lines. On one side the body, on the other the diagram. The boundary between them is straight and sharp, no place of crossing left. In the title it says see you on the other side, and before us there really do stand two sides.
The right side resembles a circuit board too, and a floor plan too. Both do the same job in any case; they make a living thing measurable. To put a person into the system you must first turn him into a number. His age, his income, his place of residence, his click history. Once he is converted, decisions about that person can now be made without speaking to him, because you have in your hands a copy of him more useful than he is. The copy does not object, nor is it ever late. The insurance company assesses not you but that copy. Do not think that what drops onto the bank's approval screen is you, it is the converted-into-a-number version of you. And if there is a wrong record, finding which door to knock at to correct it takes months, because the place that keeps the record and the place that makes the decision are no longer the same building.
How many legs the figure on the left has I could not count. Four or five. One of its arms is stretched back, one forward. It is in motion, but its direction cannot be read. The disorder of the body catches the eye all the more beside the order on the right. Real life is like this, over-limbed and disordered. It does not fit inside the forms. When filling in an application form we all trim ourselves a little; if none of the options fits you, you mark the nearest one and after a while that mark stands in your place. No one has told a lie, the truth is merely trimmed a little. And where millions of trimmed answers are gathered, there emerges a description of a society that no one recognises any longer.
The red rounds are on both sides. On the left four or five stand in the air, on the right a few have fallen among the lines. That is, the two areas are not entirely cut off, the same marks circulate in both. In any case the thing we call a boundary is no longer a real boundary. When you put your phone in your pocket and go out, you carry the other side along with you; which street you walked down, how many seconds you stood in front of which shop window passes to the other side. The other side is no longer a place, it is a layer. Spread over us, it cannot be taken off. Even after you die it stays there; your accounts remain open, your photographs circulate, your birthday is remembered.
The dividing line in the middle breaks slightly as it descends. It is not quite straight. One of the feet of the figure on the left has come quite close to that boundary too, almost touching it.
Art History and Comparison
In the diptych the hinge lets the two worlds look at each other; here, between the two halves, there is a coarse line instead of a hinge, the left side setting up a narrative and the right side rejecting it. In Gottlieb's pictograph canvases a symbol settles into each compartment; here the compartments are empty, the cage of the sign painting set up but the signs not having come.
The paper is divided in two along its length: on the left, within a blue field, yellow and orange bodies tangled together; on the right, a net woven from short bars and rings, resembling no figure at all. Between the two halves there is a thick black boundary, coming down and ending at the edge of the paper. On the left, red balls hanging in the air, and on the right side the same red patches appear here and there; this is the only element the two zones have in common.
To divide a surface in two and give each half a separate world is the fundamental idea of the winged-panel tradition. In medieval diptychs one wing carries the sacred event, the other the donor or another time; the hinge between the two halves lets the two worlds look at each other. Here, in place of a hinge, there is a coarse line, and the two halves do not look at each other. The left side sets up a narrative, the right side rejects the narrative. The phrase the other side in the title meets this division in a plain way, but which one is the other side is not stated. In the diptych, even if the two wings come from the same hand, they do not do the same work, one narrates and the other bears witness; here both stand on their own and no division of duty has been established between them.
The net on the right brings to mind the sign paintings of the forties and fifties. In Gottlieb's pictograph canvases the surface is divided into boxes, an eye, a hand, a symbol placed in each box; what emerges is a writing with no alphabet. The compartments here are looser, some closed, some left open, and no symbol placed inside them. That is, the cage of the sign painting has been set up, and the signs have not come. The texture of the paper is also visible in this half, the paint not having reached everywhere.
The figures in the left half, meanwhile, stand close to the tradition of dancing bodies. In Matisse's dance-ring the bodies are simplified, they hold on to one another over a blue and green ground, and the movement is bound to a rhythm. The bodies here too are simplified, ringed with contour and painted flat; but there is no holding on, there is collision. The legs pass through one another, and which leg belongs to which body is unclear. The orange mass in the middle could be an embrace, or a crushing. The faces sustain this uncertainty too; two mask-like faces have come one over the other, the eye of one falling onto the forehead of the other. The thing dance painting relies on most, that is, the bodies looking at one another, does not come about here.
Among the series' 2019 paper works, this seems to be the only example that holds two separate styles on the same surface. Considering the artist's unplanned way of working, it is highly likely that the right half was begun afterward, after the left half was finished. The consistency of the paint differs on the two sides too; on the left saturated, on the right diluted. The red signature in the lower left corner has been placed only on the half with figures, the other half left unsigned.
Material, Gesture and the Viewer's Experience
The amount of paint carried to the two halves is the reverse of each other: on the left the acrylic covered the paper without any thinning, on the right it was opened out with plenty of water and behaved like watercolour, and in every patch the white of the paper works from within. While the left half, stretched by the thick paint, ripples during drying, the right half, carrying a light load, has stayed flat.
The amount of paint carried to the two halves is the reverse of each other, and the border between them runs right down the middle of the paper. On the left the acrylic is almost not watered down at all, it covered the paper from end to end, and the white beneath strikes up from nowhere. On the right, meanwhile, the same paint has been opened out with plenty of water and behaved like watercolour; in every patch the white of the paper works from within, and the sword-like marks the brush left read one by one. On the same paper two separate consistencies, two separate hand pressures and two separate work tempos stand side by side.
Most of the blue and orange marks in the right half are of a single pass. The brush touched the paper and ran, cut off when the paint ran low and left without being refilled. So one end of the patches is saturated, the other end almost transparent. Between them there are untouched regions of the paper; these are not empty space but the carriers of the composition. The black diagonal lines passing over them, on the other hand, are dragged with a dry tip; they caught the grain of the paper and skipped its hollows, and so they are broken. One of them enters from the right edge and reaches into the left half, and when it rises over the blue it suddenly thickens.
The blue ground in the left half looks as if it was built in two coats. The upper part dark, the lower part lighter, and between the two there is a horizontal black band; the edges of the band are not straight, they tremble where the brush ran out. When the lower blue was laid the paper must have been a little damp, I think, because there the marks have seeped into one another and softened. The red rounds are placed one by one over this ground; each formed by the pressing and lifting of a loaded brush, and at the edge of some of them the paint ran a millimetre or two towards the paper.
The yellow figures are made by being filled in and then having blue contours passed over them. The contours are thin, fluid and in a single walk; the outer line of the leg does not break along a path longer than thirty centimetres. Inside the orange body, meanwhile, the yellow and orange met while wet and an intermediate zone tinged with red was left between them. The fingers of the hand are the most hurried place; they are flung as five nicks, in single flicks. The red signature in the lower left corner is left with the same fine tip too, the moment it touched the paper, and did not lift the blue beneath it at all.
An A2-sized paper is smaller than an arm's span, a size that can be worked laid flat on a table and bent over. The lightness in the right half confirms this too; that side can only be done on a horizontal surface, without running. Looked at from a metre and a half the two halves turn into two separate pictures. Come down to half a metre and the places where the paper ripples and where the paint pulled the surface to itself during drying come out. Most of all on the left, in the region where the paint is thick, the paper has stretched; the right half, on the other hand, has stayed flat, because the load carried there is far lighter.
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