A man stands in the midst of tear-inducing pepper spray, crashing sounds, shouting marchers, jets of water and sparks of fire. He is still and steady. Apathetic toward the chaos around him, his eyes are focused on a large poster of Ataturk, the founder of the Republic of Turkey. Protestors hung this image when conflicts escalated with the anti-riot police. It does not take long for others to notice him; his silence is louder than anything else. Soon hundreds join him to stand side-by-side in solidarity, while the confused police cease their aggression for the first time since the protests caught the headlines in the beginning of June 2013. “Duran Adam” or the “standing-man,” as my fellow Turkish people referred to him, was a performance artist who decided to combine his art with his stance in the riots. The outcome was momentous.
Taxim Square, on the European side of Istanbul—a city peculiar for bridging two continents—is a historical home for protests in Turkey. Consequently, it was where the Gezi Protests erupted and where Erdem Gunduz—the “standing-man”—intentionally walked into the eye of the storm. Among the chaos, the spot he found to stand in was oddly empty. He dropped his backpack to his feet and began his performance: His inaction turned into action as his passive performance saturated the atmosphere of the protests. He stood completely still, hands stuffed into his pockets, wrinkled button-down shirt half tucked into pants, and earphones dangling down his neck. He was a neutral body: with everyone else playing the part of a rioter, he stood out for his motionlessness.
The first few hours of his performance involved curious passers-by approaching him and even mockingly posing next to him to take pictures, as if he were a newly installed sculpture. However, not much time passed before people realized that this was a demonstration. The “standing-man” never talked or moved, and he never verbally or physically invited anyone to join him. Nonetheless, people started gathering around him, finding a spot in the square to start their own “stand.” In time, even with the minimum amount of live broadcast, the performance spread throughout the country, with people from almost every city going outside and joining the performative act.
Art is an ambassador of information, which is why it is an important tool for protest. In the case of the “standing-man,” the medium was not obviously read as art by the public. Even when people realized that he was doing something extraordinary by standing still for many hours, it was still perceived as a peaceful demonstration rather than an artistic expression. When many people joined him, they became a part of an art performance—but they may have done so unwittingly. It wasn’t until when Gunduz ended his performance and told the media about his artistic intentions that it became clear that he was an artist.
When Theodor Adorno remarked that “Every work of art is an uncommitted crime” in his 1951 text Minima Moralia, I believe he meant that through its expressive nature, artwork challenges the sociopolitical status quo. They have a political aspect—directly or indirectly—either applied by the artist consciously or implemented through the artist’s unconscious social collective. Thus, art evokes a critical perspective toward the problems in the world.
I watched “standing men and women” on my television from overseas, my breath heavy with excitement, anticipating what will happen next in a “steady” act. In a time where images and visual representation are increasingly fluctuating and unstable, watching stillness for eight hours was like bumping into an old friend in an unexpected part of the world: both nostalgic and exciting. It made me realize that stillness is not only powerful in opposition to chaos, but also valuable for its promise that something thrilling will follow the act.
After eight hours, Erdem Gunduz ended his performance, walking away from the space as calm as he had first arrived. A few young people tried to prolong it, but most participants were respectful to the artist’s wishes, and left the spaces they had occupied. And by doing so, they ensured that this was not only a protest but also a unique performance that they had voluntarily become a part of, resulting in a nationwide participatory artwork.
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From the Zephyr print edition published fall 2014.
