2020 • Under My Skin

Under My Skin

10 January – 15 February 2020 • Galerist, Istanbul, Türkiye

The Memory of Skin

‘’The body is outside me, because it can be exposed to the effects of the world and be visible to others, because I can abstract myself from it, if to a certain degree. But on the other hand, it is the closest thing to myself, at the heart of intimacy: It touches me most deeply, it touches me at ‘my skin’. The body is that which belongs both the most and the least to me.’’1

In the exhibition Under My Skin, Ayça Telgeren steps out of the dream time that she has been focusing on in her previous exhibitions and inquires into the memory of the skin. The artist’s treatment of paper no longer bears a vulnerable, delicate incorporeality; it rests on how the hands that she brings out of her memory hold on to each other with all their reality. In the time of this exhibition, the short hair of her imaginary character Mireille grows like her own hair, and turns into sculpture-like monuments that have been set free and braided. Concrete sculptures, bodies and the skin room invite one to reflect on touching oneself, one’s own body, feeling pleasure and remembering the people one has touched.

“Contact” forms the symbolic framework of the exhibition Under My Skin.

Every body part and element in the exhibition touches the others, intertwined in an embrace. The hand and the skin are prominent in the philosophy of the touch. The skin is the geography of touching, and the hand is the most relevant body part for the act. We begin to learn and feel with our hands. Often, we perceive what we discover with our hands as if it were our entire body. Abidin Dino makes the following remarks about his drawings of hands: “The fingers on the paper became detached from anatomical logic and swarmed by themselves. They were autonomous, the fingers were self-ordained, they could twist and bend on the empty paper snuggling up as they wished, like a tughra”2. We can say the exact opposite for Telgeren’s hands. Far from being autonomous, they are hands that almost seem to exist for the other hands they touch, that touch each other with compassion; hands whose lines intermingle, which tell of the accretion of the past, of moments. These hands take refuge in one another, without intending at all to describe the character of the person they belong to as in Dino’s case, and get lost in the warmth of that moment.

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