Where the Mountains Flow Into the Black Sea
Here, it seems like the sea has forgotten to embrace its shore - beaches are almost nowhere to be seen, and people rarely turn their gaze towards it. The indigenous Pontian lives at peace with the mountain and, in return, it keeps him safe from crashing. Or, at other times, he becomes the involuntary hermit, who's been stranded on the shore ages ago by the roaring tempest, snuggling ever since under the protective shadows of the mountain. Thus, little by little, man has exchanged lighthouses for hundreds of minarets, praising the shore. A shore that has turned into a stronghold of Islam and to cross it is not an easy task. Oftentimes, a random passer-by had to decide whether I was allowed to take a picture of a woman who was a complete stranger to him. All my attempts to speak the language of this hive of solidarity and collective consciousness required of me to obey laws that I didn’t quite understand.
"If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain." So, I’ve decided to remain the foreign body in this flawless organism and I made these shots with an open human heart that doesn’t need any translation. I spoke with the people in my mother tongue and they spoke back in theirs. I came out with my naked soul and this nakedness was acknowledged, because there was nothing to cover anymore.