We walk up the short but steep streets of Yeldeğirmeni. Lined-up brushes in the window—large and small—tell us we’ve arrived at exactly the right place. Inside, rows of paints arranged from light to dark, sealed with plastic, and canvases in varying sizes that invite you to create your own landscape… Özer greets us in his studio with a warm smile. Spaces pulled out of time, empty chairs, erased traces, and a soft stillness. In these scenes suspended between dream and reality, no complete narrative is offered; instead, each missing detail opens a space for the viewer to move closer to their own inner voice. Now, seated at the same table with Özer—who works between Berlin and Istanbul—we begin to talk about the balance he builds between the rhythms of these two cities; how his process moves from photography toward an intuitive painterly language; and how feelings of solitude, waiting, and timelessness take shape as atmosphere in his work.
You are an artist working between Berlin and Istanbul. How have your art education and your experience of living in different cities shaped your painting practice and the themes you explore today?
Moving between Berlin and Istanbul allows me to carry two different rhythms within my work at the same time. I try to balance the density, memory, and layered structure of Istanbul with Berlin’s more minimal, contemplative atmosphere.
My art education provided a technical foundation, but what has been most defining are the geographies I’ve lived in. Being in different cities has deepened my perspective on the relationship between humans and nature, and has nourished the recurring feelings of solitude, silence, and timelessness in my paintings.
Your compositions, based on photographs you take yourself, open up a space between reality and imagination. How does photography function as a starting point in your process?
For me, photography is not a document but a form of remembering. Rather than carrying over the reality of the moment as it is, I try to translate the feeling it leaves in me into painting.
Photography builds the skeleton of the composition, but as the process unfolds, that reality begins to dissolve and gives way to a more intuitive, more internal structure. That’s why photography is only a starting point in my work—the real challenge is to move beyond it.
Your pastel-based color palette creates a dreamlike atmosphere for the viewer. How does this soft relationship with color support your narrative?
For me, color is directly tied to emotion. Instead of constructing a harsh or rigid narrative, pastel tones offer the viewer a softer entry point. This softness reinforces the sense of silence and calm within the painting.
At the same time, it opens up a space where the viewer can more easily approach their own inner world. I don’t see color simply as a tool of representation, but as a way of building atmosphere.
In your work Chairs Waiting for Stories, featured in the Wide Expanse exhibition at OMM, the empty chairs and the tranquil landscape behind them carry a strong sense of silence. What kind of story or emotion did you hope the viewer would encounter in this scene?
Rather than telling a direct story, I wanted to make a sense of waiting visible. The empty chairs point to people who were once there or have yet to arrive.
Instead of presenting a clear narrative, I find it important to leave space for the viewer to fill that absence through their own experience. It could be a separation, or a meeting… but in every case, there is a trace within that silence.
The green shadows beneath the chairs in the work evoke erased traces and memories of the past. What role do memory and absence play in your practice?
I would say memory and absence sit at the center of my practice. I’m interested in painting what is unseen, erased, or left behind.
In this sense, the green shadows are not a direct representation of reality, but rather traces that are remembered or felt. In my paintings, what is absent is just as important as what is present. The tension between the two forms the foundation of the narrative.
The calm, timeless spaces in your work can be read as a stance against the chaos of urban life. Do you think of these spaces as places of escape?
I see them less as an escape and more as a state of pause—a proposal for slowing down in contrast to the speed of everyday life.
Although these spaces may appear detached from time, they actually bring the viewer back to their own sense of time. So rather than an escape, I would describe them as spaces of confrontation.
Your figures are often depicted as solitary, quiet, and withdrawn into their inner worlds. Do they represent specific individuals, or are they open emotional fields for the viewer?
I don’t use figures to represent specific individuals. They function more as carriers of emotion. It’s important for me that they establish an open relationship with the viewer.
That’s why I deliberately avoid completing their stories. Their partial, unfinished nature creates space for the viewer to fill in those gaps.
You aim to position the viewer at a threshold between dream and reality. What kind of emotional or intellectual space do you hope this creates for today’s viewer?
I care about the viewer slowing down in front of the painting and finding a space where they can hear their own inner voice.
That ambiguous space between dream and reality doesn’t offer clear answers—it opens up questions. This allows for a more personal connection between the viewer and the work. I want to create a space where everyone can see their own story.
Before starting a painting, what is usually the first moment that sets you in motion in the studio? How do photography, sketches, color studies, or the silence of the space shape your process?
I usually begin with a photograph, but what truly determines the process is the feeling of that moment. Sometimes it’s the silence of the studio, sometimes a certain light, or an image that stays with me.
Sketches and color studies take shape along the way. But the most important thing is that initial feeling—if it isn’t strong enough, the painting doesn’t move forward. For me, the process is less about technique and more about intuition.