Cihad Caner questions mainstream image-making methods and the dialogues they generate for (and around) socio-political subjects. His practice explores the politics of the image through the media of video, photography, music, motion capture, and CGI. In every work Caner intends to create alternative forms of expression in his subjects through an intensive research-based practice, directly challenging the linear, one-sided narratives we are fed by popular media. He combines historical and contemporary references to confront issues related to (re)presentation, language, marginalization, alterity, the process of image production, and circulation. Cihad's fictional characters are often multilingual protagonists in nonlinear, metaphorical narratives that employ humor, absurdity, and poetry to critique the status quo.
(Re)membering the riots in Afrikaanderwijk in 1972 or guest, host, ghos-ti (2023) - The work revolves around a forgotten event: the 1972 riots directed against guest workers in Afrikaanderwijk, a neighbourhood of Rotterdam. It poses questions such as how we remember, the role of subjectivity in shaping our collective memory, and the transformative potential of re-enactment as a means of reawakening the past. Central to this research is a meticulous focus on memory, as it seeks to unravel the subjective nature of individual recollections, recognising that memory is not a fixed entity but rather a fluid and subjective phenomenon. The aim of the work is to highlight contrasting shades and nuances that exist among various individual remembrances of the Afrikaanderwijk riots, allowing for a diverse range of perspectives to be acknowledged and woven together. Reenactments feature as pivotal elements within the project, which not only allows for the recreation and revisitation of the past, but the process of reenactment itself operates as a potent tool for reclaiming forgotten narratives
(Re)membering the riots in Afrikaanderwijk in 1972 or guest, host, ghos-ti (2023) - The work revolves around a forgotten event: the 1972 riots directed against guest workers in Afrikaanderwijk, a neighbourhood of Rotterdam. It poses questions such as how we remember, the role of subjectivity in shaping our collective memory, and the transformative potential of re-enactment as a means of reawakening the past. Central to this research is a meticulous focus on memory, as it seeks to unravel the subjective nature of individual recollections, recognising that memory is not a fixed entity but rather a fluid and subjective phenomenon. The aim of the work is to highlight contrasting shades and nuances that exist among various individual remembrances of the Afrikaanderwijk riots, allowing for a diverse range of perspectives to be acknowledged and woven together. Reenactments feature as pivotal elements within the project, which not only allows for the recreation and revisitation of the past, but the process of reenactment itself operates as a potent tool for reclaiming forgotten narratives
mezar مزار place to visit plaats om te bezoeken (2022) - In his artistic practice, Cihad Caner frequently uses etymology and historical sources to reflect on contemporary phenomena. His work traces the Dutch symbol of the tulip in the Ottoman Empire and, in a chain of associations, ar- rives at the floral ornamentations on the tombstones in cemeteries of modern day Istanbul.
With an interest [circulating] in collective memory and cultural archives, Caner revisited ‘the tulip’ in language, images, and objects across different geographies. His work enlivens and traces the material residues of a symbol in a disembodied Ottoman past.
Guided by the imagery on a barrel organ in Deventer, called ‘De Turk’, of a sultan wearing a turban and tulip, he connects the abundance of the flower and its symbolism as part of Dutch identity, to the material and cultural ex- change between The Ottoman and Dutch empire during the 17 th Century. According to a legend, Dutch ambassadors were charmed by the tulips worn on the sultan’s turban and keen to introduce this magnetic flower in the Neth- erlands; it is said that the Dutch word ‘tulip’ is rooted in this imperial history and etymologically relates to the word ‘turban’.
Referencing this past in a written composition, the artist follows the tulip’s ety- mology and hints to lesser known stories and relations as well as the processes of cultural amnesia and misidentification that followed from them. In doing so, Caner links and surveys the visual and linguistic traces of stereo- types of an imagined ‘Turk’ within the Dutch cultural archive and metaphor- ically lays them to rest in cemeteries of Istanbul. The skilful and elaborate floral designs seen on the tombstones from early 18th century cemeteries in Istanbul are replicated and carved out in wood. They remind us of a long- standing Islamic floral design tradition in the geographical area of Turkey.
In the exhibition, a collection of these tombstone floral ornamentations is dis- played in mobile shelving and resembles an archival storage. Caner conveys a sense of urgency for archival reconsideration through minimal, visual, and poetic means. The work on display is built from different materials and tech- niques that has in common an ephemeral yet physical quality. While the CNC carving in wood recall the resting places for the dead and disembodied his- tories, his glass tulips’ shadows remind us of the flower’s material memory in the Dutch cultural archive.
Katayoun Arian
mezar مزار place to visit plaats om te bezoeken (2022) - In his artistic practice, Cihad Caner frequently uses etymology and historical sources to reflect on contemporary phenomena. His work traces the Dutch symbol of the tulip in the Ottoman Empire and, in a chain of associations, arrives at the floral ornamentations on the tombstones in cemeteries of modern day Istanbul.
With an interest [circulating] in collective memory and cultural archives, Caner revisited ‘the tulip’ in language, images, and objects across different geographies. His work enlivens and traces the material residues of a symbol in a disembodied Ottoman past.
Guided by the imagery on a barrel organ in Deventer, called ‘De Turk’, of a sultan wearing a turban and tulip, he connects the abundance of the flower and its symbolism as part of Dutch identity, to the material and cultural ex- change between The Ottoman and Dutch empire during the 17 th Century. According to a legend, Dutch ambassadors were charmed by the tulips worn on the sultan’s turban and keen to introduce this magnetic flower in the Neth- erlands; it is said that the Dutch word ‘tulip’ is rooted in this imperial history and etymologically relates to the word ‘turban’.
Referencing this past in a written composition, the artist follows the tulip’s ety- mology and hints to lesser known stories and relations as well as the processes of cultural amnesia and misidentification that followed from them. In doing so, Caner links and surveys the visual and linguistic traces of stereo- types of an imagined ‘Turk’ within the Dutch cultural archive and metaphor- ically lays them to rest in cemeteries of Istanbul. The skilful and elaborate floral designs seen on the tombstones from early 18th century cemeteries in Istanbul are replicated and carved out in wood. They remind us of a long- standing Islamic floral design tradition in the geographical area of Turkey.
In the exhibition, a collection of these tombstone floral ornamentations is dis- played in mobile shelving and resembles an archival storage. Caner conveys a sense of urgency for archival reconsideration through minimal, visual, and poetic means. The work on display is built from different materials and tech- niques that has in common an ephemeral yet physical quality. While the CNC carving in wood recall the resting places for the dead and disembodied his- tories, his glass tulips’ shadows remind us of the flower’s material memory in the Dutch cultural archive.
Katayoun Arian
Wie kan zijn noodlot dwingen? - What is in a name? What is the legacy of the (FKA moorkop), a chocolate-glazed choux pastry whose name is a racial slur? Drawing attention to the construction and persistence of societal and ethnic divisions (hidden in names and elsewhere), Caner brings to life a ghostly apparition of the Dutch dessert, who recites lines from Shakespeare’s Othello in old Dutch. The pastry’s name was first deployed in the Middle Ages to name indigenous Amazigh and now designates people of north african descent as Europe’s “Other”. The pastry protagonist speaks and sings about stereotypes while reflecting on debates in Dutch media about its own name change to chocoladebal. The video challenges and calls on viewers to think about the prejudices of representation and the meaning of a name.
Wie Kan Zijn Noodlot Dwingen? - What is in a name? What is the legacy of the (FKA moorkop), a chocolate-glazed choux pastry whose name is a racial slur? Drawing attention to the construction and persistence of societal and ethnic divisions (hidden in names and elsewhere), Caner brings to life a ghostly apparition of the Dutch dessert, who recites lines from Shakespeare’s Othello in old Dutch. The pastry’s name was first deployed in the Middle Ages to name indigenous Amazigh and now designates people of north african descent as Europe’s “Other”. The pastry protagonist speaks and sings about stereotypes while reflecting on debates in Dutch media about its own name change to chocoladebal. The video challenges and calls on viewers to think about the prejudices of representation and the meaning of a name.
I, The Green Marble: The (Hi)story Of My Witness And Memory (2020) - You should not allow manufactured images to form your reality.
A deep Italian voice calmly admonishes us with these words. The voice comes from a weathered face with sad brown eyes. During the course of a lifetime, they have seen too much, but perhaps also too little, for these eyes have been studying the world from the same vantage point for over seventy years. They have watched functionaries, world leaders, and revolutionaries from so close for so long that all faces, or rather backs of (mostly middle-aged, bald men’s) heads, have become a blur. From this angle, these visions may look similar, but one thing is clear: they shall not be forgotten.
The voice, the face, and the eyes all belong to a CGI-animated reproduction of the large, green slab of serpentinite, forming the backdrop of the speaker’s podium at the United Nations General Assembly Hall in New York.
I, the Green Marble; (Hi)story of My Witness and Memory, 2020, is the latest addition to a suite of works by Cihad Caner, which foregrounds marginalized figures from multilayered and often transnational histories by endowing them with a voice of their own. Caner’s whimsical choice of protagonists may immediately signal these narratives as figments of imagination, but the research-heavy nature of his artistic process secures the robustness of his fictions, making sure mainstream paradigms and ossified worldviews are in for a good shakedown - that is, if one chooses to take that first leap of faith.
To this end, the artist dematerializes and rematerializes this iconic slab in a digital void, where it can float freely and muster subtle movements as part of individual commentaries on various (hi)stories. With an age-appropriate didactic tone, the slab flags the shuffling of roles in a constantly fluctuating world order. The concurrent critique of politicians’ perennial hypocrisy is not intended to convince a (likely) already-progressive viewer of the validity of a specific political position; it seeks to externalize, on the other hand, what Frantz Fanon - also referenced in the video - has called a type of “violence rippling under the skin,” specifically of colonized peoples. This collective yet embodied experience of the “atmospheric” violence described by Fanon is shared today by people vulnerable to all forms of subjugation, and remains most palpable - in the context of Caner’s work - on the stone face, when there are no words being spoken. Why would the lips still twitch and move otherwise in these interludes of silence?
In a follow-up mention to his tweet featured in this exhibition, U.S. President Donald Trump indicates his partiality to Carrara marbles. The underlying cause of this mouth’s restlessness is certainly not just the fear of being replaced by a block of shiny, white marble, which would, indeed, furnish the General Assembly with the gravitas of an orientalist spa. (The graffitied slogan on a reproduction of the podium in the gallery attests to the fact that it is only a wall with a message after all.) As is apparent from the joyous rendition of Bella Ciao, our serpentinite hero has few qualms about bidding farewells deep down; it is the unabated continuation of forgetting, as well as the perpetuation of tyranny, that is actually heavy on the heart.
Gökcan Demirkazık
I, The Green Marble; The (Hi)story Of My Witness And Memory (2020)
Demonst(e)rating the Untamable Monster (2019)
Demonst(e)rating the Untamable Monster (2019) - For his work Demonst(e)rating the Untamable Monster, Caner used motion capture technology to create computer-generated animated monsters, who speak and sing to each other in a two-channel video installation. He made the work in response to the mainstream media’s persistent characterization of those considered “other” as “monstrous.” Interested in language’s subject-producing power, he traced the etymology of the word “monster” and found that the Latin verb—monstro—means to demonstrate, while its noun—monstrum—refers to a divine omen or warning. The word thus possesses a deeply rooted connection to practices of signification, and so it seems apt that the monster has proven such an enduring and meaningful symbol across different cultures. An object of fantasy, the monster is understood and produced through the fear of that which is unknown and originates from outside. “Monsters provoke us to break down our built-in categories and rethink,” states one of Caner’s unnamed beasts. They are the aliens that dispute the unalienable. Because they can never be seen, their bodies remain immaterial, horrifyingly boundless and unfixed.
Perhaps this is why the physicality of Caner’s monsters is so striking and, at times, humorous. Scarred and pockmarked, with sagging, wrinkled skin, they seem strangely human, which essentially they are. The artist created them by digitally recording the movement and expressions of performers—including himself—which he then animated. By using motion capture, Caner effectively preserves the indexical; beneath the layers of computer-generated imagery are actual human faces, forcing us to question the many ways that multidimensional subjects are reduced to caricatures.Through his monsters, Caner critically reflects on how stereotypes are generated, and is particularly interested in their relation to image production, as he points out that the word “stereotype” originally referred to the metal printing plate used to create photographs.
Caner’s work also considers the exclusionary potential of language, particularly for those who are non-native speakers. He draws from Jacques Derrida’s writings on hospitality, in which the author argues that the foreigner’s obligation to communicate in a language that is not their own represents “the first act of violence” against them. This could be a reason Caner’s monsters frequently sing; in song—the most primeval and embodied form of speech—the physicality of sound often prevails over the immateriality of words.
Lexie Davis
