Who was the artist that drew on the electrical box?
The most enduring mark an artist leaves in a gallery is often not those "flawless" works that are exhibited or acquired by collections for vast sums. This is precisely why Haluk Akakçe’s lines on the electrical box are so intriguing. This detail—which we might have simply walked past or ignored while the artist was alive—takes on a metaphysical weight following his departure. It represents someone who is no longer there, yet stubbornly persists within the fabric of the space. It leaves one with a peculiar feeling.
Salvador Dalí had a well-known habit. He would dine at the world’s finest restaurants; when the bill arrived, he would take out his checkbook, write the amount, sign it, and then—before handing it over—sketch something on the back. Sometimes it was a small eye, a few lines, or an ordinary-looking image. The proprietors would never take the check to the bank; instead, they would have it framed. For, naturally, Dalí’s mark was far more valuable than the bill itself.
A gallery’s true memory is not, of course, stored solely in its official archives, sterile drawers, or digital servers. Although the institutionalized history of art imposes exhibition lists, sales records, and glossy catalogs upon us, the real memory is sometimes hidden in an invisible notch on a wall, a note whispered years ago, or a minor spatial intervention that no one ever cataloged as a "work of art." When a gallery ceases to be merely a commercial podium for exhibiting an artist's work—that is, when the artist physically departs from the space—what truly remains? The succession of major anniversaries recently celebrated by Turkey’s long-established art galleries offers a significant juncture to pose this question. The *Gönül İşi* (A Labor of Heart) exhibition—organized for Galerist’s 25th anniversary and bringing together works by nearly fifty artists—reconstructs the gallery’s history not as a mere chronological timeline, but through enduring friendships, intellectual exchanges, and spatial partnerships forged with artists. We observe a similar exploration of memory in the archives of Galeri Nev—led by Haldun Dostoğlu and now marking its 40th year—and in the 50th-anniversary concept of Maçka Sanat Galerisi, which transforms its half-century-old architectural space into a silent witness to history. Likewise, Evin Sanat Galerisi’s 30th-anniversary exhibition examined the gallery as a living space of relationships that has now been passed on to the third generation.
What remains of an artist? What is left in an art gallery once everyone has gone?
At the 25th-anniversary exhibition at Galerist, there was a detail—personal, uncanny, and too small to ever register on the radar of the formal art market. As Müge Çubukçu guided us through the exhibition, she pointed out a drawing Haluk Akakçe had made on the gallery’s electrical box before he passed away.
Often, the most enduring mark an artist leaves in a gallery is not found in those "flawless" works that are exhibited or acquired by collections for vast sums. This is precisely why Akakçe’s lines on the electrical box are so compelling. Created on an ordinary metal box in a moment of spontaneous impulse, this intervention completely removes the object from the sterilized, official records of the art market. What confronts us is not a "commodity," but an act—a gesture, a kind of intimate complicity established with the space itself. This detail—which we might have walked past without a second thought while the artist was alive—takes on a metaphysical weight now that he is gone. It represents someone no longer present stubbornly persisting within the very fabric of the space. It evokes a strange, lingering feeling.
In this sense, the gallery space ceases to be merely a "white cube" hosting objects and transforms into a complex apparatus of memory. Indeed, the history of art in Turkey was built upon such legendary, inseparable partnerships—alliances that became synonymous with the names and visions of gallerists, binding the artist’s destiny to that of the gallery.
If we speak today of the cornerstones of Turkish contemporary art, we cannot do so without mentioning the name of Yahşi Baraz. Baraz is not merely a gallery owner; he is a patron who—quite literally—"discovered" and cultivated a generation of artists ranging from Burhan Doğançay to Mehmet Güleryüz, forging an unbreakable bond of lifelong loyalty with them. The hidden geometry of the wall posters Doğançay brought from the streets of New York, or the fierce, critical expressionism found in Güleryüz’s figures, have left indelible marks on the ceilings and archives of Galeri Baraz.
Similarly, the Maçka Sanat Galerisi (MSG)—considered a bastion of the Turkish avant-garde and conceptual art—and its founder, Rabia Çapa, represent an intellectual sanctuary for artists rather than a mere commercial venue. The silent installations by Füsun Onur, in which she utilized the space itself as an instrument, remain unforgettable; today, MSG continues to uphold this visionary perspective under the guidance of Didem Çapa. Likewise, it is no coincidence that the names Haldun Dostoğlu and Galeri Nev—central pillars of the artistic memory of Ankara and Istanbul—immediately evoke the timeless, flawless ceramic forms of Alev Ebüzziya Siesbye or the vibrant colors of Nejad Melih Devrim. Dostoğlu did not simply exhibit the works of the artists he represented; with the meticulousness of a master jeweler, he embedded their monographs, intellectual foundations, and places in art history into the very identity of the gallery. Galeri Nev is now preparing to celebrate its entire archive through an exhibition series titled *40 Yılda Bir* (Once in Forty Years). Much like how, in the history of world art, Pablo Picasso shattered Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler—the man who had been instrumental to his own emergence—through Cubist prisms and painted him as an integral part of the gallery space itself, or how the uncontrolled, bodily energy spilling from Jackson Pollock’s brush created a chaotic memory upon the walls of Peggy Guggenheim’s gallery... here, too, founding figures such as Baraz, Çapa, İyem, and Dostoğlu were able to institutionalize the artist’s legacy precisely because they did not view gallery walls merely as surfaces for display.
Today, the central theme emerging from the 25th, 30th, 40th, or 50th-anniversary exhibitions of galleries in Turkey is the ability of these institutions to endure for so many years, despite all manner of challenges.
An artist—knowingly or unknowingly—passes the trace they have left in a gallery on to the next artist.
As we gaze at Hussein Chalayan’s *Airmail Dress*—gleaming with the symbolism of silver in commemoration of his 25th anniversary—within the corridors of Galerist, or look at the ceramics Elif Uras created inspired by İpek Duben’s installation (which spills into the gallery’s office area), we sense memory transforming into an organic relay race; we watch the videos of Nil Yalter—born in 1938—with a sense of wonder.
Contracts, title deeds, invitations, and invoices constitute the gallery’s institutional memory. Yet, that line an artist secretly left on an electrical box, a studio anecdote an assistant witnessed years ago, or an invisible paint stain absorbed into the wall’s plaster—these, too, are parts of that same memory, perhaps its most authentic ones.
For sometimes, an artist’s most powerful impact lies in a trace that the gallery did not intentionally record, could not sell, and could not bring to market. After the artist’s death, that small physical remnant transforms into a direct, unadorned witness to the creative process. It stands as a kind of philosophical proof, entirely independent of market-dictated price tags: that genius was truly here, touched this space, and transformed it in a way that meant it would never be the same again.
The history of institutions is not merely a matter of the paintings they exhibit and store. The true history consists of those fleeting traces artists left behind in the space—marks that galleries, even decades later, have never been able to erase from walls, memories, or ordinary objects.
An artist’s trace can be anywhere. On the wall of a house. On a checkbook. Inside a gallery's electrical box…
Author: Dr. Elif Soyseven
Source: https://t24.com.tr/yazarlar/elif-soyseven/elektrik-kutusuna-resim-cizen-sanatci-kimdi,59115?_t=1790105769732