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Cross to the Asian shore and the tone shifts. Kadıköy is younger, looser, less polished than Beyoğlu — a district of bars, record shops, bookstores and a market that runs all day, and increasingly the place the independent art scene actually lives. The walls carry it first: Yeldeğirmeni, the neighbourhood behind the ferry terminal, turned itself into an open-air mural district, and the street art spills outward from there. Down toward Moda, the galleries and project spaces cluster in converted flats and shopfronts — smaller, artist-run, closer to the ground than anything across the water. In Hasanpaşa, a nineteenth-century gasworks has become Müze Gazhane, its industrial sheds now exhibition halls. The scene here grew from the bottom up.
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The twenty-first edition welcomes seventeen new exhibitors while navigating regional economic headwinds
A look at how the Istanbul fair balances local momentum with international growth against a backdrop of macroeconomic volatility.
Aerial surveys and optical distortions reshape how we perceive landscape and history
Borusan Contemporary presents Olivo Barbieri's first Turkish solo show, examining how elevated perspectives and manipulated focus transform familiar terrains into abstract compositions.
How the pomegranate became one of the most confidently named motifs in Islamic ornament — and one of the least confidently identified — across a thousand years of tile, silk and stucco, with meanings we mostly attached later.
A slab of sixth-century plaster in the Met shows a fruit you recognise at a glance: a pomegranate, and surely it means paradise. Hold that certainty up to the light and it dissolves. Across a thousand years of tile, silk and stucco, the pomegranate is the shape we name most confidently and identify least — blurring into the artichoke and the palmette, its meanings attached by later viewers, its very name partly a nineteenth-century invention
A demon catalogue in the conqueror's library, a sixteenth-century text where kingship is an office held seventy thousand times, and the columns a sultan dragged across three provinces to prove he held it.
Mehmed II kept a Greek catalogue of demons in his library at Topkapı. Seventy years later a sultan named for a prophet was rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem and hauling Roman columns out of Egypt and the Lebanon into a mosque above the Golden Horn. In between, Ottoman writers turned Solomon from a warning into a job — and the empire applied for it in stone.
