Gail Hastings

Thanks to the MCA for allowing us to honour the memory of our fellow artist Mutlu Çerkez, here tonight. Mutlu’s body was found in his home last Monday. He had taken his life.
This sudden blow to family and friends is an unbearable shock. Yet words of respect and sincere feeling for Mutlu can help to soften the pain of what can only seem an unjust tragedy.
On Friday, a special prayer was held for Mutlu at the Sunshine Mosque in Melbourne with words spoken and sung in Turkish by the priest, his family and community. Mutlu was then buried in the Islamic section of the Fawlkner cemetery, opposite his Grandfather, cherished by those he loved and who loved him.
The words, then, tonight with which we honour Mutlu are those we can speak as fellow artists. And I say them with a begrudging sorrow for being so prematurely called upon for one still so young, still so rich in imagination, still so full of innocent wonder for art, still to be given his full due of recognition and still so promising.
While it is difficult to single out the most pertinent characteristics of a fellow, a couple of occurrences come to mind that I feel are indicative of Mutlu. I hope you will agree.
The most profound, perhaps, was when I first met Mutlu. Although we had already known each other for a few years, it was not until Mutlu’s solo exhibition at the George Paton Gallery, fifteen years ago, in 1990, that I could say I had truly met him. I worked at the gallery and was assigned the task of hanging his paintings.
After hanging the last under Mutlu’s guidance, Stuart Koop and I were quick to dust ourselves off so as to set up for the fast approaching opening. But before I could completely turn away I felt, between Mutlu and myself, a lull 20 decibels quieter than silence. I then saw what had previously been overlooked, while all too visible to Mutlu. A power point on the wall below the painting. I asked Stuart if we could remove it and plaster over the hole. Time was against us, I expected him to say no. He said yes.
Afterwards, Mutlu privately thanked me. I said no thanks were needed, it was my job. But he persisted. This newly emblazoned, hot shot of an artist who had gained, for me, an even greater impenetrability of insensitive, iron-clad skin given all the jealously arrows hurled his way – persisted – when he could easily have walked away. But Mutlu was humble and immensely earnest. He said I had voiced what he had been too frightened to. And in this instant, I first met Mutlu.
For in this sometimes pride-puffed artworld of ours, I was stunned to meet a fellow artist whose persistent, quiet and gentle courage to say what was revealing and vulnerable beamed brightly with a rigourous honesty, generosity and tentativeness to the tiniest of things that create the biggest of meaning. This courage, I think, is evident in his work, a rigour to be just and true to even the most slightest and seemingly inconsequential of nuances.
By removing the power point that time, the painting wasn’t treated as a closed off event within its rectangular boundary. Instead, the vicinity outside this boundary and the incidents that occurred there – such as the power point – were recognized by Mutlu as having an affect on one’s perception of the painting.
Then add to this sensitivity a temporal wit and insightful mischievousness at play in many of Mutlu’s more familiar works. A good example is one that can presently be seen at the Art Gallery of NSW. It is a painting entitled ‘Untitled: 18th April 2013’; and partly consists of a self-portrait of the artist, Mutlu Çerkez, in his studio poised, peering into a mirror, with paint brush in hand about to add a paint stroke to the depicted painting that we actually see, completed, hanging in the art gallery. But why say only ‘partly’ when this, surely, is all that can be seen? But is it? For how can we be sure that the depicted painting is the actual painting in the art gallery? The depicted canvas is turned away from us, so we can’t verify it that way. Which makes one’s doubt grow. A doubt practically enforced by the date in the work’s title, ’18 April 2013’. It is a date yet to happen. A painting yet to be painted by the painter, seen in it, supposedly painting it.
In this temporal gap created by Mutlu we now see ourselves, poised, peering into the mirror at the single stroke of our imagination that had previously connected the depicted painting to the actual one. This, then, is the other part of the painting we see.
The incident outside the vicinity of the painting’s boundary, this time, is us standing before the work, helping to make it work. It is, what I call, an intersubjective space made active and visible by Mutlu in many of his works. You can see it function again, for instance, in ‘Mixer: 26 April 2033’ exhibited in the 2000 exhibition ‘Passing Time’.
And this, if you ask me, is very much an aesthetic achievement. But is it one broadly acknowledged outside ourselves? Sadly, I suggest not. And yet, against the odds, Mutlu persisted. With a quiet and gentle courage he revealed what was most worthy and vulnerable. And his endeavour beams brightly with a rigourous honesty, wit, generosity and tentativeness to the tiniest of things that create the biggest of meaning.
Mutlu, you have been just and true.
As fellow artists we begrudge your farewell with the deepest of sorrow and utmost of respect. In this brief silence that follows, we think of you and feel for your family and friends.
(silence)
to Mutlu Çerkez