I LOST IT SLOWLY, NO ONE NOTICED
13.08.2025
What does it mean to make art while giving something of yourself away – bit by bit, quietly, until nothing feels whole anymore? [1] (And when does it finally seep in – what’s been lost, and why?)
This project emerges from a personal [2] and collective inquiry into ‘Sacrifice’: the silent tolls, invisible negotiations [3], and often unacknowledged costs embedded within artistic labor. It begins with a curatorial proposition: to develop a future open call for artists working with moving image, writing, sound, and performance – inviting them to reflect on what it means to offer, to yield, or to resist in a world that demands so much under the guise of creative freedom. [4]
Taking isolation as a conceptual and experiential lens, this project explores how solitude heightens our awareness of what has been forfeited or quietly endured in the pursuit of recognition, support, and space to “make.” The artist residency is reimagined here not just as a site of retreat or production, but as a dramaturgical space of ethical tension, bodily presence, and shared vulnerability. What does a residency ask of us, and what do we offer back – willingly or otherwise?
Drawing on René Girard’s theory in The Scapegoat, which examines how communities resolve internal conflict through acts of ritualized violence toward a sacrificial figure, the project turns a critical eye toward institutional dynamics: Who has historically been made to sacrifice themselves so that others might enter, thrive, or be seen? Who holds the door open – and what are the unspoken conditions of that gesture?
As Sara Ahmed writes in Complaint!: “Some hold the door open for others so they can be welcomed into the institution, but only if they agree not to question how the door was built, or who it keeps out.”
This line marks an entry point into the project’s broader inquiry. It calls attention to the labour – particularly by marginalized individuals – that sustains the very systems which often exclude or exhaust them. Whether through coordinating roles, caretaking positions, administrative precarity, or diversity labor, many artists burn out in the very spaces (supposedly) meant to support them. Others are metaphorically (or literally) burned – by precarious labor conditions, extractive funding mechanisms, or invisible hierarchies cloaked as “opportunity.”
Sacrifice here is not reduced to a religious motif or symbolic act. It is approached as a lived condition, a structural demand, and – perhaps – a method of resistance. Artists will be expected to think of sacrifice not only as loss but also as a generative framework: What happens when we reclaim the role of the scapegoat, not as victim but as a strategic disruptor? How do we turn acts of letting-go, refusal, or transformation into tools for autonomy and collective survival? (Where does the ‘love for work’ end up in ‘work of law?)
This research further weaves in a satirical thread through the lens of survivalism – a cultural phenomenon rooted in preparing for future (or ongoing) catastrophe.
Taking isolation as a conceptual and experiential lens, this project explores how solitude heightens our awareness of what has been forfeited or quietly endured in the pursuit of recognition, support, and space to “make.” The artist residency is reimagined here not just as a site of retreat or production, but as a dramaturgical space of ethical tension, bodily presence, and shared vulnerability. What does a residency ask of us, and what do we offer back – willingly or otherwise?
Drawing on René Girard’s theory in The Scapegoat, which examines how communities resolve internal conflict through acts of ritualized violence toward a sacrificial figure, the project turns a critical eye toward institutional dynamics: Who has historically been made to sacrifice themselves so that others might enter, thrive, or be seen? Who holds the door open – and what are the unspoken conditions of that gesture?
As Sara Ahmed writes in Complaint!: “Some hold the door open for others so they can be welcomed into the institution, but only if they agree not to question how the door was built, or who it keeps out.”
This line marks an entry point into the project’s broader inquiry. It calls attention to the labour – particularly by marginalized individuals – that sustains the very systems which often exclude or exhaust them. Whether through coordinating roles, caretaking positions, administrative precarity, or diversity labor, many artists burn out in the very spaces (supposedly) meant to support them. Others are metaphorically (or literally) burned – by precarious labor conditions, extractive funding mechanisms, or invisible hierarchies cloaked as “opportunity.”
Sacrifice here is not reduced to a religious motif or symbolic act. It is approached as a lived condition, a structural demand, and – perhaps – a method of resistance. Artists will be expected to think of sacrifice not only as loss but also as a generative framework: What happens when we reclaim the role of the scapegoat, not as victim but as a strategic disruptor? How do we turn acts of letting-go, refusal, or transformation into tools for autonomy and collective survival? (Where does the ‘love for work’ end up in ‘work of law?)
This research further weaves in a satirical thread through the lens of survivalism – a cultural phenomenon rooted in preparing for future (or ongoing) catastrophe.
Illustration: Emirhan Akin, 2024.
Survivalism imagines alternative social structures through off-grid living, resilience-building, and tactical withdrawal from systemic collapse. In this light, this research imagines Hollabrunn as the tenth village. Stemming from (the curator’s mother tongue) a Turkish [5] proverb – “Doğru söyleyeni dokuz köyden kovarlar” – translation – “The one who speaks the truth is chased out of nine villages”.
The proverb reflects a cultural reality: truth-tellers often face rejection, discomfort, or exile for confronting collective denial or speaking against dominant power structures.
Hollabrunn, in this context, becomes a metaphorical tenth village – a speculative space for those who have been excluded, silenced, or worn down by the very systems they once sought to transform [6]. It offers a temporary refuge, not to escape conflict, but to rethink how we (?) might live, work, and create beyond systems that demand silence in exchange for belonging.
The future open call will seek artists who are not only working through these themes, but who are themselves navigating survival – whether through burnout, disillusionment, or systemic exclusion. It will create space for those whose practices are shaped by sacrifice, who resist romanticizing suffering while refusing to erase its traces.
The question at the core remains: What does it cost to stay visible, to stay engaged, to stay alive as an artist today? And what do we risk – together – when we decide to do things differently? [7]
***
[1] As I type these words, I can barely look at the screen. The letters blur into one another. My hands are shaking. Is this what burnout feels like?
[2] The curator-in-residence wishes to clarify that this project does not stem from a detached research interest, but from an ongoing lived experience. After more than four years of navigating institutional labor to sustain their artistic practice, the toll – both mental and physical – has become undeniable. This is not a conceptual exercise, but a confrontation with conditions that continue to shape their reality.
[3] As the institution strikes back
[4] …where individuals seek to secure a degree of autonomy and resilience in response to growing systemic uncertainties – from ecological collapse to political instability.
[5] The curator acknowledges the political entanglements behind the word “Turkish”; in this context, the usage refers specifically to the language, not to nationality or national identity.
[6] or engaged in temporary arrangements to mitigate systemic precarity.
[7] What’s left to hold on to when the systems isolate you by design – fragmenting each of us just enough to believe we’re alone – while the same quiet violence plays out across countless others behind the scenes?
The proverb reflects a cultural reality: truth-tellers often face rejection, discomfort, or exile for confronting collective denial or speaking against dominant power structures.
Hollabrunn, in this context, becomes a metaphorical tenth village – a speculative space for those who have been excluded, silenced, or worn down by the very systems they once sought to transform [6]. It offers a temporary refuge, not to escape conflict, but to rethink how we (?) might live, work, and create beyond systems that demand silence in exchange for belonging.
The future open call will seek artists who are not only working through these themes, but who are themselves navigating survival – whether through burnout, disillusionment, or systemic exclusion. It will create space for those whose practices are shaped by sacrifice, who resist romanticizing suffering while refusing to erase its traces.
The question at the core remains: What does it cost to stay visible, to stay engaged, to stay alive as an artist today? And what do we risk – together – when we decide to do things differently? [7]
***
[1] As I type these words, I can barely look at the screen. The letters blur into one another. My hands are shaking. Is this what burnout feels like?
[2] The curator-in-residence wishes to clarify that this project does not stem from a detached research interest, but from an ongoing lived experience. After more than four years of navigating institutional labor to sustain their artistic practice, the toll – both mental and physical – has become undeniable. This is not a conceptual exercise, but a confrontation with conditions that continue to shape their reality.
[3] As the institution strikes back
[4] …where individuals seek to secure a degree of autonomy and resilience in response to growing systemic uncertainties – from ecological collapse to political instability.
[5] The curator acknowledges the political entanglements behind the word “Turkish”; in this context, the usage refers specifically to the language, not to nationality or national identity.
[6] or engaged in temporary arrangements to mitigate systemic precarity.
[7] What’s left to hold on to when the systems isolate you by design – fragmenting each of us just enough to believe we’re alone – while the same quiet violence plays out across countless others behind the scenes?
