Yasemin Özcan's solo exhibition titled Wet Ground brings together the new productions of the artist, who uses different media and materials such as ceramics, photography, text, video, sound and performance in her practice, with her earlier works. Wet Ground, curated by Eda Berkmen, will be open to visitors at Arter's ground floor gallery until April 6
Interview: Merve Akar Akgün
Yasemin Özcan. Photo: Berk Kır
I want to start with a sentence I took from the exhibition bulletin (I was very impressed by it): “Wet Ground exhibition explores the possibilities of cultivating hope through the acceptance of fragility.” This modest sentence seemed like a magical sentence that completely describes you and your practice, I loved it very much. Your solo exhibition, Wet Ground, which will continue until April 6 at the ground floor gallery of Arter, brings together new works you have produced along with your earlier works under the curatorship of Eda Berkmen. I would like to start with the story of the exhibition. How did you come from the studio visit to the Wet Ground exhibition?
That sentence in the exhibition bulletin is actually a refined expression of what I do and why I do it. Thinking about such a large-scale solo exhibition at Arter, a contemporary art museum, was extremely exciting from the moment I was invited. From the tables where we deepened the concept of desire with the exhibition’s curator Eda Berkmen to today… I find it extremely interesting to think about the places where a social relationship with desire is or is not established. The relationship between kitchen and labor, the relationship between home and desire, when it comes to the construction of femininity, the area covered by desire in society is large, and many more works are produced and exhibitions are held on it. The installation titled Wet Floor takes its source from these concepts. The concept of nest, the female bird that builds the nest, and the house that has become our castles with the pandemic are the building blocks of the exhibition. The name of the exhibition that was accepted with common excitement, Wet Floor, was a term I heard very often from real estate agents when I was looking for a house. It refers to houses with or without completed wet floors, and kitchen and bathroom ceramics. In 2008, when I produced Üçyüzbir necklace, three percent of the immovable property in the world belonged to women. Let's assume that this rate has increased a little bit today, since the users of wet floors are women, the ceramics of wet floors are mostly chosen by women. "You choose! Come on, you choose."
The power of kitchens and bathrooms, not immovable properties. My work Üçyüzbir, which opens up space to think about the relationship between women, jewelry and value without forgetting the possession in properties, is also connected to the exhibition indirectly. I am ending my conversation with Özge Ersoy in the context of the exhibition Century of Centuries with a photo of a joint. In the photo, the joint between two ceramics has been turned into a sacred green by mixing green paint, probably on the initiative of the master. You may also remember the green oil paintings on the tombs. At the end of that conversation, I said that I was interested in this joint. The photo was taken in Ankara Pir Sultan Abdal Cem Evi. At that time, I was also working on Alevism and Bektashism, and the question of how this belief, which was born and rooted in the countryside, would transform in the city, and where we would look for sacredness in Alevism, was one of the biggest factors that led me to be interested in this joint. The futility and reality of trying to make the joint green impressed me a lot. On the other hand, the importance of the joint, that narrow gap. It makes construction possible, waterproofing possible, that joint needs to work well to protect it. It is small but deep. It is also valuable in this respect. The joint has a value in making the Wet Ground exhibition really wet ground, and in fact, I start my exhibition tours with the Hope or Light stress work. I was very excited about all the new works I made during this entire exhibition process, but the words rising from the joints, which I call joint sculptures, were the most exciting part of this production for me. In fact, the productions and themes are connected to each other. If we go back to the beginning, all the works in the exhibition represent the effort to rise from that tiny and narrow space, and thus the possibility of cultivating hope through the acceptance of fragility.
We are currently in a house in Tünel where you spent your childhood and youth. When we visited your studio with Nazlı Pektaş for the Sınırsız Ziyaretler series in 2016, you mentioned this house and how you carried sculptures from home to university. In your interview with Eda Berkmen, you say that you are grateful that your grandmother and grandfather, who migrated from Malatya to Istanbul in 1955, settled in Tünel. You mentioned that Tünel’s architectural examples, different cultures and workshops nourished you. In your interview with Eda Berkmen in the exhibition book, despite your exhibition Saadet Çıkmazı, in which you also exhibited Kaygulu Abdal Çıkmazı, you say that you realized that you grew up on the corner of two cul-de-sacs in Tünel when you moved back to the house where you were born thirty years later. How was it for you to return to Tünel from Kurtuluş and do you think it was reflected in your work?
You wrote the V Yaka text as a response to the question “what will I do?” like everyone else during the pandemic. I started writing with the idea of “I can write, so let me write” while looking at the ceiling with anxiety. I started writing with the desire to write and get the idea out of my system without thinking about what the outcome would be. After writing seven or eight pages, I had a hard time with the intensity of the content and its autobiographical elements, and I put what I had written aside to forget the text in order to return to my center. That is, until I read the Sade Artist Support Fund application. As soon as I saw the application, this text came to my mind and I reworked the text and applied, hoping that the jury would say “Yasemin’s actions are a guarantee of what she will do.” I moved to Tünel during that period due to urban transformation. When I got the call from İKSV with the news that I had received the SaDe fund, I was in this house and it was a very meaningful and incredible thing for me. We cannot escape the weight of some emotions anywhere in the world. In such cases, the power of what the place we are in tells us about the distance we have covered emotionally is very valuable. I felt this deeply when I returned to Tünel. When I first showed The One Who Knows Its Value (2003), which is in the exhibition, it was on the scale of a stamp painting. Because I could only deal with the personal through physical reduction. In this exhibition, with the support of my dear Eda, we enlarged the photograph and added the tape next to it, considering that the new generation may not have met it. When I was writing the text of V Yaka, returning to Tünel, that is, returning to the autobiographical environment that contributed to the plot, was an important factor in my writing process. This neighborhood, which I returned to in the current exhibition, was also very effective because on the one hand I felt an intense familiarity, on the other hand I saw that everything was changing dynamically. I can say that the architecture of the neighborhood and especially the human diversity and dynamics of the apartment we lived in allowed me to take a step towards my own personal history and look at my source with new eyes.
Soil, an important material you use in your practice, is not just a material for you. If we look at its deeper meanings, where do you think we will end up? You studied ceramics and you think that the “most fundamental difference between ceramics and sculpture is the chemistry and mathematics that come with glaze.” After graduating, you did not work with ceramics/produce work for a long time, but today, we see ceramics again both by organizing ceramic workshops and as the basic material of your production. How does the meaning you attribute to soil and this mathematics in your works relate to your cultural identity?
I have to start from the beginning to answer this question. When the third generation grandchild of a family that migrated to the university, who had made an emotional investment, won the Mimar Sinan Faculty of Fine Arts, my family was very happy. In Alevism, it is especially important for girls to be educated. While this joy was independent, my grandmother was a little upset when her friend’s devalued her by saying “Will she make pottery at university?” As I later stated in the text I wrote for the book Elhamra: Learning from Crafts*, the part of me that understands why my grandmother was upset about this by leaning on psychology, ceramics’ tense place between art and craft, goes back to the diversity that started in the apartment we lived in in Tünel. As for the meaning I attributed to soil, my first encounter with the material was in the ceramics department, but this encounter brought various limitations. For this reason, I actually thought that following the sculpture department while studying at the Faculty of Fine Arts was more liberating for me. I think the most fundamental difference between ceramics and the sculpture department is chemistry and mathematics. A world of secrets and recipes. I have also spent most of my education in the sculpture department, and I am grateful for the diversity and richness that this has created. I must mention Cappadox and dear Fulya Erdemci as the basis for the transformation of my relationship with soil. Because the relationship that the workshops in Cappadocia established with geography through soil while producing their works, their state of being one with the soil, and the idea that the soil they used is actually the mother of all of us, greatly affected me. The first work I produced after a long time; It was Idrak, which I made with the soil I took from the İkizler Çömlek Atölyesi. I combined the burning of comprehension with the burning of high degrees in ceramics. I will call the second stop of my changing and transforming relationship with soil the pandemic because, after the pandemic, the question of “how do we continue now?” was very burning and essential. With the closure of the pandemic and the support of my library, I thought about the giving nature of soil. Lewis Dartnel’s book titled How Do We Re-establish Civilization? broadened my horizons. While thinking about themes such as tailoring, being able to sew your own clothes, and the outputs of modernism in terms of returning to simple and basic knowledge, I found myself in my house in Pangaltı thinking about what I could grow and make flourish among the cotton. Just when I was at this point, Zeynep Özler came to me with an offer to make an online program. With the title of Grounding, I deepened this work of thinking and growing things that I did by myself by making it a little more shareable. The idea that soil both gives life and embraces the dead makes me shiver.
On the one hand, there is also the ability to protect. For example; cheese, pickles going underground to provide standard weather conditions or materials, books, tapes that are evaded by censorship being buried underground for protection. On the other hand, I find the journey of ceramic history, which started with the discovery of fire, which always reproduces, grows and nourishes each other with this craft, equally incredible. The outputs of this entire intellectual universe are reflected in my works. And to be honest, when I started, I started with the idea of an exhibition mainly focusing on ceramic works, this relationship progressed organically. When it comes to the relationship of soil with my cultural identity, Alevism is really experienced in rural mountain villages, it is not closer to the city and education like Bektashiism. Access to resources is difficult in mountain villages. When migrating to the city -which was already one of the important questions of my practice for a while- how will this belief born in the countryside take root in the city, how will this sacredness transform, how will it find a living space for itself? Of course, there are many aspects to this situation, but bringing yourself to the city as a small sapling in a flower pot is a very good metaphor. On the one hand, it is not easy to access the soil in the city, and on the other hand, the existential necessity of a person to never completely move away from the soil has become an understanding that has greatly influenced my practice, and urban transformations are on my mind… (There is such a song!)
Left: Yasemin Özcan, From Snapchat to WhatsApp (Joint Sculptures series (detail), 2024, Etched ceramic tiles, brass letters, 20x120x4 cm. Photo: flufoto (Barış Aras & Elif Çakırlar)
Right: Yasemin Özcan, Wet Floor 1, 2024, Ceramic tiles, brass letters, 12x120x120 cm. Photo: Hadiye Cangökçe
The everyday objects in your works interact with our personal and social memory. As you transform these objects (sinks, carpets, ceramic tiles, storage containers, vases, pots) and give them new meanings, how do you build a bridge between the past and the future?
In my practice and in life, I try to hear and hold my inner voice. In this process, I look at the world through the frame of the things that concern me. Maybe through their filter. When I think about them again, they find form through an intervention. The results of thinking together, a pan whose form has been manipulated and whose material has changed, salt, tea and sugar storage containers with the word “Adalet” written on them, the rethinking of things that make people panic when they run out of a house with a different perspective, refreshes my mind. It is always exciting to look at it from a different perspective. The possibility of lions and gazelles becoming friends in our arms, what we do in the arms of lions and gazelles, or what we do with our own lionesses and gazelles are questions that I have always been unable to avoid pursuing, so my practice has always progressed in this direction with different objects, changing and attributing new meanings to everyday objects. In general, my thinking process does not start with a material, but with the question of which material can I use to better express what I want to say. In other words, materials are a method of expression for me. As the meaning changes, the materials I use in my works change.
The first thing I heard about you was your work called Üçyüzbir. A video exhibited with a necklace. An installation that requires rethinking the concepts of justice, rights and law through Article 301 of the Turkish Penal Code, which was on the agenda in 2007. A work produced against those who obstruct freedom of thought and expression. A lot of time has passed since three-hundred-and-one, but the issues are still waiting with the same urgency. What would you like to say?
We have fallen into a place far from the possibility of the world we dreamed of. I carry the sadness of accepting this, but I try to keep my hope alive by accepting its fragility. Despite everything and all the difficulties, I think that if I were a bank clerk and not an artist in the oppressiveness of Turkey, life would be harder. I am aware that we have lost our joy. The act of trying not to be offended that comes with the question of “What?” also requires effort. Maybe this can be explained by growing up a little, but I called myself to reality. Art is a field where I embrace my existence, it is not an easy field. Wet ground. In life, we all have tools that we develop to protect ourselves, and I can only breathe better with the power of thinking and producing by writing. Yet, within all this acceptance, when it comes to rights, law and justice, the fact that what is acceptable, what we learn at home, does not match the world outside creates disappointment and sadness
Coming to the question of justice and equality itself, I would like to tell you about the work called Tek Eldiven. When I was studying at Fine Arts, I had an original glove that was hand-knitted and dyed with wool that my grandmother gave us. Although I wanted to use it a lot, I could not use it because it was the only one; it was an ambitious object like the Caucasian hats. Years later, I learned that my grandmother, who said rights, law and justice, gave one of that cultural heritage to her daughter and the other to her daughter-in-law with the principle of equality. The glove did not benefit either family. If we had known, the two families would have shared the winter season. This anecdote is a good opportunity to think about the question of “Is justice always equality?” Let me continue with the question asked by Beliz Güçbilmez in one of the fiction workshops: “Who said the world is a fair place?” Fictions, holy texts and books. All these productions told us that the world was a just place, that the bad people would always lose, and that the good people would definitely win one day, but the world is not a just place and we need to believe this in order to continue. It is very difficult to continue without believing this. There is a part of me that knows where I stand now. I also know that I will die as an artist. I am not saying this from a dramatic point of view, but despite being aware of all this, there is still a sadness that comes with the truth. I see art as a remedy against these sadnesses. First of all, for myself, and then for those who feel the same.
The concept of fragility, which I believe is at the center of your practice, has been gaining more and more importance in recent years in issues such as justice, equality and human rights. Fragility refers to the state in which people are physically, psychologically, socially or economically open to exclusion, exploitation or harm. One of your early works, Where is the Black Cat?, is a work that reveals exactly this sensitivity. A few primary school children sing the rhyme Where is the Black Cat in front of a political map. The rhyme, in which we do not know who is responsible, actually refers to the current political situation. We see a very powerful work in which you criticize politics through irony from a local story. Do you have any desires to raise awareness or change certain things with your art?
My work Where is the Black Cat? (1998) emerged from a news report I watched on the main news bulletin on television at the time about the burning down of a village woman's house. It starts with the question of where the black cat is, and the idea of where and who is the real responsible person. I realize now with this interview that I have not been able to distance myself from this rhyme, in which the responsible person cannot be found. Now, the metaphor of “Balls on Air”, which is the introductory text of the Wet Floor installation, means that this time, responsibility is not really taken, the problem is completely denied, ignored, unseen and a promise that it will definitely be collected in the next step is on the agenda until the next problem arises and the same promises are made but never kept. As such, I am in a political resentment. All my energy is now directed towards cultivating hope within myself.
I used to not like to make sentences like this, but this is the truth; I have lost my joy. I do not want to make a crude criticism of modernity, but I think that we need to return to some basic, simple information as a society. Rather than a dry search for wisdom and depth, I feel that with modernity, some of our roots have developed too much and some have become too stunted and that we need to replant ourselves from the missing places.
I had heard this tree metaphor for couples from Yeşim Bakırküre. If we compare couples growing together to trees planted side by side, the parts that do not see the sun while growing together can only see the sun and develop when they separate and plant themselves in other places. The parts of us that have not seen the sun for the last 23 years are an obstacle to our happiness.
Yasemin Özcan, V Yaka (detail), 2024, Eroded text on red mud tablets, ceramic tiles, soil, sprouts, ceramic sculptures, pico-embroidered cloth, Variable sizes. With the support of SaDe and Arter. Photo: flufoto (Barış Aras & Elif Çakırlar)
We realize that the space covered by texts in your works is increasing. There are also many texts in the exhibition. What kind of a process is it for you when text meets your work? You had a book called Limonata Gibi Hava and your performances where you read it yourself… Where does writing stand for you? You say, “I am aware that in Turkey they will read texts with a woman’s inner voice.” Can you elaborate on this a little?
When I think of my student years, the way my mind works actually blossomed and took shape through conceptual art. Therefore, language and literature take their place at the forefront of my works. A text continuing as a text or a text speaking together with landscapes are not very different things in my world. It is only a matter of meeting the audience in different ways as a result of different outputs, but for me, the text and landscape are a whole in terms of meaning. I am also aware of the freedom provided by contemporary art in this regard. Because I am not a writer and I do not produce my texts with the same purpose as writers, but thanks to contemporary art, I can reach different outputs with my texts and think with different materials. The subject of inner voice is related to the beginning of this story and also to the story of my motivation to write. One day, I was called by Agos to give advice to a young culture and arts editor who was going to Art International. Of course, in order to give these advices, I had to go to Art International first. But life locked me in my dressing room where I was getting ready and I had to break the window with the statue in the room in order to get out. Thus, writing the story of how I went to Art International became inevitable. I sent my story called Sculpture in Every Room to Agos and they printed it. In addition to the encouragement I received for that article, Bige Örer, who probably saw my article in Agos, invited me to write for the biennial titled A Good Neighbor at T24. When the feedback I received after that article encouraged me, I said I wanted to participate as a writer in this exhibition called Flaneuse, which was held by Bige and consisted of five women artists at the French Cultural Center. However, I must admit that it was very difficult to start writing. In fact, when I received an invitation from Gümüşlük Academy to do a Ceramics Workshop, I thought it was a sign. Among writers, I definitely take the initiative and start. I was wrong, I couldn’t write. But at the end of this painful process, I distilled Limonata Gibi Hava. The powerful feeling I felt in the hall while reading the presentation performance accompanied by eight visuals titled Heart of the Flaneuse was worth everything. In this performance at the French Cultural Center, when the subject was femininity on stage, it made me think about the commonality of femininity from the age of twenty to the age of seventy. Feeling this power born of commonality in a twenty-minute performance was an incredible experience for me. And after this experience, I saw that I was encouraged/encouraged in terms of visibility, taking the stage, forming sentences under the lights and sharing. I liked this very much and I guess after the five stories of Limonata Gibi Hava that made me feel strong, the issue of writing spread to me as if it were an organ.
I will also mention Pera Museum regarding the material; I experienced that I could write longer texts by wearing down the surface in the Tablet series. Thus, when I exhibited the work Tablet in the Future Memories exhibition curated by Ulya Soley at Pera Museum, a huge door opened for me. To be honest, I knew I would continue from the door I entered. I wrote on glazed tiles again using the surface etching method. In the texts Wet Floor and Joint Sculptures, I preferred etching instead of serigraphy because it also referenced the trace left by memory. The power of this method took me to a completely different place. In other words, I have a great investment in etching, which repeats the trace left by memory on our bodies, like writing in that diary, like poetry, from a state that repeats the ink on paper. Our experiences leave a trace, and it is very powerful for me to feel this together with the material.
Yasemin Özcan, Arzu (detail), 2019, Hand-shaped high-firing ceramic forms, table, ivy branch, Variable sizes. Photo: flufoto (Barış Aras & Elif Çakırlar)
“Remembering everything is a kind of madness.” is a sentence that you insistently use in your work and is a sentence from Brian Friell’s play Translations that you encountered in Adam Philips’ book titled On Flirtation. Where did it come from the context that you encountered in the book, together with your usage? Is Cappadox vertical and here horizontal related to each other?
I used to be known for the power of my memory, but I don’t have such a strong memory anymore. During the times when I was concerned about this, I reminded myself that “if you do something like this, you will forget.” There are many things that I want to remember or am afraid of forgetting. The fear of forgetting one’s personal history comes into play due to the feeling that the files we archive in our brains are not backed up. Of course, on the one hand, my interest in this subject is also connected to the importance of the oral tradition in Alevism. There are sound archives that are kept in order not to lose personal heritage, because of the fascination that sound can be recorded and circulated from hand to hand, and probably in the periods when radio was strong, and therefore its sustainability was more possible. Eda Berkmen used to say that words do not lose their effect and power, on the contrary, they get stronger as they are repeated, I think I feel the same way. Because with what we remember and what we are happy to remember as well as what we are unhappy about, that sentence always has a way of flowing in one’s mind. In my mind, in such a busy agenda, is it necessary to forget in order to make room for the new and to continue? There is undoubtedly a relationship between trying to continue without forgetting the old in such a busy agenda, and therefore trying to remember everything, and going crazy.
The exhibition titled Wet Ground includes three new works that I produced with the support of Arter. V Neck, Wet Ground and Remembering Everything is a Kind of Madness 10. Remembering Everything is a Kind of Madness 10 of these is a monumental work. 11 meters. As someone who often uses real scales in her works, Dünyadan Çıkarken, which I produced in the context of Cappadox, was a vertical sculpture rising three meters into the sky. With my transition from vertical to horizontal and my emphasis on craft, Remembering Everything is a Kind of Madness 10 can be considered a precursor to While Leaving the World.
The reason why a piece from the artist and craftsman workshops are exhibited together in the Cappadox work in the form of a sculpture rising to the sky like a beanstalk is that when it comes to ceramics, the material is remembered with the tension between art and craft. In Arter, I am interested in making labor visible and bringing it under light in the baked clays on the unbaked soils. It was created with only a piece collected from the craft workshops. Unlike the other work, there are no artist workshops here.
It makes us think about labor, the concrete trace left by memory, and the possibility that the form also has a memory. Forms from workshops outside Istanbul also come with migration. The results of the conceptual artist's effort to list these forms in the process tell us a lot about the invisibility of labor. Because we could not list the works by year or by the name of the master, we wrote what we knew when the information was mostly about the geography where they were produced. It is a very strange feeling to think that the pottery that came to Istanbul also came to Istanbul from the places where it was made with migration, they also migrated. The form also has a memory and the form carries this memory by eroding the trace of a meaningful word group formed by coming together on its own body, on the body of the form. Therefore, if we recall the last sentence in the bulletin, to foster hope with the acceptance of fragility. I care about this, none of these workshops were asked to do a special work for this. In other words, I chose one from the works they already produced. It does not claim to be complete from all the workshops in Turkey, but it is a selection that tries to capture as much diversity as possible. Thus, my work at Arter, I can say that it is a monumental installation that came to Istanbul with migration, starting from the discovery of fire in the context of the fire of ceramics, with the aim of making labor visible and conveying its history.
Finally, the title Wet Floor seems to be actively announcing a danger. We had said to cultivate hope with the acceptance of fragility, I would like to close by talking about the work that gave its name to the exhibition Wet Floor. There are testimonies in the texts, and many signs… We are walking on Wet Floor, aren’t we?
I would like to start by answering this question from within the text. As our last character ends in Muğla, I say “two people should walk on wet floors in order not to slip”. The dangerous connotation this creates for you is also quite natural. This is actually a connotation that comes from the fact that when we think of wet floor in English, it directly brings slippery ground to mind, but doing the exhibition in Turkish allows for a much wider pool of meaning. As I mentioned before, “Wet Floor” contains many themes such as home, the female bird that makes the nest, slipperiness, desire, uncanniness, earthquake geography. Therefore, I can actually explain my answer to this question not only from this slippery connotation but from another place. I describe Wet Floor as entering the magical world of fiction with the muscles I developed in a text that includes autobiographical elements such as V-necks. I really felt like I entered the magical world of fiction in Wet Floor. There was the knowledge and effort that telling something in a refined way, not in pages, was a great dance. And it was great to see the audience perceive the sentence “In order not to slip on wet floors, two people should walk” in this fiction.
I see that the new generation’s communication with the Wet Floor room is strong. This was something I had somewhat foreseen. In Wet Floor, we look at the characters on flirting practices and the possibility of encounters. Taking a metaphor where responsibility is deferred like balls on the air, I took the risk of winning this “boomer” award because of the reflection of being someone who grew up with TRT in the single-channel era on my work, and I was very excited that the new generation also liked what I did. We look at the everyday state of existence that I would describe as hitting the ball as it comes, not being yourself. I have seen that the text works both intergenerationally and trans-geographically, without forgetting the possibilities of encounter, a puzzle or a Tetris-like encounter, and terms that are not fully Turkish, such as gaslighting and love-bombing. That is why I cannot look at Wet Floor from that uncanny perspective. The joy of home is the Wet Floor for me
The publication accompanying Yasemin Özcan’s solo exhibition at Arter includes a comprehensive interview with the artist by the exhibition curator Eda Berkmen, as well as texts written for this book by Kaya Genç, Evrim Kaya and Işın Önol. The publication examines the artist’s past exhibitions and productions along with the works featured in the exhibition, and the authors examine the artist’s different works with new readings. The book also includes texts written for Özcan’s fictional text V Yaka, which she constructed through the testimonies of three different generations of female characters, and the Wet Ground and Derz Sculptures series. Designed by Ayşe Bozkurt, the book also includes photographs of the exhibition and reproductions taken by Hadiye Cangökçe and flufoto (Barış Aras and Elif Çakırlar).
“With this new exhibition book, one becomes an eye looking at one’s own archive from the outside, and life passes before one’s eyes like a film strip. This situation is something I can describe with metaphors such as looking at oneself from the outside with physical proximity, the development of various muscles and the discovery of new rooms. The archive, which was not actually very far away but entered with new eyes due to this publication, speaks to me and tells me, ‘Yasemin, you have not actually gone very far, you are wandering around the same places.’” *
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