Melis Arslan

This two-part textile installation is a homage to the sacredness, energy, and the cultural memory carried by the human hand. Consisting of a right and a left hand, each painted in gold, these works are placed upon layers of velvet, felted wool, tulle, and organza. These textile textures surrounding the hand serve as a visual expression of both the bodily aura and unseen energetic fields. These works stand before the viewer like two figures "opening their hands" both symbolically and physically: one giving, the other showing. The lines, symbols within the hands, and the Karatay Girl figure at the center carry the traces of a journey through time. Inspired by the face figures on tiles from the Seljuk period at the Konya Kubadabad Palace, the Karatay Girl represents both the wisdom of the past and the intuition of today. This face placed inside the palm is not merely a symbol; it simultaneously signifies that the hand itself carries a soul, turning into a "guardian". In this work, the gold color highlights the sacred aspect of the hand. Gold is the symbol of divine light, purity, and universal energy. The openness of the hand, on the other hand, is associated with honesty, openness, and vulnerability. Throughout history, people have opened their hands to ask for help, to pray, to propose peace, or to offer something. When we show our hands, we have said, "I have no secrets." This is exactly what these works do: the hand is open, pure, and true. It does not conceal; it offers. The Sacred Palms of Karatay invite the viewer to confront their own hands. When you extend your hands parallel to these golden palms, a kind of reflection, an inward turn begins. While looking at the lines in the palm, you remember your own lines. You realize that your hands also have a story, that they carry an energy. This artwork becomes an entity that is not merely looked at, but reflected upon. Both pieces form a whole when exhibited together. Just like hands joining while praying or greeting... Right and left, past and present, inside and outside; what flows between these dualities is energy, meaning, and a silent wisdom. These works are not a monument, but a mirror. Energy carriers that invite the viewer to touch without touching, vibrating the past within the palms of today. There is a word in every detail, a call in every line: "Give a hand." "Open yourself." "Do not protect, show." "Remember."

A Seljuk prince sets forth not to declare his victory, but to carry an inner wisdom. The white horse bearing him is the symbol of purity and noble intent. The gold-scaled Shahmaran figures surrounding the prince, on the other hand, represent not the manifestation of power, but the guardianship of internal transformation. This artwork is a reimagining of the Six of Wands card from the classical Tarot deck through an Anatolian spirit. Crafted with watercolor and gold leaf, this drawing depicts not merely a triumph, but a moment of transition fusing the past with the present, the unseen with the visible. The simplicity of Seljuk aesthetics and the mystical power of ancient symbols transform into a timeless narrative within this piece. The Shahmaran figures, taking the place of the wands, act as both protectors and bearers of wisdom. Each symbolizes the inner guides accompanying the prince on his journey. This is not a march; it is a profound call hidden within the silence of victory.

"Speaking with the Memory of the Pattern" For me, a pattern is not merely an ornamentation; it is a door opening into time, faith, and human memory. In my art, I desire not to carry the past into the present, but to embed the living rhythm of the past into the body of today. Because a motif is actually not a fixed image; it is a record of movement, cycle, and energy transfer. This triptych composition I prepared for the Castival Asia Restaurant reveals an energy intersecting within the shared symbols of different cultures. The tiger and the pearl represent the quest of the East; the lunar sign represents ancient celestial wisdom; and the four angels represent the multicultural reflection of guardian spirits. In each piece, the Seljuk understanding of geometry comes side by side with Chinese and Central Asian mythology. The circular form is not only aesthetic; it is a symbol of eternity, cycle, and unity. For me, the hand, the motif, and the symbol are all parts of an energetic language. Every surface sealed with epoxy is a "moment" where the past is transmitted to the present. Within these layers, I want to leave both the trace of traditional techniques and the breath of contemporary quests. The essence of my art is not just to remind of cultural memory, but to give it a new breath. While establishing a visual link between the ancient patterns of Anatolia and the sacred symbols of Chinese mythology, I invite the viewer not just to look, but to feel. Because I believe in the soul of form, the memory of the pattern, and the vibration of the visual. And with this belief, I construct every artwork as an energetic field, a silent prayer, a living symbol.

Through the myth of Medusa, it problematizes how the burden carried by the mind acts like an entity "independent of the person": from where do the inner voice, fear, loneliness, and the survival reflex behind the transforming gaze arise?

Other Selves from Medusa embodies the multiplicity of the mind through small Medusa heads multiplying upon a main head form. Each head represents the "other selves" speaking and conflicting within; the figure is not a reflection, but an accumulation. Inspired by the pyramidal heads in the "Al-Buhur" miniatures, the divine-earthly intertwining and the weight of thought are rendered visible. This work reconstructs Medusa not as a figure of a curse defined from the outside, but as "one of us" who cannot silence the voices within: here, multi-headedness is not merely a curse, but a testimony to survival.

The pure state before movement. Narrative: The wings do not have weight yet. The light has not dispersed. This artwork catches not the flight itself, but the exact state just before flying.

For the one who looks, the one who sees, and the one who knows. This surface harbors three gazes: One for the visible, one for the buried, and one for that which has not yet awakened. Shahmaran is the knowledge of the body; the Karatay Girl is the seal. The Star of Solomon, on the other hand, opens only to the one who is ready.

Liminal Beings are forms that emerge at the moment of transition between the human and the animal, the feminine and the primitive, the remembered and the forgotten. These sculptures do not represent a figure; they carry a transformation. The body, departing from the image of the bull and the girl, loses its identity over time; all that remains is instinct, memory, and a being remembered by the earth. It is neither fully human nor animal; it belongs neither to the past nor to the present. This series marks a threshold where myth is stripped away from narrative, and the symbol transforms into the body. The form no longer tells a story; it just stands there. It is silent yet deeply rooted. It is foreign yet familiar. Liminal Beings are the remnants of nameless bodies, traces that still vibrate within the collective memory of humanity.

Karatay Girls is constructed as a three-part feminine series (trilogy/triptych) interconnected on the planes of character and narrative. Each work carries a continuity nourished by the same universe; as the figures and the plot reveal their different facets, the whole transforms into a single narrative.

Four Guardian Karatay Girl works like a compass for me: four directions, four seasons, and four states of me. Each figure represents a distinct power that carries cyclical time and transformed identity; at the same time, it establishes a protective threshold. Together, they form a silent resistance against being reduced to a "singular" state in a world designed around the logic of binary gender. This work renders visible that identity is not fixed, but a field that shifts like seasons and multiplies like directions.

Thousands of thoughts wander within a single mind: it is both us and our contradictions that we show to no one. What we cannot say, what we conceal; that which remains beneath the ground and that which we overflow above it exist simultaneously. This work constructs the inner world through a tension akin to geographical directions: thoughts accumulating in the east, influences arriving from the west; an identity map constantly shifting inside. The question "What are we and who are we becoming?" does not seek a single answer here; on the contrary, it renders the multiplicity and fragmented nature of the self visible. Ultimately, the question turns into: "Who are we supposed to be?" And then comes the more difficult one: "Which one is truly us?"

Sometimes sisterhood means being able to look at the world from the exact same place. This work expresses the shared perspective of two people through the metaphor of "a single eye." As we move forward, the alignment of our gazes replaces hesitation with clarity; a shared direction generates a shared courage. Here, "one eye" is not a singularizing control, but represents the confidence of acting together, focus, and the calm power of solidarity. Meeting within the same gaze makes the world more intelligible while lending a firmer stance to one's self.

Karatay One Eye Sister addresses the state of two women sharing the same gaze rather than the same body. "One eye" does not symbolize uniformity, but the courage to look at the world from a shared place. The merging of faces along the same line of sight defines empathy not as a feeling, but as a practice of seeing: when one looks, the other sees too; when one carries the burden, the other becomes the resistance. The warm surface and natural traces of terracotta render the fragile yet resilient nature of a shared life visible. Connecting to the wordless women’s wisdom of Anatolia through the name Karatay, the artwork proposes solidarity not by romanticizing it, but as an existential power: a call to see the world through the eyes of another.

This work moves the angel away from being a singular entity, treating it instead as a multiple consciousness. The form of the head is constructed like a union of souls carrying the memory of the universe; each face represents the simultaneous echo of the past and the future. The wings are symbols of wisdom and ascension; conversely, the figure's mind grows heavy with cosmic knowledge. While the angel shoulders the burden of being divine, it carries the idea of "eternity" within itself.

Terracotta and gold carry the contrast and unity of the earth and the sky, of the transient and the eternal. The heads of the crowd are bowed at the exact same angle; each face is enclosed toward the screen in their palm. At the top, there is a split golden circle and a single golden arm reaching toward that fissure. The phrase "Len Terani" in the artwork derives from the Arabic expression "لن ترانی" ("You cannot see me"). This expression is read not as a prohibition, but as a determination of a state. The sacred is not hidden; it is invisible because we do not look. The only person who can lift their head finds a way toward the light. This relief depicts the deepest dilemma of the modern age through the direction of the gaze: our eyes are full, but our field of vision is narrow. The figures bow almost as if praying; however, the object of prayer is locked onto the screen in the palm. This collective bowing implies the human displacement from one's own center and the colonization of attention. The fissure in the center of the composition cracks a golden sphere (light/sun/manifestation) above and descends downward; the golden vein, reminiscent of kintsugi, states that the fracture is not something to be hidden, but a line that reveals the truth. The golden arm extending from within the crowd is the will of the only body capable of shifting its gaze: the courage to move toward the light, to "part" the crowd. Here, the narratives of Moses parting the sea and the shattering of the mountain are carried to the present day as an internal geography: the sea is the crowd, the mountain is the ego; and the path is the redirection of attention. In this context, the phrase "Len Terani" is inverted: God is not visible because we do not make Him visible; we look at the screen instead of looking at the light. The artwork proposes not to banish the sacred out of daily life, but on the contrary, to re-recognize it within the everyday. The brilliance of the golden arm resonates like the vibration of conscience on the matte surface of the earth: when one person becomes the only body to lift their head, a rift opens in the darkness of the crowd and light seeps in.

A transformation into a naive and fragile malice takes place within a metamorphosis, due to a lack of sufficient attention to the realities of the world. With this metamorphosis, the figure attempts to break traditional molds; it remains in a state of constant renewal and transformation in order to adapt to its surroundings. A state of being unable to fit into one's own mold amidst the chaos of "transforming"... It reconstructs its form over and over again by merging the texture of its skin sometimes stretching, sometimes straining with small fragments. Since its future shape has not yet formed, the existence of the past or the future is not distinct in this ongoing process; time is trapped in an uninterrupted present. Still, traditional motifs seep into this transformation in a vague and blurry manner. A state of existence by transforming alone, detached from life; it surrenders to the dominance of this infinite process. Fragile, powerful, naive...