Objects once discarded, crushed surfaces, fragments brought back together… Everything considered to have reached the end of its life is reimagined here at the threshold of another possibility. In a practice shaped by waste, reuse, and upcycling, the value of objects is never fixed; it exists as a shifting, constantly transforming field of meaning. We meet the artist at precisely this threshold—where art, design, and environmental thinking intersect and blur into one another. Within a cycle that moves from display to archive, and from archive to re-production, objects are not merely preserved; they continue to exist by being broken down and transformed. And at this very point, the viewer is invited to reconsider their own way of seeing—lingering on that brief moment when it becomes possible to look at something once more before throwing it away.
Waste, reuse, and upcycling sit at the core of your practice. When does an object begin to be defined as “waste” for you?
For me, an object doesn’t become waste at a specific physical moment, but at a relational breaking point. Something doesn’t turn into waste because it has completely lost its function; it becomes waste the moment it is abandoned—when we decide to let it go. That’s why I see waste as less about the object itself and more about how we look at it. What interests me most is precisely this threshold: how something considered worthless can still hold so much potential. Because in reality, everything can be transformed into something else—the key is being able to recognize that possibility.
What role do experimentation and research play in your process when working with everyday objects and materials on the verge of becoming waste?
Research and experimentation are central to my practice. For me, experimentation isn’t just a technical search—it’s a dialogue with the material. Since waste materials are diverse, irregular, and constantly changing, the process is inherently open to exploration; in fact, it demands it. I usually begin by writing and sketching, then move forward through making and testing. As I discover what the material allows, the idea evolves, transforms, and takes shape.
The Upcycling Library you founded functions as both an archive and a platform for sharing. How does it feed into your individual artistic practice?
In a way, it works in reverse—I try to let my own practice feed into it. Over the years, working with a wide range of materials, I’ve learned a lot and continue to do so. I don’t want to keep that knowledge to myself; I believe it needs to be shared. I don’t think the waste problem can be solved without large-scale industrial transformation, but the Library serves a different purpose: it acts as a reminder.
For me, upcycling is not just a technical application but a way of thinking. By showing simple approaches, I want to remind people that “I can do something too,” encouraging them to think and take action. The Library is currently in a quieter phase, but I’m planning to reactivate it in a more dynamic way.
In your work, you create a fluid space between art, design, and environmental activism. Do you intentionally blur the boundaries between these fields?
I didn’t establish this as a deliberate strategy from the beginning; it emerged naturally over time. I have a background in design, and that shapes the way I think. I do design work, but I also produce individual projects and participate in exhibitions. For a long time, I’ve been researching and working on topics like waste, accumulated objects, their impact, and reuse.
There are things we can do individually, and things we can do collectively—but above all, we need to rethink. That’s why I don’t draw strict boundaries between these three areas; instead, I see them as feeding into one another. Projects like Waste Pickles, which I started last year, the ongoing Upcycling Library, and new participatory art projects I’m developing around waste all emerge from this intersection.
Your work Archive, presented in the Ferahfeza exhibition, involves revisiting your own production history. What kind of conceptual process did reconstructing the Karaköy V2 series involve for you?
Archive in Ferahfeza was part of a process of critically reflecting on my own work. Between 2011 and 2019, I created installations for the window display of Karaköy Lokantası. After the space closed, instead of preserving those works as they were, I chose to dismantle and transform them. This allowed me to approach them not just as past works, but as material for my current practice. The Karaköy V2 series emerged from this process.
What mattered to me here was questioning the concepts of waste and transformation not only through external materials, but through my own production history. In a way, I upcycled my own works.
The pressed milk churns and pot in Archive were once displayed in a storefront. What does compressing these objects into a “storable” form suggest about exhibition and value?
The issue here isn’t just the act of crushing; crushing, breaking apart, and rebuilding are central to the overall approach of the Karaköy V2 series. By intervening in my own works this way, I’m also questioning what we call “value.” When an object is in a display window, it’s visible and accepted as a “work”—but does it lose its value once it’s compressed? Or does it gain a different meaning?
Archive reflects on modes of display, storage, and archiving from this perspective. For me, what’s important is showing that the art object is not fixed or untouchable; it can continue to exist through transformation, even through disruption.
Designing sustainable systems at different scales—what kind of vision for the future does this point to in your practice?
For me, sustainability is not only an environmental issue but also an intellectual one. There’s certainly a difference between a small-scale intervention with waste and a public installation, but I approach both with the same mindset. I care about everything I produce being sustainable in terms of idea, form, or method—something that can be continued.
What interests me about the future is this: systems that consume less, think more with what already exists, and generate new possibilities without calling for new materials. Sometimes this happens through a small shift in how we relate to an object; sometimes through a larger installation or a public proposal.
With works like Archive, what kinds of questions do you hope viewers are left with regarding their relationship to objects, waste, and everyday consumption habits?
I hope to leave behind small but impactful questions. For example: “What if I didn’t throw this away right now?” “Could I do something with it?” “What could I do?” I find it important for viewers to step outside their everyday consumption habits, even if just slightly. Rather than offering big answers, I’m more interested in creating a small pause—and maybe even a smile. Because I think transformation often begins exactly there: in that brief moment when you look at something once more before automatically throwing it away.