Ali Kazma’s exhibition “Lisbon-Istanbul: Two Portraits on the Edge”, brings together textures from the everyday life of two cities at opposite ends of Europe. Through this interplay, he constructs a new, living organism shaped by movement.
A ferry departing from Kadıköy to Büyükada. Another gliding along the Tagus River from the Fluvial Sul e Sueste terminal. The landscapes mirror each other, unfolding in opposite directions but at the same pace. In this fluid rhythm, we recognize a fundamental truth—water remains water, unchanging across geographies. Kazma captures this constancy, anchoring the fleeting within perpetual motion.
As the portrait of the two cities slowly emerges like a painting on canvas, we step into the lives of two writers on a more intimate scale.
In the worlds of Alberto Manguel and Orhan Pamuk, words and gestures drift into the river and the sea. Their presence lingers, carried by the current of time.
A portrait, at its core, is an expression. Here, it takes shape in the pure pleasure of a writer—one who cooks with pleasure, or one who leans over a notebook, lost in thought.
Ali Kazma invites the viewer into this act of observation. Ordinary moments and objects transform into signs, much like those Borges described—a labyrinth of meaning that twists, expands, and spreads across the surface of the world, bridging past and future.
We had an insightful conversation with Ali Kazma about his exhibition and creative process.
Lisbon-Istanbul: Two Portraits on the Edge is on view at Francisco Fino Gallery in Lisbon until May 3, 2025.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: How did the idea of bringing Lisbon and Istanbul together come to life?
In your filming process, is your approach to time, space, and people guided by intuition, or do you follow a predetermined path?
Ali Kazma: The works related to water—centered on the Tagus River and the Bosphorus—are fundamentally different from those focused on Alberto Manguel and Orhan Pamuk.
In the water project, my starting point was the idea of Istanbul and Lisbon as port cities, deeply shaped by maritime trade throughout history. From the very beginning, I knew exactly what I needed to do. Every ferry journey I took in Istanbul and Lisbon was meticulously planned, from start to finish.
With Alberto and Orhan Pamuk, however, there was no such planning. These works unfolded in real time, requiring me to be prepared for surprises and to make decisions on the spot. The framing, the angle of light, or the momentary significance—or insignificance—of these elements, and the constant question of what else can I capture beyond what I have? made this a much more active process.
Filming Orhan Pamuk spanned two and a half years. In that time, we recorded over 200 hours of footage across nearly seventy shooting days.
Alberto Manguel’s scenes, in contrast, were completed within a more limited timeframe, during four or five trips to Lisbon. For this reason, his sequences were more focused, precise, and deliberately composed. We see Alberto in the kitchen, as cooking is as significant to him as writing—something he knows deeply, values greatly, and has even written books about.
During one visit, I asked him to prepare a dish he loves to cook, and I filmed him doing so.
What fascinates me most is how both writers interact with writing and material in their daily lives. My approach was to observe their worlds and collect images that, in my view, hold meaning—images that help tell the story of their lives.
Great works are built upon small victories and small losses
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: In the natural rhythm of the day, we see countless ordinary moments.
Ali Kazma: I don’t approach the people I work with—a glassblower, a race car driver, or a writer—to turn their craft into a heroic act or to give it a mythological aura. That’s not what interests me.
I understand that the creative process is a sum of small moments. Orhan Pamuk is not someone who spends the whole day at his desk, suddenly struck by a brilliant idea or a moment of enlightenment that propels him into writing. Great works take shape through small victories and small losses.
I try to shape grand portraits from small moments. The same applies to my portraits of people and places.
I believe that the details, the things that no one really pays much attention to, are in fact the great signs of creation. When I gather and connect them, I see that the small moments which form the larger work help to explain this process more clearly. I don’t construct a narrative around a single, dramatic moment. Instead, I let the quiet details speak for themselves.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: In the videos, we see the covers of many books by writers who have inspired both authors—Borges, Virginia Woolf, Dostoevsky, Yahya Kemal Beyatlı, Kemal Tahir, Ahmed Hamdi, Halide Edip Adıvar... Some books and manuscripts stand out, not just for their content, but for their aesthetic presence. Would you say that these shots also reflect a visual, almost artistic relationship with books?
Ali Kazma: The idea of creating a work about books—or even my own book—has been on my mind since 2010.
Over the past fifteen years, I have explored how books come into being, both as an observer and as a creator, producing my own publications every three to four years. In all my visual work, books are constant companions.
I always read about the subjects I work on. If I am documenting an industrial space, I study its history. If I am exploring a craft, I immerse myself in the biographies and autobiographies of those who have mastered it.
The books we see in the videos are those that have held a deeper place in the lives of both writers—books that, in one way or another, have stood apart from the rest.
In Orhan Pamuk, many of the books featured are by authors he has personally told me were significant to him. Each of these books is directly connected to his world.
Beyond the significance of a book to its author, aesthetics also play a role. If a Tolstoy book appears in the film, I have likely chosen the edition with a cover I found most visually compelling.
At its core, my aim was to remain faithful to a writer’s work while using it to illustrate a universal creative process. That’s why each book is always tied to that specific writer.
You also see the authors’ own books in the film. Placing their works alongside those of other writers creates a literary continuity—a dialogue between past and present.
The same applies to Alberto. His own books, manuscripts, and drawings all become part of this greater whole.
Literary Creation: The Ideal Cultural Model
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: Has the idea of approaching Lisbon and Istanbul through the lens of literature always been with you? I personally believe that both cities are better understood when read through literature.
Ali Kazma: Three or four years ago, when I started filming with Orhan Pamuk, I had no idea of creating a connection between Lisbon and Istanbul. My creative process works this way: I make the works I want to make.
At the moment, I have nearly seventy pieces related to various states of existence around the world. From these, you could extract thousands of different concepts. For example, themes like home, ecology, technology, human genius, or our diabolical sides—there is an archive (a body of work) that a curator could use to create a cohesive narrative around the issues they are researching.
Alberto lives in Lisbon, while Orhan Pamuk resides in Istanbul. Both writers are of similar ages, share a deep appreciation for the visual world and painting, and have written books that directly engage with other writers and history.
These commonalities led us to shape the exhibition in its current form. I felt it would be valuable for all these elements to communicate and coexist within the same space.
Lisbon and Istanbul are two cities on the edges of Europe, one opening to Asia, the other to America. Both are port cities with similar geographical structures. Together with the curator of the exhibition Maurizio Bortolotti, we approached this information as the two gateways of Europe, framing it as a European reading that explores how these gates, through the lens of these two writers, open to other cultures.
In highlighting the well-functioning and memorable aspects of Europe, I believe it is especially important today to remind ourselves of a Europe that keeps its gates open, engaging in communication with other cultures.
The images of the sea and rivers, the photographs, are meant to evoke these encounters—showing how different cultures can communicate and coexist.
In this context, I approached literary creation as a kind of ideal cultural model.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: In your work, it’s possible to see influences from Borges’ writing style; the short and intense narratives, the ability to speak of any subject with a certain naturalness, align closely with your own way of storytelling.
Ali Kazma: Borges is one of my favorite writers precisely for this reason you mentioned: he is a master of expressing his story in the most compact way possible, using the fewest words, sometimes even without words, presenting the narrative through silence or what is left unsaid. In fact, one of the notes I keep for myself is: “When you’re stuck, read Borges.” Borges does his editing with language. Through him, you see how much you can convey with so little.
When you’re waiting for something to happen, especially in literature, the absence of it can trigger an aesthetic moment, more so than its actual arrival. I always try to remind myself of the “less is more” philosophy.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: In the exhibition, we see many objects from the everyday lives of both writers. How do you view the concept of metaphor?
Ali Kazma: Objects are important not only for referencing their own existence but also for the things they evoke in you. The objects we use should, in their best form, merge with and communicate with other things. An object is in relationship not only with its own (film) frame but also with the other objects, people, and landscapes in the other frames. I try to use images where one plus one equals more than two. In this sense, we could call it metaphorical. But at the same time, they are meaningful simply as what they are—a toy is a toy, or a photograph is just a photograph.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: I know that Rainer Maria Rilke’s question to Rodin, “how must one live?”, holds significance for you as well. As an artist devoted to a life in art, have you made decisions or changes regarding how you “must” live?
Ali Kazma: At every moment, I move forward by letting go of some things and embracing others.
In Neal Stephenson’s novel, there is a ship called Minerva. Over the course of its journey, worn-out parts are replaced, torn sails are mended, and crew members are lost or injured. The ship is attacked, engages in trade, gathers knowledge, and discovers new places. Yet, when it finally returns to port, it is still Minerva—though nearly every part has changed.
My work, in many ways, follows the same principle. The creative process is an ongoing exchange—I give a part of myself and, in return, receive something new. Over time, this process has grown longer. There was a time when I could complete a project in just a few months, quickly moving through events, places, and people's lives. Now, whether due to age or the natural evolution of my practice, bringing a project to completion often takes two or three years.
During this time, I constantly reflect: What do I take with me? What do I leave behind? What can I replace? Transformation is a constant part of my existence.
Yet, some beliefs remain unchanged—fundamental values like justice, equality, and the fair distribution of power. If those were to shift, then something would be truly wrong.
I allow myself the right to be wrong in everything else. What I refuse is to let past ideas confine me.
I have little interest in ramblings
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: How do you interpret the necessity—or perhaps the inevitability—of contemporary art today?
Ali Kazma: Even in this difficult historical period—the era of monsters—art remains a space where the individual can find a kind of freedom and reimagine the world.
But does it always succeed? Do all artists pursue this? Of course not. The majority of contemporary art—exhibitions, works, concepts—engages with themes that hold little interest for me. I see them, but they leave no mark. The same is true for literature and cinema: what truly resonates with us is rare.
Yet, poor examples cannot define art. The rare works that provoke thought, that create a meaningful connection with the world, are invaluable. Even in a time of artistic decline, some artists still manage to produce pieces that challenge our perception, that demand we see the world anew.
Of course, artistic freedom exists under pressure. But the space that remains is often not used meaningfully. Much of contemporary art feels like aimless ramblings—fragments of passioned thoughts thrown outward without form or depth.
That does not interest me. I am drawn to work that has been built, shaped, constructed with intention. Without that, a work is just another passing moment—seen, and forgotten.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: Orhan Pamuk, in his book The Naive and the Sentimental Novelist, does not hesitate to mention the novels that have influenced him and served as his guides. What are your thoughts on being influenced in art? What are you currently reading?
Ali Kazma: We spoke at length with Orhan Pamuk about his book The Naive and the Sentimental Novelist. The title is inspired by Schiller’s On Naive and Sentimental Poetry. I plan to present a video of our conversations on this book at the exhibition we will be holding at Istanbul Modern this June.
Lately, I’ve been reading Post-Apocalyptic science fiction. I’m reading books by Andrei Tchaikovsky. I always have detective novels that I return to, such as those by Georges Simenon, Donna Leon, and Chesterton. These days, I’m reading a book by Dork Zabunyan on how to interpret the images of the Arab Spring. There are autobiographies I always go back to, like those by Canetti and Nabokov. Walser is another. Of course, in recent years, I’ve read a lot of Alberto Manguel and Pamuk. Each year, I read six or seven science fiction books, eight or ten detective novels, five or six philosophy books, three or four biographies or autobiographies, four or five novels, and I always make sure to read a Saul Bellow book, especially his early works. The last one I read by Bellow was Henderson the Rain King. I’ve read all of W.G. Sebald’s books at least twice. Among the newer authors, I really admire the Colombian young writer Juan Gabriel Vásquez. Science fiction books, in the background of the topics they explore, tell us so much about the psychology of society at the time. In the past, we saw Cyberpunk works about the relationship between machines and bodies, then artificial intelligence emerged. Now, we are reading Post-apocalyptic stories about the end of the world. We are thinking about what comes after this world. This, in fact, reflects how difficult the times we are going through are.
Ayşenur Tanrıverdi: Do you have any advice for young artists who ponder the question, "How must one live?"
Ali Kazma: A way of life and creation that is valid for everyone, at all times, is not possible. Therefore, live as you know and believe, and discover new mistakes to be made!
The Gallery would like to express its gratitude to Ayşenur Tanrıverdi | Writer
