Third Text

3 September 2025

Mine Kaplangı

sickening wrecks, unite! come file your teeth. appetisers of bone. and your own face, bersekly tagged onto hoardings. the city comes in waves. poor worker bee, it’s clinical now. impossibly partitioned lives, an ideal doom, the sleepy grief of airports – coffee boils the tongue both fidgety and numb. concentric rings of nausea, running through the roots of teeth, the roofs of mouths. remembering to breathe.

'a disgusting lie', Fran Lock  ^[1]

Mine Kaplangı, Venice, 2024, digital photograph, courtesy of the author

Between 2015 and 2017, I worked at BLOK art space in Istanbul. In 2016, the director secured a studio in the fifteenth-century Büyük Valide Han, ^[2] a magnificent yet tired caravanserai nestled near the Grand Bazaar. I worked with artist Cansu Çakar for the opening exhibition of the space, ‘Both Sides’. ^[3] During the installation of her work, we observed tourists incessantly capturing Instagram photos, posing as if suspended mid-air while jumping across the domes, seemingly unaware of the Han’s historical significance. This centuries-old caravanserai, a stone archive of Istanbul’s past, had become merely a backdrop for spectacle, with both international visitors and local residents alike carelessly trampling its ancient roofs, sending dust cascading from the delicate ceilings beneath.

This sense of encroaching decay resurfaced years later as I arrived in Venice for the opening week of the 60th Venice Biennale, in April 2024. While looking for my friend’s accommodation in the middle of my first night, I witnessed a scene that recalled this feeling: a group leaving from a private boat, with their shoes carelessly trampling upon the half-submerged, timeworn stones of the Venetian pavement. Each step, amplified by the water, pronounced the city’s vulnerability. The tourists’ obliviousness to their impact on this fragile environment mirrored the relentless tide of tourism that threatens to overwhelm, with each visitor contributing to Venice’s (continuous) sinking.

Like a traveller in Calvino’s Invisible Cities, ^[4] I traversed Venice during the opening week of the Biennale, jumping between moments of profound beauty and overwhelming grief. The city’s cacophony of tourist chatter seemed to drown out the lapping waves and groaning ships, blurring the lines between visitor and resident. This brought to mind a reflection on Henri Lefebvre’s concept of the ‘production of space’ – how Venice’s physical, spiritual and social landscape is continuously shaped and contested by various actors. ^[5]

Venice, a city haunted by rising waters and the relentless tide of tourism, hosts the grand spectacle of the Biennale; a paradoxical event that both celebrates and contributes to the city’s decline. The contradictions inherent in the Biennale became starkly apparent in 2024 through the protests against the Israeli and the Russian Pavilions, underscoring the dissonance between the event’s global fame and Venice’s local, fragile reality. As I wandered through the city, I couldn’t help but feel that the Biennale itself was an oxymoron; a symbol of resistance misplaced within a city on the brink of collapse. It led me to question how much longer Venice can sustain this burden, and whether it even has to. Rather than settling for superficial critiques, perhaps a decolonial approach is needed that challenges the very foundations of the [concept] of the Biennale: its irreversible political history, nation-based pavilions, ableist programmes, unequal economic structures, and the exploitative dynamics between artists and the art market. By dismantling these colonial legacies, the Biennale might be imagined as a more equitable and accessible platform, allowing alternative ways of experiencing art through long-term research, site-specific programmes and sustainable production. Yet, I can’t help but question whether such a change is feasible within a system so deeply entrenched in power, prestige and profit. Perhaps the real question is not whether Venice can sustain the Biennale but if it can evolve beyond its own contradictions, and whether it is destined to collapse under the weight of its own spectacle. The future remains uncertain, but as long as these tensions persist, the need for radical critique and reimagining will remain urgent.

My journey to Venice this time was deeply personal. Reuniting with a dear friend after years apart, I approached the Biennale through the lens of my ongoing research into a pirate radio that broadcasts queer and trans imaginaries of apocalypse(s). This framework, shaped as much by our shared conversations as by my own transitioning, tuned my attention toward signs of decay, survival and speculative transmission. It offered a way of sensing not just endings, but what might be smuggled through them. This frequency of perception – attuned to collapse, transformation and the spectral echoes of resistance – shaped how I encountered the Biennale, but even more so how I experienced the city itself. Venice felt like a city in the throes of its own demise, and I couldn’t look away, much like one wouldn’t look away from a loved one nearing the end. This ‘crip time’ focus, moving at my own pace, attuned to the slow, inevitable changes, limited the scope of my exploration but deepened its meaning. The visit’s true magic emerged in the moments of connection and shared stories, guided by the generosity of friends. Although I initially felt a sense of loss for what might have been, unexpected paths led me to discover hidden insights and overlooked narratives, transforming the experience into something deeper, compelling me to dive in with renewed intentions.    

A chance encounter with a friend from London led me to the Bulgarian Pavilion, curated by Vasil Vladimirov, where I experienced The Neighbours, an interactive multimedia installation which unearthed the silenced memories of survivors of political violence during Bulgaria’s communist era. The installation, created by Krasimira Butseva, Lilia Topouzova and Julian Chehirian, focused on survivors from two notorious forced labour camps, Lovech and Belene, where countless individuals were sent without trial between 1945 and 1989. These included political dissidents, artists, queer people, Muslim minorities, and ordinary citizens who defied the regime. The installation recreated the intimate spaces of these survivors’ homes, inviting us into their vulnerable environments to listen to stories that have remained unheard for decades. The meticulous research and ethnographic work behind The Neighbours were evident in the thoughtful curation of found objects, video projections and soundscapes that evoked both memory and presence. The installation transcended being a mere memorial; it was a living testament to the enduring impact of state violence and the necessity of confronting past injustices which sat well within the building, a large salon inside the Centro Culturale Don Orione Artigianelli that was given to the pavillion.

Krasimira Butseva, Julian Chehirian and Lilia Topouzova, The Neighbours (The Kitchen), 2023, multimedia installation with found objects and video projection, Bulgarian Pavilion, La Biennale di Venezia 2024, photo by Lubov Cheresh, courtesy of the artists and Structura Gallery

As I walked through the installation, structured as a home without walls, with a living room, bedroom and kitchen, I was struck by the voices of survivors intertwined with sounds of nature reclaiming the former camps. The atmosphere created was at once haunting and comforting, preserving the memory of those who suffered while inviting visitors into a shared act of collective healing. It felt as though the burden of these untold stories was being distributed among all who entered. The artists’ detailed investigation into the histories of these camps drew upon a variety of archival materials, interviews and personal artefacts, many revealed for the first time through this project. Their expanded process was further explored in public programme talks, notably later at London’s Cell Project Space on Wednesday, 3 July 2024, where the artists shared insights into their approach to political violence, traumatic memory, and the possibilities for communal healing. One of the most affecting moments in my visit to the Biennale was my encounter with this installation, prompting some deep reflection on the role of the witness. The voices of survivors seemed to emanate from just next door, reminders that these silenced stories have always been close by. This sense of closeness made me question our broader responsibility as neighbours and witnesses to both historical and contemporary injustices.

At a talk during the Sofia Human Rights Forum on 28 March 2024 , artist Krasimira Butseva highlighted the randomness and casual nature of imprisonments in forced labour camps, drawing parallels with current conditions in Turkey. Her insights revealed the untold and hidden histories shared by neighbours oppressed under various regimes both then and today. The forced expulsion of Muslim communities in 1989 by the Bulgarian Communist Party, targeting Turks, Romani people and other ethnicities, was illuminated through Butseva’s interviews with survivors. These conversations, supported by memory artefacts, photographs and documents, allowed a deeper understanding of the past, making the installation even more vulnerable and resonant. The work in the pavilion was not only a powerful exploration of Bulgaria’s past but also a universal call to action, urging us to confront the mechanisms of power, the erasure of history and the ongoing struggle for human rights.

Amidst the flurry of the Biennale’s opening week, some stark contrasts emerged between the experiences of different pavilions. While chatting with the Bulgarian team, we witnessed the manic scramble of ‘visitors’ vying for invitations to exclusive pavilion parties. The frantic cries to catch the last boat to a secret after-party, neighbouring with the more modest gathering at a local pub for another pavilion’s private event, highlighted the economic disparities at play, quite unnecessarily. The Biennale’s systemic inequalities were laid bare, from the deluxe pavilions of wealthy nations with their lavish programmes and glossy catalogues, to the resourcefulness of those from colonised or struggling countries grappling with limited budgets and seeking alternative funding sources. These disparities extend beyond mere aesthetics, influencing the very production and presentation of art. The Biennale, it seems, has never been immune to the power dynamics that shape the wider world.

Yet, I hold deep respect for the curator of the 60th Biennale, Adriano Pedrosa, whose vision centred on artists identifying as foreigners, immigrants or refugees, particularly those navigating between the Global South and the Global North. This attentive curation not only foregrounded migration and decolonisation as themes but embedded them into the very fabric of the Biennale, resonating across every aspect of the experience. Entitled ‘Foreigners Everywhere: Stranieri Ovunque’, the exhibition was revelatory in its commitment to artists long overlooked in this prestigious space. Many were self-taught, Indigenous, queer, or migrants, offering diverse perspectives that challenge the traditional artworld.

This focus on marginalised voices felt particularly significant to me, especially in light of my friend, curator Naz Cuguoğlu’s thesis on Etel Adnan, the Lebanese-American poet, essayist and visual artist. Adnan, much like the Biennale’s featured artists, struggled to receive the recognition she deserved during her lifetime. Her iconic work, including The Arab Apocalypse (1989), ^[6] explores themes of war, displacement and identity, echoing the Biennale’s emphasis on migration and global movement. And finally, for the first time, Adnan’s painting Untitled was exhibited at the Biennale, in the Central Pavilion’s ‘Nucleo Storico: Abstraction’ section, curated by Raphael Fonseca. Seeing her work within this historical framework, alongside artists from Latin America, Africa, the Arab world and Asia felt like a long-overdue celebration not just of Adnan but of all those whose voices have historically been sidelined, and whose contributions to abstraction have too often been erased from dominant narratives.

Having explored the paradoxes of Venice, our journey continued as we followed a familiar face, Wael Shawky. In Drama 1882, presented at the Egyptian Pavilion, Shawky masterfully continues his exploration of historical narratives. This time, he focuses on Egypt’s Urabi Revolution, a crucial moment of resistance against imperial rule. Through a filmed musical play, Shawky recasts the narrative, offering a local perspective on the tumultuous events of 1882. This shift in focus aligns powerfully with the Biennale’s theme, ‘Foreigners Everywhere’, by highlighting the colonisers as the true strangers in this historical context. The exhibition featured an array of meticulously crafted sculptures, paintings, drawings, and a Murano glass mirror relief, all complementing the film. However, the frenzy of the opening week limited our opportunity to fully appreciate these intricate details.

Wael Shawky, Drama 1882, 2024, courtesy of the artist and Sfeir-Semler Gallery, Lisson Gallery, Lia Rumma and Barakat Contemporary

Witnessing Shawky’s transition from puppetry to working with human actors was surprisingly captivating. The homoerotic undertones, the raw emotions and the constant movement of the characters created a visceral experience, reminding us of the ebb and flow of history and the enduring power of the sea. For Egypt’s regional neighbours, this presentation was a triumph; a chance to hear history recounted directly from an artist’s perspective, in a format that was both accessible and thought-provoking. Shawky’s work, including his acclaimed Cabaret Crusades trilogy, challenges the distorted narratives of colonial history, offering a vital counterpoint and an opportunity for reclamation.

The overwhelming scale of the Biennale can be both exhilarating and exhausting, evoking a sense of Jean-Paul Sartre’s ‘nausea’; ^[7] a disorienting confrontation with the sheer abundance of existence. But amidst the crowds at the Arsenale, I found solace in the tranquil embrace of the Philippine Pavilion. Titled ‘Sa kabila ng tabing lamang sa panahong ito/Waiting Just Behind the Curtain of This Age’, the pavilion showcased the works of Mark Salvatus. Despite its location in a busy thoroughfare, the space provided some serenity. The intelligent sound design, combined with the ethereal interplay of sheer curtains, video projections and brass instruments perched atop fibreglass meteor-like forms, created an immersive environment that felt both intimate and expansive.

Mark Salvatus, Sa kabila ng tabing lamang sa panahong ito / Waiting Just Behind the Curtain of This Age, Philippine Pavilion, La Biennale di Venezia 2024, photo by Andrea D’Altoe, courtesy of NCCA – PAVB

At the centre of Salvatus’s installation stood a massive stone sculpture crowned by a golden trumpet, emitting the ambient sounds of a post-apocalyptic rainforest. This striking centrepiece created an atmosphere of simultaneous wonder and tension, drawing viewers into quiet contemplation. Accompanying the sculpture was a video projection which explored the deep histories and spiritual resonance of Mount Banahaw, a sacred mountain situated between the provinces of Laguna and Quezon in the Philippines. Historically, Banahaw has been a significant site for mystical, religious and revolutionary movements, notably the Hermandad de la Archi-Cofradia del Glorioso Señor San José y de la Virgen del Rosario, established by Hermano Puli in 1832. The brotherhood’s exclusion of Spaniards and mestizos was deemed subversive by colonial authorities, ultimately leading to its suppression. Puli envisioned transformative social change as lying ‘just behind the curtain of this age’, a sentiment echoing contemporary reflections on planetary subjectivity and collective resistance. Banahaw’s enduring importance lies in its intersection of mysticism, anticolonial activism, revolutionary ideals and speculative cosmologies. Salvatus’s artistic approach draws deeply on these ethno-ecological histories and mythologies, interweaving personal and collective narratives to evoke a shared space of mystical reflection and political imagination.

The pavilion masterfully explored the dynamic relationship between social constructs and the natural world, weaving a visual folklore that traced their intertwined evolution. Through video, sculptures and reimagined artwork, Salvatus delved into the profound cultural significance of Mount Banahaw, portraying it as a source of healing, a refuge for rebels, and a wellspring of music and folklore. The installation beautifully captured the mountain’s mystical vitality through a multisensory experience of sound, light and sculpture, while also highlighting its broader influence on revolutionary movements and emphasising the deep interconnectedness of our planet.

Sound was undeniably a main character in this 60th Biennale, and the Irish Pavilion exemplified this current. The Pavilion, curated by Sara Greavu, offered a deeply resonant multisensory experience. The immersive soundscape, combined with the evocative visuals, created an unforgettable experience that spoke to the complexities of Irish history and its ongoing relevance. Eimear Walshe’s exploration of late nineteenth-century land contestation in Ireland, intertwined with themes of private property, sexual conservatism and the built environment, was brought to life through a haunting sonic environment and a series of striking performances. The multichannel video installation, set against an unfinished earth structure, showcased dramatic encounters between characters from different historical periods. Their interactions, fraught with tension and vulnerability, were further amplified by an operatic soundtrack that vividly depicted the scene of an eviction. Walshe’s work delves into the complexities of the collective building through the lens of the Irish ‘meitheal’ tradition, a practice of mutual aid and cooperation, featuring latex-masked performers embodying characters caught in historical power struggles.

Eimear Walshe, Romantic Ireland, installation view, Irish Pavilion, La Biennale di Venezia 2024, photo by Simon Mills

Created in the shadow of Ireland’s housing crisis, the installation became a multifaceted space: a building site of possibility, an arena for generational and class conflict, a sanctuary of care, and a chilling reminder of the social death of eviction. It forced encounters between historical moments, drawing out their parallel power dynamics and emotional registers, their forms of labour, conflict and pleasure, and the entangled histories of sexuality, property and the state.

The Taiwan Pavilion, titled ‘Everyday War’, showcased the video art of Yuan Goang-Ming, offering a profound meditation on the anxieties and uncertainties that permeate contemporary life. Yuan’s works, including the newly commissioned Everyday War and the evocative 561st Hour of Occupation, invoke themes of home, displacement and the ever-present threat of conflict. 561st Hour of Occupation, an early work by Yuan, documents the 2014 Sunflower Student Movement in Taiwan, which was a significant political protest against the Cross-Strait Service Trade Agreement (CSSTA) with China. The movement, marked by the occupation of the Legislative Yuan by students and with widespread public support, played a crucial role in shaping Taiwan’s modern political landscape and civil society. Yuan’s documentation captures the raw energy and urgency of this significant moment, reflecting the collective anxiety and resistance against external control.

Yuan Goang-Ming, Everyday War, installation view, Taiwan Pavilion, La Biennale di Venezia 2024, collateral event, photo © TFAM, courtesy of Taipei Fine Arts Museum

The exhibition’s central piece, Everyday War, resonates deeply with the collective experiences of destruction and the constant anticipation of violence. As an unknown force methodically destroys a room, viewers are invited to project their own fears – whether of earthquakes, police brutality, wars or invasions – onto the scene. Yuan’s innovative use of a self-developed single-axis motion control system and high-speed cameras, combined with intricate post-production techniques, masterfully created a visual experience that oscillated between chaos and calm, capturing the unpredictability and instability of everyday life.

The Pavilion’s domestic setting, complete with a giant screen and comfortable chairs, invited viewers to confront the unsettling reality of ‘war as part of normal life’, emphasising the perpetual unease experienced in regions of geopolitical tension. Although the exhibition focused on the Taiwanese context, its themes carried a universal resonance. The public programme, titled ‘Thinking Like an Island’, further expanded these ideas with the live performance Go Tell It To the Mountain by artists Ali Yass and Joud Al-Tamimi. This performance, with its layered score, intertwined past and present, embodied the continuous yearnings of both the witnesses and the witnessed, serving almost as a manifesto for those enduring and observing the unspoken.

A subtle feeling of self-censorship lingered as I wandered through the Taiwan Pavilion, wondering whether the oppressors could be explicitly named or if this echoed a familiar scenario from my experiences in Turkey, where the oppressors are known but rarely acknowledged in such public forums. The pavilion’s careful navigation of political sensitivities reminded me of those unspoken boundaries. Despite these concerns, the Taiwan Pavilion offered a space for deep reflection on some of the most pressing issues of our time. Through its exploration of everyday anxieties and the fragility of existence, it struck a powerful chord. The artworks, whether through delicate portrayals of displacement or meditations on precarity, encouraged contemplation on how a more just and equitable world might be created amidst ongoing conflict and displacement. The tension between what can be said and what must remain unsaid only deepened this reflection.

‘Thinking Like an Island’, organised by Naz Cuguoğlu, conversation featuring Yuan Goang-Ming, Abby Chen, Hera Chan, Naz Cuguoğlu, Birde Tang, followed by the live performance Go Tell It to the Mountain by Ali Yass and Joud Al-Tamimi, Taiwan Pavilion, La Biennale di Venezia 2024, courtesy of Taipei Fine Arts Museum

Besides being the most exhausting experience of all to navigate the main exhibition areas, I was fortunate to find a moment of stillness with the video work VOID by Joshua Serafin. Experiencing this piece was deeply moving and necessary within the crowded corridors. Serafin, a multidisciplinary artist from Bacolod, Philippines, now based in Brussels, uses their work to explore the intersections of identity, transformation and queerness. In VOID, Serafin embodies a nonbinary deity coming into being, using dance and choreography to transcend traditional binaries of race, gender and existence. Drawing from creation myths rooted in precolonial animistic religions of the Philippines, myths once suppressed by Spanish colonialism, Serafin’s fluid movements and bodily presence, paired with a sci-fi-sounding soundtrack, construct a queer mythology. This mythology imagines a queer spiritual force emerging from a time of apocalypse – perhaps even our own – to radically redefine what it means to be human. Although I might not entirely share Serafin’s vision of queers as contemporary shamans, I was deeply moved by the profound intensity of both the work and the artist’s presence. The darkened, quiet room where the performance was taking place felt almost sacred, dissolving the boundaries of identity and opening up a space for something transformative and beyond definition.

Later, I found myself in front of the South African Pavilion with its exhibition ‘Quiet Ground’, curated by Portia Malatjie. This pavilion offered a multisensory experience through a sound installation by MADEYOULOOK (Moleme Moiloa and Nare Mokgotho). Based on seven years of research in the northern regions of South Africa, the installation delves into the histories of the Bahurutse and Bakoni peoples, focusing on their cycles of displacement and return, as well as traditional practices for healing land and society. Utilising an eight-channel sound composition, archival recordings and a landscape featuring resurrection plants, the pavilion explored themes of loss, resilience and the deep connection between humans, land and water. Its thoughtful design provided a tranquil, meditative space amidst the chaos of the Biennale, allowing visitors to reflect on the trauma of forced migration, land dispossession and death. This space, much as in Serafin’s VOID, served as a quiet and mesmerising retreat, a space for contemplating transformation in the face of overwhelming historical and contemporary forces.

While the prioritisation of queer/trans and Indigenous voices at the Biennale was commendable, this celebration of diversity was not without its shortcomings; their representation often felt confined to biographical contexts or personal narratives. In a time of escalating ecological catastrophes, mass displacement and ongoing genocides, and many regional conflicts, I yearned for a more radical, queer methodology that actively disrupted the Biennale’s historical conventions. As Sara Ahmed notes in Queer Phenomenology, ‘To make things queer is certainly to disturb the order of things’. ^[8]  Rather than an optimistic embrace of the status quo, I longed for the Biennale to embody this disruptive spirit, reflecting the urgency of our current moment and prefiguring a world that truly centres on the marginalised.

Reflecting further, I recall several remarkable pavilion works I regretfully lacked the time or capacity to fully explore. Among them was Portugal’s ‘Greenhouse’, curated by Mónica de Miranda, Sónia Vaz Borges and Vânia Gala, which transformed the space into a ‘Creole garden’ examining nature, ecology and politics. Mongolia’s ‘Discovering the Present from the Future’ by artist Ochirbold Ayurzana engaged Buddhist wisdom and contemporary thought, bridging present and future. The debut Benin Pavilion, ‘Everything Precious is Fragile’, curated by Azu Nwagbogu, explored life, nature and femininity from a Yoruba feminist perspective. Additionally, the Czech and Slovak Republic Pavilion presented Eva Kot’átková’s The Heart of a Giraffe in Captivity is Twelve Kilos Lighter, with its interrogation of political, institutional and ecological intersections, alongside Oto Hudec’s environmentally-centred Floating Arboretum. Indigenous and queer/trans artists featured in the Arsenale and main exhibitions further enriched the Biennale with potent narratives.

As Manuel Borja-Villel aptly points out in his article in ArtReview, ^[9] granting visibility to silenced narratives is crucial but it is not enough. True decolonisation requires allowing those who produced these narratives to create their own frames of reference and determine their own forms of governance. Otherwise, even the most well-intentioned efforts risk becoming an ‘empty gesture’. ^[10]  It is my hope that this Biennale’s archive and legacy will be curated and disseminated in a manner that encourages a more inclusive and democratic engagement with art, acknowledging that feeling the works and stories bodily is as crucial as reading and listening to them, even as we recognise the difficulties inherent in accessing such events. I wonder if anyone documented the protests that occurred within the Biennale, and captured the raw energy and dissent that contrasted with the curated spectacle. The opening, at times, felt like an Instagram reel, highlighting the need for diverse forms of archiving and documenting these moments. The Biennale’s digital inaccessibility was stark; where was the mediation, the free content, the digital access to side events and public programmes? Platforms such as dedicated online streaming channels, broadcast interviews and discussions from around the globe are needed, to bring the Biennale to those who cannot physically attend or feel safe doing so. For me, decolonisation (in the arts) means having the necessary conversations and doing the work, until the ‘elephant in the room’ no longer exists. Instead, the focus is on saving the elephant, ensuring it lives in its natural environment and is not confined to a zoo. Only then can we return to work, collaborating as equals and honouring each other’s rights with a shared and willing commitment.

And yet it is essential that critical engagement is maintained with the Biennale, interrogating not only the content presented but also the structures that shape its accessibility and representation. The inherent biases must be acknowledged, particularly its ableist and nation-centric tendencies, while its potential as a platform for marginalised voices should be recognised. It is my hope that the archive and legacy of the 2024 Bienniale will be curated and disseminated in a manner that encourages a more inclusive engagement with art, acknowledging that feeling the works and stories bodily is as crucial as reading and listening to them, even as the difficulties inherent in accessing such events are recognised. Wanting this need comes from a sense of care and love, rather than destruction. Sarah Schulman beautifully states in her book Conflict is Not Abuse: ‘If we refuse to speak to a friend because we project our anxieties onto an email they wrote, how are we going to welcome refugees, immigrants, and the homeless into our communities?’ ^[11]  This call to distinguish between personal discomfort and systemic responsibility resonates profoundly in the context of the Biennale. It raises the question: does the exhibition merely stage marginalised experiences, or can it become a pathway toward repair and transformation?

Venice, once again, provided space for a multitude of previously unheard narratives. The task now is to honour these voices and ensure they inform the building of a more equitable and accessible artworld as they will remain crucial in navigating the apocalypses yet to come.
 

^[1]     Fran Lock, ‘ disgusting lie’ (further adventures through the neoliberal hell mouth), Pamenar Press, London, 2023, p 42

^[2]     Büyük Valide Han, the caravanserai in Istanbul, was founded in 1651 by Kösem Valide Sultan; located near the Grand Bazaar, it served as lodging for traders and storage for their goods.

^[3]     See Cansu Çakar, ‘Both Sides’ (exhibition), BLOK art space, Büyük Valide Han, Istanbul, 2016

^[4]     See Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities, William Weaver, trans, Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, San Diego, 1974 [1972]

^[5]     See Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space, Donald Nicholson-Smith, trans, Blackwell, Oxford, 1991

^[6]     See Etel Adnan, The Arab Apocalypse, The Post-Apollo Press, Sausalito, California, 1989

^[7]     See Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea, Lloyd Alexander, trans, New Directions Publishing, New York, 1964

^[8]     Sara Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others, Duke University Press, Durham, North Carolina, 2006, p 161

^[9]     Manuel Borja‑Villel, ‘Is It Possible to Decolonise a Biennial?’, ArtReview, 12 April 2024, accessed 23 July 2025

^[10]   Manuel Borja-Villel, ‘Foreigners Everywhere’, e-flux Journal 137, 2023

^[11]   Sarah Schulman, Conflict Is Not Abuse: Overstating Harm, Community Responsibility, and the Duty of Repair, Arsenal Pulp Press, Vancouver, 2016, p 35

Mine Kaplangı (they/them) is an independent curator, producer, and art mediator from Istanbul, Turkey, currently based in London. They co-founded the initiative Collective Çukurcuma (2015) and are presently co-curating the ‘Entanglements of the Apocalypse’ programme at VSSL Studio (London). With Collective Çukurcuma, they have been curating exhibitions, public programmes and transdisciplinary reading group events since 2016. Their ongoing research explores queer/trans imaginaries of the apocalypse through the concept of a pirate radio, and they actively contribute to the research of the Carefuffle Working Group.