“There is a spot down in the depths of the human soul only painting can touch.” Francis Bacon In my childhood years, the life stories of painters had much more of an impact on me than their paintings. Perhaps this was because we could look at only poorly printed reproductions of original paintings, while we could read painters’ life stories as if we were reading a vivid novel. Irving Stone’s novel on Van Gogh, Lust for Life; The Gold of Their Bodies by Charles Gorham recounting Gauguin’s life and Pierre La Mure’s Moulin Rouge on Lautrec; they were all within my grasp by the time I was 14-15, and I would read them over and over again. And yet I would have to wait another 10 years to see an original painting by any of these artists. The renowned Turkish writer Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar has said “If we had had prose or painting in Turkey, everything would be so different!” This geography has amazing poetry, but it did not have painting (or rather, it had the miniature, but lacked the tradition of painting as we understand it today –as in the self-expression of an individual!) and there we were, trying to learn how to do something that had not done before us. This emotive convolution is best depicted in Orhan Pamuk’s novel My Name is Red. Jews had been banned from humans’ first instrument for self-expression for 2000 years and Muslims for 1500; this was the bitter truth and it could not be changed. It was far too late to have a Jewish Leonardo or a Muslim Titian. But as of the 20th century, painting has become a form of expression at the disposal of all human beings of modern times. I started out with painting, and I have chosen to continue with photography. I don’t know if I will start to paint again but I suspect people will always have the need to paint.

These artworks are belong the artist’s private collection and not for sale.