Meriç Öner: Saving/s? | Acts of Preserving

“Turşu” is a curious thing. It unravels the culinary traditions of myriad geographies and reveals even more possibilities when distilled down to its core chemistry: fermentation. Yet, it also makes me feel like a fraud. How do you research a topic that doesn’t evoke personal memories? Yes, I fondly remember the big plastic barrels of cabbage pickles from my childhood in the 1990s, lovingly made by Binnaz Teyze. She was caring, and as gentle as the light in the temporary conversation lounge set up in Athens.

But I also remember – and still harbor – my disinterest in the altered state of vegetables. I prefer them fresh. Still, as I was on a quest to figure out human urges around SAVING/S, making “turşu” suddenly seemed like a magical act performed upon my fresh vegetables. Enter chef-in-residence Christina Kotsilelou, pickling with enthusiasts in the middle of the Onassis AiR offices, just 30 meters from the beloved conversation lounge. A curious draft seemed to flow between the fresh produce in these two distinct rooms.

I base my work on listening to stories. Some tell tales of their own, others point to histories, and some have the ability to illustrate everyday events as fantastic happenings. I do not take photos. I do not write down words. I make do with the remains. What lingers is how I retell someone else’s story, claiming the essence I retrieved as my own.

Drawing from all the information, knowledge, and experience trusted to me by experts and friends in the city, I narrowed my curiosity to the topic of preservation. Much like preserving *produce, the act of safeguarding *artworks, *belongings, *data, *the earth, *heritage, *memory, *wealth, and *youth relies on specific techniques and methodologies. Preservation thrives on both personal and communal interpretations, with its significance open to debate from various perspectives.

There can never be a common ground for determining the ultimate thing that deserves to be saved. That’s why, on November 1 and 2, a voting system of ancient design sat opposite the pickle workshop table in the Onassis AiR offices. Encouraging anonymity in preservation preferences, the system suggested the durations of “until I die,” “until the end of this year,” “until next season,” and “until I’m no longer young.” Guests chose among eight distinct items, marked with an asterisk above, by tossing pebbles into glass jars and distributing their priorities across the four time spans.

On the first day, the majority chose to protect artworks; on the second, the earth took precedence. Some guests were openly dismissive of the absurdity of the proposed time spans, with many ignoring “until the end of this year” and “until next season” altogether. After all, those impossibly short intervals implied the question: “Why are we so invested in the farthest future?”

Do you need friends to visit a city? Do you make friends by visiting one? Does the city reveal itself to you instantly, or does familiarity grow over time? Do you compare it to places you’ve seen before?

My eight weeks in Athens could be recounted in response to any of these questions. Through the hundreds of thousands of steps I took and the hundreds of hours I spent listening, the city offered a comforting sincerity that set it apart from others. Yet, alongside this, it presented an uneasy calm, where nostalgia and grief grappled with my wish to break free from them, by questioning the essence of my SAVING/S of the past and future.

I had carried kilograms of pebbles collected from the beaches of Aegina. As my residency came to an end after the Open Days, I poured them over the stones around the trees in the patio. One of the two little gray cats joyfully grabbed a pebble and played with it, chasing it down the stairs.

I left my quick-fix cabbage pickle for the next communal lunch at the office. I packed my computer along with a couple of books, placed the flowers gifted to me for my birthday by friends from Istanbul on the table, and left.