What pivotal moments or experiences led you to become the artist you are today?

Various pivotal moments seem to be scattered throughout my years living in Cyprus and the UK. Initially stemming from my childhood years, when I lived in Cyprus and crossed the border daily to attend school. That routine of moving between sides, something that many may perceive as division, became, for me, a space of overlap, an area not necessarily split but layered with complexity and meaning.

During these crossings, what struck me most deeply were the subtle yet resilient details along the route, particularly the plants. I vividly recall ivy weaving through barbed wire, and trees thriving in the spaces between checkpoints. Despite colonial powers' attempts to enforce separation, the land itself remained intrinsically connected. Nature didn't recognise the border, and neither did we, as Cypriots. While colonial forces drew lines, and built fences, the land continued as though uninterrupted, mirroring the resistance and interconnectedness of Cypriots themselves. Trees grew roots across fault lines. Seeds travelled. Insects pollinated on both sides. The indifference of nature to human-imposed divisions revealed something curious and hopeful-the artificiality of borders and the innate interconnectedness of life.

These quiet gestures of natural resilience gradually influenced my artistic practice. The plants were more than aesthetic details; they became symbolic witnesses, actively resisting political constraints. Highlighting that nature is not merely passive scenery but a living archive, carrying memory and continuously asserting its presence despite conflicts and divisions, similar to how we, as people, do.

Another pivotal moment for me was experiencing profound homesickness. The deep nostalgia and longing that came from being unable to return home to Cyprus for extended periods. When I finally found my way back, this intense longing transformed into a powerful urge to document and preserve everything around me. It was driven by the awareness that my homeland might not always remain intact, given its history of conflict and the ever-present fear of future instability and current tensions. Preservation became a vital part of my artistic practice, a way of holding onto the fleeting moments and safeguarding the memories of a place constantly under threat.

Incorporating these observations into my creative practice allowed me to explore themes of resistance, continuity, and shared memory through a visual language grounded in nature's subtle rebellion. Whether through photography, drawing, or mixed media, my work remains deeply rooted in this nuanced space of in-betweenness, reflecting the complexities and layers of identity shaped by the land and its silent but enduring resilience.

The theoretical underpinnings of my work emerged from personal and collective frustration, a desire not necessarily to speak for others but to amplify multiple voices—specifically those of Turkish Cypriots. As a Turkish Cypriot myself, I recognise that our voices are often overshadowed or conflated with Turkish identity. Turkish Cypriots are indigenous to Cyprus, much like Greek Cypriots, and our identity is distinct from Turks from Turkey, who occupy the northern part of the island. This occupation has led to the gradual erasure of Turkish Cypriot identity and the silencing of our voices. Creating art became my way of processing this and contemporary tensions. whilst also providing a platform for reflection and dialogue, ultimately contributing something meaningful to the world, something that resonates beyond borders.

In your statement, you mentioned that your work delves into obscured narratives, examining the impact of erased histories to comprehend notions of place and identity. Could you elaborate on this conceptual approach?

The concept of obscured narratives within my practice is intrinsically linked to my Turkish Cypriot identity and heritage. I feel as though these narratives aren’t limited to the past, as they have found a place within the present. Stories that have been silenced, overlooked, or actively erased from dominant discourse. I find that they often belong to minority communities whose existence doesn’t align with the version of history that powerful forces want to maintain. This became very clear to me during my research. As I was trying to understand more about Cyprus through my own lens, I found that there was very little material authored by Turkish Cypriots, and often what did exist was overshadowed by external perspectives.

Most of the books and articles I found were written either by Greek Cypriots, which is crucial, not a negative critique or by people completely outside of Cyprus. One of the few exceptions was the work of Tony Angastiniotis, a Greek Cypriot author who spoke openly about the gaps in Cypriot historiography. He questioned why mass Turkish Cypriot graves weren’t spoken about or publicly acknowledged. The fact that his work wasn’t more widely circulated and often met with resistance, reinforced just how selective official narratives can be. It made me realise how important it is to protect these stories and bring attention to what’s been left out. Though that is something I am still trying to bring forth within my practice.

While this experience is grounded in Cyprus, the tendency to overlook or erase certain voices is not unique to the island. Similar patterns exist in other contexts, where histories are rewritten and voices are marginalised to serve dominant narratives. These erasures complicate how we understand identity and place, especially when so much of it is built on absence. For me, making work is a way of tracing those absences and holding space for them. Not to create more division, but to allow what’s been pushed aside to re-emerge and be heard.

My own upbringing, being born in the UK, growing up in Cyprus, crossing between north and south every day, has shown me just how layered identity can be. It’s fluid, sometimes contradictory, but it can also be grounded in place. That daily crossing shaped how I see borders, how I see belonging. And the more I noticed what was being left out of the story, the more urgency I felt to preserve what remained. That’s what drives my work conceptually: to listen closely to what isn’t being said, and to trace identity through those silences.

Your work is profoundly influenced by the landscape of Cyprus, where the land itself acts as a silent witness to trauma. Can you describe how you translate this complex emotional state into engaging artistic experiences for your audience?

I feel it's important to identify and sit with these emotions, whether it’s frustration, nostalgia, longing, or grief. Once they’re named, they can begin to take shape within the work. These are feelings we all carry in some form. That’s what draws the viewer in: the familiarity of it. A shared longing for home, for belonging. Even trauma, whether personal or inherited, is something many of us hold, and I believe the land holds it too. We just don’t always notice.

What goes unnoticed, often, is how the landscape absorbs these histories. In Cyprus, when I say the land itself is a silent witness, what I mean is that it carries traces of conflict, resistance, and care. Something I find grounding and healing. There’s a certain comfort in knowing that we have an intrinsic bond with nature. That it remembers, even when our institutions or histories forget. And so this idea enters my work through the process. I use my hands a lot, which is why I prefer working in the darkroom. It’s tactile and physical. It allows me to transfer emotion through touch, and the process becomes quite playful too. I often introduce my drawings into the prints, layering them in through acetate, glass, or other materials. The drawings themselves are often inspired by the intricacies we can see within nature, such as the growth rings within trees, or the intricate root systems that stretch underground. In another sense, they’re like echoes of the landscape I remember.

I try to stay away from technology for as long as I can in the making process. That slowness, that handmade quality, feels necessary. I think it helps invite the viewer in, to not just see the work but to feel it. 

My photography practice usually begins with wandering. Observing. Re-tracing my own steps and the steps of my elders. These paths overlap. And while much of the work comes from personal memory, it’s not only about me or my family. There are many others who have crossed similar routes, whether physically, emotionally, or historically. I think it’s important to acknowledge those shared experiences. They’re part of what makes the work resonate beyond the personal.

In your project Traces, you metaphorically sew together fragmented histories. Can you describe your experimentation in the darkroom and how it contributes to the aesthetic and meaning of "Traces"? Are you using any specific techniques to create a sense of fragmentation or distortion?

For me, the darkroom is a space where reflection and experimentation come together. It allows me to slow down, work with my hands, and let the emotional residue of the subject matter influence the process. The idea of stitching fragmented histories together came not only from lived experience, in between borders, but also from the way the darkroom lets me physically layer images, gestures, and marks. In a way, piecing together what has been scattered.

I began introducing my drawings into the printing process by drawing on various types of transparent materials, markings that resemble veins, root systems, and, in some way, topographies. Then, layering those over the light-sensitive paper usually accompanied by a sheet of glass on top. Once exposed via the enlarger, the result is a print where image and mark bleed together, a kind of grafting. It’s my way of weaving presence into absence, and vice versa.

The blurring, in a way, can speak to the nature of fragmented histories. Nothing in Traces is clean or final. It’s always shifting. Really and truly, it's a project that is never-ending. The darkroom gives me the ability to respond to the work as I’m making it, to stay inside that space of uncertainty.

In that sense, the work becomes less of a documentary project (which it initially started as) and more of a translation of emotions, of thoughts, of things that are often hard to articulate in words. The darkroom becomes a kind of threshold, where grief, nostalgia, and memory are reconfigured into form. A way of preserving what might otherwise be lost, while honouring the unseen threads that connect past and present.

What can you tell us about  Moving Mountains, a project that focuses on the severe human impact on landscapes through the lens of a controversial mining project? What inspired you to document this specific project, and what challenges have you faced?

Moving Mountains builds on my ongoing interest in how land carries memory, particularly in Cyprus, where I’ve spent years tracing the quiet imprints of conflict and division. The project began during a visit home in 2023, while driving through a familiar mountainous region in Kyrenia (Girne); a route I had travelled countless times growing up. I noticed something was missing. A mountain that once marked the entrance to the district had been carved into so severely that it looked as though a giant had taken a bite out of it. What had once framed the landscape now revealed distant peaks that had always been hidden. That absence stayed with me. It felt like something had been removed not just from the land but from my memory itself. What began as a response to that moment gradually evolved into a deeper investigation into environmental destruction, cultural erasure, and the politics of extraction in Northern Cyprus. In many ways, Traces gave birth to this work. The two are deeply connected; one focusing on the quieter persistence of nature and memory, and the other confronting a more visible, violent intervention into the land.

Working on the project brought challenges. The mining area is located near Turkish militarised zones, and I had to be extremely cautious about how and where I photographed. I was stopped and questioned by local authorities, and the presence of military infrastructure made documenting the site feel risky and restricted. Further to this was the summer heat, which had warped the roads, and the air was thick with dust from the extraction sites, making it difficult to photograph, not just technically, but physically. And it wasn’t just me struggling. The trees, the crops, and the locals were all breathing that dust too.

What struck me most wasn’t only the damage to the land, but what it subtly hinted at. A form of extraction that went beyond material. It felt cultural. Colonial. The slow disappearance of the mountain echoed a larger pattern; one where pieces of Cypriot identity are quietly removed, altered, or sold off. In that sense, Moving Mountains continues my exploration of how landscapes carry memory. It becomes a way to observe not only what’s happening to the land, but also what that tells us about who controls it, who is silenced, and what gets remembered.

How do you balance the artistic and documentary aspects of "Moving Mountains," ensuring that the project is both visually compelling and informative?

This has always been a delicate balance for me. I come from a background rooted in the arts, so I naturally lean towards visual storytelling that’s emotional, tactile, and expressive. But with Moving Mountains, I was very aware that I was documenting something real, with a sense of urgency. And that carries its own responsibility. I didn’t want to simply aestheticise destruction. I wanted the work to carry weight, to communicate a deeper truth without becoming purely illustrative or literal.

The way I’ve tried to balance this is by letting the emotional response guide the visual language. When I’m photographing, I’m not just searching for a dramatic scene; I’m paying attention to what moves me. The fractured surfaces of the mountains, the haze hanging in the air, the way the trees lean almost as if withdrawing; these are visual cues that I respond to instinctively. The dust becomes part of the composition. Sometimes it softens the light; sometimes it obscures what’s in front of you. But that visual resistance mirrors the conceptual one…a landscape trying to breathe through its wounds.

The informative side often comes in through conversation, whether through captions, installation context, or informal dialogue with viewers. I’m less focused on forcing facts into the frame, but rather creating work that opens up questions: What happened here? Why is this space so wounded? Who is responsible? In that way, the visuals act as an invitation, and the documentary layer unfolds in response to curiosity.

For me, that’s where the impact lies. In allowing beauty and devastation to sit side by side, and letting the viewer feel their way through it. The photographic process lets me draw attention to what is fading, scarred, or overlooked. Not to romanticise it, but to honour its presence.

How do you hope your work will impact viewers' understanding of the relationship between history, place, and identity?

This is a difficult question, because the impact of a work isn’t always something you can predict. But what I’ve noticed, especially when I speak to people about my practice, is that it often makes them reflect on their own relationship to history, place, and identity. And I really value that. It creates a sense of connection, a kind of mutual recognition. Everyone carries something. We all have stories shaped by forces beyond our control, by borders, loss, displacement, or silence. That recognition can build a quiet sense of community, even across very different lived experiences.

I hope my work invites people to sit with that complexity. To see how history isn’t a distant event, rather it is something alive in the land, in our families, in our bodies. I’m interested in the spaces where these things intersect. Where personal memory meets inherited trauma. Where land becomes both witness and participant. My hope is that viewers begin to see how these entanglements shape all of us, whether we’re aware of it or not.

And in a more direct way, I also hope to shift how people see Cyprus. Not just as a postcard or a holiday destination, but as a place marked by ongoing struggles. A place that’s still dealing with the residue of colonialism and division. A place where people, especially minorities like Turkish Cypriots, are still fighting to have their identities acknowledged and preserved. For me, the work is about resisting erasure, and I hope that intention is felt by those who spend time with it.

What advice would you give to emerging artists who are interested in exploring themes of trauma, memory, and environmental impact in their work?

It can be incredibly exposing and draining to work with themes like trauma, memory, and environmental impact, especially when the material is personal or rooted in lived experience. It takes a lot to sit with those feelings and try to translate them into something visual. And it’s very easy to get lost in it if you don’t protect your own energy.

So my first piece of advice is: find balance. Be gentle with yourself. Give yourself time not just to create, but also to rest and recharge. That in-between space is just as important as the making. When I’m working with heavy themes, I try to introduce something light into the process. That’s where my darkroom practice helps. It reconnects me to my body, my hands, and gives me a way to process without words.

And don’t forget to enjoy the process too. It’s easy to fall into the trap of constant production, but we’re not machines. Breaks are necessary. Silence is necessary. You don’t have to always be “on” to be an artist.

And finally, don’t be afraid to put your work out there. Don’t be intimidated by the noise or the pressure to be polished. Follow your curiosity. It’s your most enduring guide and cannot be taken from you.

Art and artists play various roles in the fabric of contemporary society. How do you see artistic practices advancing sustainability and social consciousness?

I see artists playing a vital role in building awareness, not just by making work, but by forming communities, starting conversations, and creating common ground between people. Artistic practices have the power to slow things down, to make people look twice, to feel something they might otherwise overlook. That alone can shift how we relate to the world and to each other.

Exploring photojournalism, in particular, has taught me a lot about environmental and social issues happening beyond my own landscape. Even as a photographer myself, I find I’m constantly learning from others, especially from those who approach their practice with care, depth, and real research. I think one of the most important things an artist can do is truly understand the subject they’re working with. When you do that, you’re not just creating, you’re also carrying responsibility. You’re passing on knowledge, sometimes in ways that words can’t.

For me, the act of making may not be separate from the act of listening. For when you’re listening deeply to people, to land, to history, your work naturally moves toward something more sustainable, more conscious and connected.

What message or call to action would you like to share with our readers?

Look closer. Pay attention to the places you move through every day, to the land, the people, and the stories that go unspoken. So much of what shapes our identities and histories happens quietly, beneath the surface. But that does not make it any less significant.

If something moves you, follow it. If something angers you, sit with it. Not everything has to become work right away. Let it take its time. And when you do create, trust that your way of working, however slow or intuitive, is enough.

Coming from a community whose voice has often been overshadowed or conflated with others, I have come to understand how important it is to hold space for what is at risk of being erased. Not to speak over others, but to create room for what has been ignored or erased. The personal is never just personal; it is often a reflection of something much larger.

We need more artists who are willing to stay with difficult questions. More voices rooted in lived experience. There is value in paying attention and in choosing to respond, even when others turn away.

Learn more about the artist here.

Cover image:

Moving Mountains by Chagla Mehmet.

All images courtesy of Chagla Mehmet.