Yonca Karakaş


12 November - 17 December 2022

At noon of the day, I am visualizing myself in the house of someone I have never known. I imagine I am entering her bathroom, flowing into her belongings. Identifying her from all these traces and to be eyed by her at a stroke...

It's a terrible moment for both of us. At that moment, we are both the other to each other.

I am the one who is morally wrong in the system. At this point my curiosity is not enough to justify anything to any norm. I am in her private space. How bizarre, even when I talk like this, I find myself righteous somewhere in my mind. Is human such a being? A delusion arises in my mind that my curiosity can pave the way for me to do anything, and I reject morality or all this ridiculous property.

On the other hand, I agree with my mind that all houses are not really safe when I think about their own dynamics, secrets, violence or relationship manners.

Neither house is warm or safe. They all have their own little scary aspects. It is possible to discover all these traces in the drawers in the cabinets or in the photographs.

Deceased kith and kin, close relatives separated after terrible arguments, title deeds taken, title deeds given, property insanity...

Dreams about the future that we can reach in cut magazines, notes written for a specific purpose, or maybe even a very simple kitchen list are the identity faces of the house. The house gets bigger by acquiring meaningless identities. It outgrows constantly.

It grows and hoards hungrily, voraciously and persistently. This is something it does continually!

It grows to get approval, it grows to get identity, it grows to frighten, it grows to invite!

Houses are boxes aligned vertically or horizontally on the terra, clinging to life with an instinctive and persistent tie.

The terra needs to be shaken once in a while. When I pat my strange dog nose trying to get rid of the fleas to her wet nose, we will both find peace at the same latitude...