AND BEING MYSELF IS BEING SEEN
SYNTIA ABOUT THE HUMAN IN THE AGE OF THE MACHINE
Light falls from above. Cold, almost clinical. It pulls out of the darkness a metal construction that resembles both an altar and an industrial installation. At the center, we see a body. The arms are extended to the sides. The wrists are fixed. Pink tubes stretch from the chest into transparent containers filled with thick liquid.
A soundscape plays, layered with a voice. The music draws us into an all-consuming anxiety, where the recitative is almost read as a prayer. And indeed, this fragment feels prayer-like, almost sacred:
A soundscape plays, layered with a voice. The music draws us into an all-consuming anxiety, where the recitative is almost read as a prayer. And indeed, this fragment feels prayer-like, almost sacred:
“And being myself is being seen.”
Bedel: durational performance, installation, photographer Eda Demir, Barın Han / Istanbul, 2024
As Michel Foucault wrote, modern power operates not only through prohibitions. It also operates through regimes of visibility. To be seen already means to be included within a field of control.
The body in this scene is not opposed to the construction. It is built into the system of circulation. It does not represent suffering. On the contrary, it functions. If you look closely, the tubes do not resemble instruments of torture but rather communication between machine and human. At a certain point it becomes difficult to distinguish where the human ends and the mechanism begins.
In performance the artist’s body does not represent an idea but becomes the site of its production. Performance erases the distance between the work and the subject: there is no hiding behind an image. In this sense, “Bedel” is not about a machine. It is a machine, constructed from living flesh.
Contemporary culture increasingly demands a specific configuration of the subject. It requires individuals to be visible. They must be efficient. They should be ready for endless self-production. In “The Burnout Society”, Byung-Chul Han describes the late-capitalist “achievement subject”. This person becomes the master and slave of their own productivity. We no longer need to be forced as we transform ourselves into projects, into bodies that must constantly work.
The body in this scene is not opposed to the construction. It is built into the system of circulation. It does not represent suffering. On the contrary, it functions. If you look closely, the tubes do not resemble instruments of torture but rather communication between machine and human. At a certain point it becomes difficult to distinguish where the human ends and the mechanism begins.
In performance the artist’s body does not represent an idea but becomes the site of its production. Performance erases the distance between the work and the subject: there is no hiding behind an image. In this sense, “Bedel” is not about a machine. It is a machine, constructed from living flesh.
Contemporary culture increasingly demands a specific configuration of the subject. It requires individuals to be visible. They must be efficient. They should be ready for endless self-production. In “The Burnout Society”, Byung-Chul Han describes the late-capitalist “achievement subject”. This person becomes the master and slave of their own productivity. We no longer need to be forced as we transform ourselves into projects, into bodies that must constantly work.
Bedel: durational performance, installation, photographer Eda Demir, Barın Han / Istanbul, 2024
Seen through this logic, the performance begins to read differently. The structure behind her no longer feels fantastical. It resembles a diagram of modernity.
The body in a cruciform pose is not crucified in the classical sense.
It is not an allusion to Christ’s crucifixion, but a gesture of synchronization
with the existing rules of the present.
And only with time, together with the sound, does it become clear:
this is a self-portrait. Her name is Syntia.
“I was very moved by “Neon Genesis Evangelion” during that time and I knew
I wanted to create holy imagery. I was also very occupied
with my responsibilities. I felt very stuck. It was like I was watching everything happening, but not really being there. I started to write the monologue,
which we later turned into a spoken word track with Jtamul. I wanted to depict a goddess who is enslaved by humanity for her magic. The track serves
as a gateway to her inner thoughts,” Syntia says about “Bedel”.
The body in a cruciform pose is not crucified in the classical sense.
It is not an allusion to Christ’s crucifixion, but a gesture of synchronization
with the existing rules of the present.
And only with time, together with the sound, does it become clear:
this is a self-portrait. Her name is Syntia.
“I was very moved by “Neon Genesis Evangelion” during that time and I knew
I wanted to create holy imagery. I was also very occupied
with my responsibilities. I felt very stuck. It was like I was watching everything happening, but not really being there. I started to write the monologue,
which we later turned into a spoken word track with Jtamul. I wanted to depict a goddess who is enslaved by humanity for her magic. The track serves
as a gateway to her inner thoughts,” Syntia says about “Bedel”.
A still from Neon Genesis Evangelion (1995–1996)
The connection between machine and human in “Neon Genesis Evangelion” appears almost literally: the characters become part of the Eva, synchronizing with it, and only in that union can it function. The influence of the anime
on Syntia is visible not only in visual parallels, but in vulnerability: in the image
of the boy crying in the cockpit, unable to withstand the pressure of expectation.
“The burden of being working class while emerging as an artist really crushes
my soul from time to time. Each day it’s getting harder for an artist like me
to become a part of the industry. To find power I look at other artists, see
their passion, feel their emotions. Sometimes I find myself crying watching
a movie or listening to a song. Those moments of connection really affirm
my decision to become an artist.”
The motif of the machine does not end with “Bedel”. It returns as a condition
of everyday life in the video performance “Sepheryn”, created in collaboration with Antre Sezgin.
on Syntia is visible not only in visual parallels, but in vulnerability: in the image
of the boy crying in the cockpit, unable to withstand the pressure of expectation.
“The burden of being working class while emerging as an artist really crushes
my soul from time to time. Each day it’s getting harder for an artist like me
to become a part of the industry. To find power I look at other artists, see
their passion, feel their emotions. Sometimes I find myself crying watching
a movie or listening to a song. Those moments of connection really affirm
my decision to become an artist.”
The motif of the machine does not end with “Bedel”. It returns as a condition
of everyday life in the video performance “Sepheryn”, created in collaboration with Antre Sezgin.
“The inspiration for “Sepheryn” was me being a machine in my daily life. Inspiration for my work always comes from my own life experience and feelings. Living in an oppressive country and facing an economic crisis influence me. Being a trans woman and an emerging artist adds to my challenges. These aspects have pushed me to become an overachieving person. The system expects me to be perfect in every situation, regardless of the hardships I endure.
I adapted a machine-like personality to overcome this. I am always producing and always learning. I am also always problem-solving, like an AI bot waiting to take orders and serve a superior being. I definitely feel like modern art culture has become a machine. Its sole purpose is to commercialize art and exploit artists for profit. I don’t offer a solution; in fact, I aim to highlight the inhumane and capitalist aspect of this.”
This “machineness” does not emerge in a vacuum. It is shaped
by the environment. Syntia lives and works in Istanbul — a megapolis where
the pressure of visibility can be felt almost physically.
“I have been living in Istanbul since I came here to study as a boarding high school student in 2014. Living without my family allowed me to be free during my teenage years. However, I was also unsupervised. I dabbled in many different social circles before I found my own path.
Being a queer kid in my hometown Sakarya was really hard; I was closed
to everyone, including myself. As I grew up, the restraints I had put on myself gradually loosened. Eventually, I understood my trans identity after graduating from high school. After that, I started to explore the queer nightlife scene, through venues such as Anahit, Bigudi and Şahika.
It only took me a few months to decide to become a drag performer
after witnessing the local drag culture. Throughout the years, I have become friends with local queer creatives and collaborated on different projects.
We are like a chosen family. We support each other and our art.
They are the reason I feel connected to this city.”
I adapted a machine-like personality to overcome this. I am always producing and always learning. I am also always problem-solving, like an AI bot waiting to take orders and serve a superior being. I definitely feel like modern art culture has become a machine. Its sole purpose is to commercialize art and exploit artists for profit. I don’t offer a solution; in fact, I aim to highlight the inhumane and capitalist aspect of this.”
This “machineness” does not emerge in a vacuum. It is shaped
by the environment. Syntia lives and works in Istanbul — a megapolis where
the pressure of visibility can be felt almost physically.
“I have been living in Istanbul since I came here to study as a boarding high school student in 2014. Living without my family allowed me to be free during my teenage years. However, I was also unsupervised. I dabbled in many different social circles before I found my own path.
Being a queer kid in my hometown Sakarya was really hard; I was closed
to everyone, including myself. As I grew up, the restraints I had put on myself gradually loosened. Eventually, I understood my trans identity after graduating from high school. After that, I started to explore the queer nightlife scene, through venues such as Anahit, Bigudi and Şahika.
It only took me a few months to decide to become a drag performer
after witnessing the local drag culture. Throughout the years, I have become friends with local queer creatives and collaborated on different projects.
We are like a chosen family. We support each other and our art.
They are the reason I feel connected to this city.”
But what happens if the system itself does not allow you to fully integrate
and function within it?
“I would say it’s the constant discouragement, both from the art scene
and the political state. I’ve understood that financially profiting from art
is not achievable for me. It has come to a point where being a trans person, especially in public media, is treated as criminal. Many openly LGBTQ+ artists and social media figures in Turkey have been arrested or imprisoned. In Istanbul, queer nightlife is almost completely banned. That raises the question:
why am I still doing this?
The only answer I have is that art is my way of being. I believe that as long
as humanity exists, art, entertainment and nightlife will exist. Maybe I would share more social media content if I wasn’t afraid of backlash from conservative people in my country. But other than that, I have never censored myself
or my art at all. What enables me to still work here? I’m unable to move somewhere else, and creating art is necessary for my existence.”
At some point, the conversation naturally turns back to the body. Asked
about embodiment and vulnerability, Syntia answers in just three words:
“I am a trans woman.”
The response is almost telegraphic, without explanation or rhetoric. Yet behind this brevity lies a radical shift in the way one exists in the world. Later she adds:
“To transition was really eye-opening for me. Being seen as a boy was so much easier. I was able to be shy. But as a woman, I had to learn to stand up
for myself. It feels dangerous to be visibly queer in Istanbul, especially when you’re alone.”
The transition here is not a change of image but a change in the regime
of visibility. If in “Bedel” being oneself means being connected to a system,
in reality it means being recognized and therefore vulnerable.
and function within it?
“I would say it’s the constant discouragement, both from the art scene
and the political state. I’ve understood that financially profiting from art
is not achievable for me. It has come to a point where being a trans person, especially in public media, is treated as criminal. Many openly LGBTQ+ artists and social media figures in Turkey have been arrested or imprisoned. In Istanbul, queer nightlife is almost completely banned. That raises the question:
why am I still doing this?
The only answer I have is that art is my way of being. I believe that as long
as humanity exists, art, entertainment and nightlife will exist. Maybe I would share more social media content if I wasn’t afraid of backlash from conservative people in my country. But other than that, I have never censored myself
or my art at all. What enables me to still work here? I’m unable to move somewhere else, and creating art is necessary for my existence.”
At some point, the conversation naturally turns back to the body. Asked
about embodiment and vulnerability, Syntia answers in just three words:
“I am a trans woman.”
The response is almost telegraphic, without explanation or rhetoric. Yet behind this brevity lies a radical shift in the way one exists in the world. Later she adds:
“To transition was really eye-opening for me. Being seen as a boy was so much easier. I was able to be shy. But as a woman, I had to learn to stand up
for myself. It feels dangerous to be visibly queer in Istanbul, especially when you’re alone.”
The transition here is not a change of image but a change in the regime
of visibility. If in “Bedel” being oneself means being connected to a system,
in reality it means being recognized and therefore vulnerable.
Bedel: durational performance, installation, photographer Eda Demir, Barın Han / Istanbul, 2024
In Pedro Almodóvar’s film “The Skin I Live In”, the body is an object of manipulation. Identity is violently constructed; skin becomes a prison, a shell imposed from the outside. It is a story of power literally rewriting a human being.
The Skin I Live In (2011)
Syntia’s experience unfolds differently. Her transformation is not an operation performed on the subject but a gradual clarification of the self.
Not the destruction of old skin, but the acknowledgment that another name
had always existed within. If in Almodóvar the body becomes an instrument
of subjugation, in Syntia’s practice it becomes an instrument of articulation.
“Syntia was the name of my alter ego project at first. All the artists I was inspired by had alter egos. They channeled these personas from different aspects
of their identities. I decided to create one to express my feminine side.
I was discovering this part of myself at the time. It felt right to use Syntia
as my stage name when I later decided to perform in drag. After a while,
I became sure of my trans identity, and Syntia became my name.”
And yet in both cases the body is not merely biological. It is a field of politics, economy, and expectation.
“Life keeps reminding you that you’re different… You begin to notice how the dots relate to patriarchy. They link to bioessentialism and capitalism.”
Here the familiar motif of the machine returns. Modernity offers ready-made configurations. Gendered, social, professional. Any deviation is perceived
as malfunction. And the subject must either adapt or invent a new way
of functioning.
“I never feel comfortable with my physical being. However, I feel it is
my responsibility as an artist to always be honest about myself. I decided
to become an artist long before I knew I was a woman. As I started transitioning, I always tried to prevent my dysphoria from affecting how I present my art.
It does feel too vulnerable to put my face at the forefront. However, I feel
it creates a chance for viewers to understand my truth. They can see me both
as an artist and as a woman. I hope this also inspires my trans siblings
in their journey.”
This is precisely why her practice never remains within a single medium.
If the body becomes a site of meaning-production, form cannot remain static.
Not the destruction of old skin, but the acknowledgment that another name
had always existed within. If in Almodóvar the body becomes an instrument
of subjugation, in Syntia’s practice it becomes an instrument of articulation.
“Syntia was the name of my alter ego project at first. All the artists I was inspired by had alter egos. They channeled these personas from different aspects
of their identities. I decided to create one to express my feminine side.
I was discovering this part of myself at the time. It felt right to use Syntia
as my stage name when I later decided to perform in drag. After a while,
I became sure of my trans identity, and Syntia became my name.”
And yet in both cases the body is not merely biological. It is a field of politics, economy, and expectation.
“Life keeps reminding you that you’re different… You begin to notice how the dots relate to patriarchy. They link to bioessentialism and capitalism.”
Here the familiar motif of the machine returns. Modernity offers ready-made configurations. Gendered, social, professional. Any deviation is perceived
as malfunction. And the subject must either adapt or invent a new way
of functioning.
“I never feel comfortable with my physical being. However, I feel it is
my responsibility as an artist to always be honest about myself. I decided
to become an artist long before I knew I was a woman. As I started transitioning, I always tried to prevent my dysphoria from affecting how I present my art.
It does feel too vulnerable to put my face at the forefront. However, I feel
it creates a chance for viewers to understand my truth. They can see me both
as an artist and as a woman. I hope this also inspires my trans siblings
in their journey.”
This is precisely why her practice never remains within a single medium.
If the body becomes a site of meaning-production, form cannot remain static.
Alchemy Attempts: mixed media sculpture, 15x27x15 cm each, 2022)
“Every medium I try merges with each other as time goes by. I used to draw
a lot growing up. I took painting classes from a young age. It’s always been
my escape from the real world. Being a closeted teenager made me feel like painting wasn’t enough to express myself. I found myself writing little poems
on my phone. That was my first attempt to try something new. Then I knew
I wanted to dance, again as a way of expressing my repressed femininity.
And then came drag, and it combined everything I knew and added more like fashion and videography. They all have different challenges, but I love them all.”
Now music has become a new way of speaking and of being visible.
“I’m actually making music! I’ve been recording with my fellow artist
and producer friend Jtamul for a year. Recently, I’ve started producing some tracks on my own. It feels scary to try something new and unknown, especially with my voice. However, it has always been a dream of mine. I don’t see it
as a total career shift, but as an extension of my art. It’s still in the cooking process, but I’m excited.”
a lot growing up. I took painting classes from a young age. It’s always been
my escape from the real world. Being a closeted teenager made me feel like painting wasn’t enough to express myself. I found myself writing little poems
on my phone. That was my first attempt to try something new. Then I knew
I wanted to dance, again as a way of expressing my repressed femininity.
And then came drag, and it combined everything I knew and added more like fashion and videography. They all have different challenges, but I love them all.”
Now music has become a new way of speaking and of being visible.
“I’m actually making music! I’ve been recording with my fellow artist
and producer friend Jtamul for a year. Recently, I’ve started producing some tracks on my own. It feels scary to try something new and unknown, especially with my voice. However, it has always been a dream of mine. I don’t see it
as a total career shift, but as an extension of my art. It’s still in the cooking process, but I’m excited.”
take me with you, akira.: durational performance, installation, photographer Eylül Deniz, Sahika / Istanbul, 2022
And perhaps it is here that the machine finally gives way to the human. When
I ask her what matters most to her in art, the answer sounds unexpectedly simple:
“I think art should be exciting. I am Gen Z, so it needs to cause curiosity, to make you interested enough to spend time understanding it. An excitement
that inspires you to challenge yourself, to learn, to understand one another
or show empathy. It’s so hard to focus on yourself as a whole in this digital age. We’re so focused on what’s on the outside.”
In a world that demands speed and productivity, curiosity becomes a form
of slowing down. In a world of machines, it becomes a human gesture.
I ask her what matters most to her in art, the answer sounds unexpectedly simple:
“I think art should be exciting. I am Gen Z, so it needs to cause curiosity, to make you interested enough to spend time understanding it. An excitement
that inspires you to challenge yourself, to learn, to understand one another
or show empathy. It’s so hard to focus on yourself as a whole in this digital age. We’re so focused on what’s on the outside.”
In a world that demands speed and productivity, curiosity becomes a form
of slowing down. In a world of machines, it becomes a human gesture.