Manifesta 16 Ruhr: Nesrin Tanç

Manifesta 16 Ruhr, organized this year under the title This is not a church opened on June 21, focusing on the region’s multi-layered socio-cultural structure and deep-rooted heritage of migration. The first guest in our interview series with Turkish artists creating site-specific works for the biennial is Nesrin Tanç

Interview: Selin Çiftci

Nesrin Tanç. Phoro: Fatih Kurceren

How did Manifesta 16’s curatorial concept, This is not a church, and the layered structure of the Ruhr region influence the selection or creation of your work? What would you like to say about the dialogue you established with the curators and the process your work underwent from its initial concept to its exhibition?

The exhibition Bergüzar, which took place last year, caught curator Gürsoy’s attention through the way it established a permeable relationship between personal and collective memory. I had named the exhibition after my mother; as the creative process, following her passing, transformed into a space of remembrance woven anew around her voice, her memory, and her daily practices. In this sense, Bergüzar was not merely a commemoration, but a multi-layered sensory space built upon continuity and transmission. It was important to me that the narratives of my loved ones be present in the exhibition. The focus was on my mother’s accounts of her first years after arriving, my father’s poems, and the animated film by artist and director Anna Irma Hilfrich, which is based on a puppet-animation adaptation of Fakir Baykurt’s story Duisburger Zug. This was complemented by poems read by Lütfiye Güzel and Derya Yıldırım’s reflections on her musical connection to Anatolia. The exhibition also took on a collective, plural, and resonant dimension through the voices of the Duisburg FEM Women’s Choir.

Amid all these layers, tea spread throughout the space as a quiet yet essential element of daily life, making hospitality and communal togetherness tangible.

Ultimately, the dialogue with Gürsoy Doğtaş led to a work that stands in direct relation to my mother: An exploration of crocheting, one of Turkey’s most fundamental handicraft traditions. This choice crystallized into a work that touches upon both personal memory and women’s labor passed down through generations. At the same time, this work established a meaningful connection to the curatorial framework of Manifesta 16 Ruhr, titled This is not a church, Within the multifaceted, post-industrial structure of the Ruhr region, it made it possible to define the sacred less through physical space and more through aspects such as labor, repetition, care, and everyday practices. Thus, the work operates at the intersection of individual and collective memory, sound and silence, as well as handicraft and cultural transmission.

The Ruhr region is one of the historical centers of the wave of migration from Turkey. What does Manifesta’s geographical selection and the region’s “guest worker” legacy signify for your artistic practice or the work you conceived for this exhibition?

First, it should be noted that my family immigrated to Germany under the Guest Worker Agreement. For me, the term “guest worker” is not merely a social label; it is as much a part of my personal history as it is the subject of my academic research. At the heart of my work are the complex relationships between migration, labor, memory, and a new locality that spans the connection between Anatolia and the Ruhr region. These themes form the foundation upon which I shape my artistic and scholarly work. Since the Ruhr region is one of the historical centers of Turkish migration, the geographical choice of Manifesta 16 Ruhr represents far more than a mere stage for me. It concerns the cultural heritage of labor migration in both countries, as well as the layers of labor, memory, and fragility that underpin the history of this region.

At first, there was no way to foresee that this would become the defining theme of my life. Yet over time, my research and artistic projects—which focus on this line of migration—have become inextricably intertwined with my personal history and an interdisciplinary practice. In doing so, this work extends beyond the bilateral context between Turkey and Germany to take on a global dimension: It addresses global migration movements, colonial-era center-periphery relationships, and their role in the emergence of “East-West” narratives. This migration route is far more than a border crossing; it is a process in which bodies, voices, manual labor, and stories are continually repositioned within the tension between labor and border policies.

In this context, our mothers’ generation forms a focal point that is not sufficiently addressed today in either Germany or Turkey—a generation whose significance is virtually denied. In a past burdened by stigmas and ideological debates, these women remained the cornerstone of both family structures and the productive workforce. Their everyday practices constitute precisely the narrative that is often ignored in today’s discourse on “memory,” even though it continues to have an impact at the structural level to this day.

Nesrin Tanç, Bergüzar II, 1990/2025. Photo: Manifesta 16 Ruhr (Ivan Erofeev)

How do you establish the “silent knowledge” of the visual language you use in your work that functions without relying on the “subtext” of a specific geography? What does the initial connection a viewer, unfamiliar with the historical context, establishes through form and material alone tell you?

In my view, the final say in interpretation ultimately rests with the person who conceived the theme. Handicrafts, especially crocheting, inevitably evoke memories of being raised as a woman. The places where we grew up, lived, and spent time always leave their mark. It is impossible to predict the state of mind or background from which viewers will approach my work; accordingly, I do not design my pieces with specific expectations in mind. However, I am convinced that these works can speak to universal feelings worldwide while simultaneously evoking completely individual, independent, and unique emotions.

How do you define locality not merely as a theme, but as a layer that permeates the fabric of your work? When translating a narrative specific to a particular region for the viewer, what elements do you deliberately leave “untranslated”?

Through my concept of the Anatolpolitan, I have already engaged intensively as a researcher with the themes of Anatolia, locality, diaspora, and migration. For example, I have translated my academic work into a literary map. In the work I will present as part of Manifesta 16 Ruhr, the focus is now on the hands of workers, on the specific manual labor performed by women, and simply on making this craft practice visible.

Manifesta holds a mirror to a crisis in Europe with each edition. Amid today’s post-industrial collapse, ecological concerns, migration and war policies, and blurring borders, what does your work suggest about the new forms of life of the future? How does your art establish a relationship of "repair" or "confrontation" with the current fragile state of the world?

People need a remembered past, with all its highs and lows. If we do not nurture memories and continually reconnect them through the process of transmission, there can be no shared future; a history based solely on exile, wounds, and denial offers no solid foundation. Memory is essential to us, for preserving what is human means neither denying nor ignoring it. It is impossible to shape a shared future worth living as long as workers, women, and minorities are oppressed or devalued. There will always be a tomorrow—but the future we want to shape together must be one in which memory is not erased or politically obscured, but rather embedded in a global past and reaching into a shared global future.

We live today in an era dominated by precariousness: Resources for culture are becoming scarcer, and worldwide, research—especially in the humanities and the visual arts—is under considerable pressure. Yet it is precisely these disciplines that hold inestimable value for me. The focus need not always be on women’s crafts, but that is precisely where my starting point lies. Human life—including the biographies of Anatolian women in the diaspora—is often replicated today, while at the same time being deprived of its rights, devalued, and ignored. It is not in our nature to accept this inequality. Rather, our nature teaches us: Preserve your memory so that you may flourish.