Nazif Topcuoglu, Norwegian Blue Wood, 2012, C-print, 120 x 170 cm
Having removed his signature Sartreesque spectacles and reclined comfortably into a plush chair, Nazif Topçuoglu takes another sip from the glass of single-malt whisky before him. Had I known he would be drinking, I would have gone for a lager, at least; however, fearing I should appear uncouth, I make do with a tepid latte. This is my first meeting in person with the architect-cum-photographer, who, the last time we spoke, was most likely overlooking a sparkling Bosphorus vista from his Istanbul flat. Only a short while ago, he had told me of his ambitions to relocate to Toronto – much to my surprise – and now, interestingly enough, we’ve become neighbours.
Upon first glance, he exudes the air of an Anatolian pseudophilosopher, with his inquisitive gaze and mane that Nazım Hikmet would have doubtless approved of. In his native Turkey, he’s been at times branded a pervert and a paedophile. Like countless other Turkish artists whose oeuvres have been questioned and put under a lens in recent years, he’s just – to paraphrase The Animals’ Eric Burdon – a misunderstood soul whose intentions are good . And a very talented one, at that.
Naturally, our conversation begins with all things Istanbul and Turkey. Despite my enthusiasm about Turkish culture, Nazif seems less optimistic. These days, when discussing Turkey, the subject of politics is inescapable, least of all the subtopic of Prime Minister Erdo an, who seems to be the new person everyone loves to hate. As we draw parallels between present-day Turkey and pre-Revolution Iran, I refl ect on the visions of Atatürk and Reza Shah Pahlavi, and wonder whether or not they were all in vain; but, as soon as our banter takes on too strong a political fl avour for my liking, we return to the crux of the matter: art – and Nazif’s, in particular