NAZIM HİKMET RICHARD DİKBAŞ
“In my dream, they were holding something called ‘Scissors Day,’ and I was required to attend. (…)”
Gülçin Aksoy 03.12.2014, Twitter
Censorship –the restriction imposed on a form of communication by a power group using the means at its disposal– can sometimes take the shape of a “founding censorship” so deeply rooted that society comes to see it as part of its own identity. At other times, as we have seen increasingly in recent years, it emerges in new forms, crafted by governments to suit their interests amid changing social conditions. It restricts, it judges, it punishes.
The Susma Platform’s 2024 report offers numerous examples of censorship.
There, we see that censorship can be as crude and blunt as a district municipality canceling an exhibition in a space it “owns,” citing “scheduling conflicts” due to a dinner for muhtars (elected neighborhood administrators). It can also be long-term and systematic, serving the evolving, intensifying, and targeted strategic goals of the government. At times, it takes the form of shutting down a radio station simply to avoid any confrontation with the shameful chapters of this land’s history, or blocking exhibitions that allow the LGBTI+ movement to share its own narrative and gain strength. It may even aim to restrict how sexuality and gender are understood and expressed, keeping them confined within the government’s increasingly narrow framework.
In addition to de facto bans, the instrumentalization of the law to target artistic output is another widely used form of censorship today, as those whose expressions have been censored often find themselves in court. Yet one of the most powerful ways censorship operates is through the gradual imposition of restraints on the minds and actions of individuals, groups, and ultimately society itself – in other words, through the birth, growth, and spread of self-censorship from person to person, from community to community. So where exactly is self-censorship born? At what moments does it take root and develop? And in response, what kind of consciousness and awareness must we cultivate to dismantle it and prevent its spread? What can be done?
Although I don’t believe the arts can be easily separated from one another, let us, for the sake of this article’s framing, focus on how visual art is “created” today. By understanding the process and environment in which art is produced, we can begin to see where self-censorship enters the equation – where it weakens the will, and where it silences. I say ‘where’ because, along the roadmap of creation, self-censorship as a counter-act occupies both a moment and a specific place. While it tells the artistic impulse— which seeks what has not yet been discovered, spoken, or depicted – “do not discover, do not speak, let it remain hidden,” it too is an act: the result of a decision, or more often a series of decisions. It is a personal, collective, and societal state of being stifled that grows with each repetition of that series.
Where do the sources of creativity lie? Is the source for visual artists found in the visual language that surrounds them, one they learn, practice, and reshape with their own contributions? We’re always talking about the myth of “finding inspiration,” perhaps sensing where it comes from without being able to describe it precisely. Where does inspiration lie? We say, “I was inspired,” but where do these creative breezes blow from? Our breath? “Come back to the concrete world,” I can hear you saying. Yes, freedom, a free society, is the condition of creativity. An artist can only learn, explore, experiment –in other words, create– in a free society. But a free society is not a given. Freedom, the essential condition, the primary environment and material, is something that must be constantly fought for. It demands ongoing struggle.
Creativity and self-censorship at a conceptual crossroads
What do artists call themselves these days? I’m not asking what they say to themselves in private –that’s something I will come back to– but rather, what term they use to describe themselves publicly. Both “contemporary art” and “modern art” are well-established labels. Some prefer “visual arts” as a broader term, one that includes both the contemporary and the non- contemporary, allowing them to avoid being confined to a single era. It is a way of laying claim to all artistic periods in a time when humanity seems poised to discard not only its past, but possibly its final generations as well.
All of these terms can be useful at times, but I would like to return to the term “conceptual art.” It may feel a bit passé or somewhat outdated in 2025, but it still maintains meaningful connections with other independent creative fields. “Conceptual art” is a term I have always advocated for defining more thoroughly, expanding, and applying across all branches of the arts.
In fact, it complements the word “art” more effectively than the suffix “-ist,” which can sometimes distort the meaning of what we are trying to express and, at other times, just sound slightly off. For instance, when we refer to a “contemporary artist,” we might simply mean that they are our contemporary. When we say “modern artist,” we risk overlooking those whose relevance has endured across centuries. Meanwhile, “visual artist” falls short of capturing the full spectrum of artistic practice, as many artists work with sound, touch, even scent. By contrast, the term “conceptual artist” clearly signals that the work is grounded in ideas, that its process, form, and spirit draw their strength from the conceptual stage and from the relationships between concepts. This is the point from which we can begin to evaluate today’s art and artists, to locate them on maps that are burning on all sides, and to assess their relationship to self-imposed limitations – self-censorship– which is, after all, the central concern of this article. Just as creativity is nourished by the conceptual stage, it is also where the traces of self-censorship can be most clearly seen.
When working not just as a field but as a collective, how do artists think, how do they feel, what do they do through reflection, and what do they do with their emotions? How do they find their point of orientation, what we have called concepts in this text? How do they move across whatever forms they work in – painting, sculpture, video, installations, magazines, letters, writing? Can we detect self-censorship, can we pinpoint it at certain moments, curves, breaks, or slips in this movement, even if we can’t document it in a report?
As soon as it began to question itself and to encompass the shifting appearances, cadences, techniques, and ultimately the mediums of the modern world, art made one of its most radical and ambitious moves toward freedom and independence in relation to its “subject.” Art would no longer submit to the imposition of a fixed subject, a limited range of renditions, or a prescribed mode of interpretation. A landscape could now also be –or be about– mental illness. A massive collage was undoubtedly a reflection of consumer society, but it simultaneously proposed a new thesis and practice in color theory. No one could argue that a few minutes of silence wasn’t art; and indeed, we still speak of it with reverence for its depiction of infinity in a pure medium, and for the layered presence, change, and persistence of truths that can only be grasped through abstraction in every realm of life. Art would no longer allow anyone to dictate what it could or could not do.
An autopsy of self-censorship
Former hierarchies between subjects and themes imposed on art by power groups external to it were thus dismantled. Through its magnificent destructive force, art ultimately claimed its freedom. In doing so, every hidden element –long embedded in the fabric of life– emerged as a valid subject of artistic exploration. Put simply: no part of life’s diversity could any longer be deemed off-limits for art. Art placed at the very center of its practice the determination to reject authoritarian censorship, any form of power that sought to dictate what it could or could not do. While this radical act of liberation laid the foundation for the rich variety of visual languages and media in contemporary art, that diversity is a result –not the source– of this breakthrough. We must be careful not to mistake the appearance of diversity for genuine freedom and independence.
Today, when we perform an autopsy on art –weakened, stifled, and ultimately killed by self-censorship– the first thing we find damaged is this radical freedom. While art had once claimed the freedom to choose its own subject, forge its own connections, and select its own materials, under sustained pressure it began to settle into a conceptual world that it had either constructed itself or inherited – one that had ceased to grow or evolve. It sacrificed its destructiveness. In limiting itself, in repeating itself without producing anything new, it began to rot and collapse. This also amounts to a betrayal, an abandonment of the rebellious, radical, and independent legacy of art I have tried to briefly outline above.
In the case of an artist who, under prevailing social conditions, sets out never to challenge any form of authority –old or new– and who becomes a vehicle for both the government’s agenda and their own interests as aligned with power, it would be almost misleading to speak of art or self-censorship. The only reasonable response is to distance ourselves from such artists, who eagerly present their “beautiful” works for use in government propaganda at every opportunity. What we are trying to understand and dismantle is the condition of the artist who, in the very act of creating art, interrupts themselves, holds back, and retreats. Of course, there is always a learning dimension: art is undoubtedly a lifelong process of learning from the world, from other artists, and through self-instruction – a process that might even be considered a definition of art itself. Thus, identifying the points where self-censorship infiltrates the discourse and practice of the educator/artist is another crucial dimension of the autopsy of self-censorship.
These are the clues that help us map out self-censorship, sometimes even in our own actions. We can trace it whenever we avoid taking a new step, refrain from asking a new question, and continue to repeat what we have done before within an unchallenged network of relationships. So, where can we observe maps of self-censorship? In the work of an artist whose early output was full of curiosity and the thrill of discovery, but who, a decade or two later, continues to produce similar work within the “same” conceptual framework, using the same materials and touch. Yet of course, the framework is no longer the same: the conceptual lens that once helped interpret and shape a personal or historical moment has fallen out of step with time; it has expired. There may be many reasons behind this kind of self- censorship, akin to pulling one’s own brakes. Perhaps the artist’s early work became “popular,” gained recognition within a particular social discourse, and they are reluctant to give up that position. Or perhaps the artist has come to realize that the drive that once powered their work could now land them in trouble. To mention an exception: Could an artist become aware that they are hitting the brakes, and incorporate that very act of restraint into their work? Of course they could. That would mean forging a new conceptual framework, one that creates its own terms. But for such a move to take place, certain conditions must be met – conditions for an art that cannot be defeated by self-censorship: namely, remaining critical, questioning oneself, and never surrendering that critical stance for the sake of any other consideration.
In lieu of a conclusion: When it smells like censorship
Let’s return to the dream my dear friend Gülçin had, and to the tweet she posted about it, the one I quoted at the beginning of this article (yes, there once was a place called Twitter, where censorship, both domestic and international, could be at least partially circumvented). First, let’s take a look at the full tweet, which I previously quoted only in part: “In my dream, they were holding something called ‘Scissors Day,’ and I was required to attend. Is that the smell of censorship? Let’s hope for the best…”
There is a day of festivity, and the artist who dreams it is required to attend. This forced inclusion is, in fact, one of the most insidious aspects of censorship.
Upon waking, she senses the trap, detects the smell of censorship, and feels uneasy (perhaps Gülçin meant to write fear of censorship rather than smell –korkusu instead of kokusu– but I’ll keep it as she posted it). For one of the most disturbing parts of the story is that the censorship regime presents its oppressive universe as a celebration, as a form of salvation. With her words, “Let’s hope for the best,” Gülçin signals her readiness to resist and makes it clear she won’t surrender to the threat of self-censorship, something that has reached her subconscious, but which she defies by recounting her symbolic dream to the world. To borrow Aslı Odman’s phrase, she asserts her right “not to ride on the train of the powerful.” In that spirit, let this be our principle against censorship and self-censorship: we will not attend any Scissors Days; we will rock the boat instead.