Making the Modern Turkish Citizen: Vernacular Photography in the Early Republican Era 9780755643271, 9780755643301, 9780755643288

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MAKING THE MODERN TURKISH CITIZEN

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MAKING THE MODERN TURKISH CITIZEN

Vernacular Photography in the Early Republican Era

Özge Baykan Calafato

I.B. TAURIS Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA 29 Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin 2, Ireland BLOOMSBURY, I.B. TAURIS and the I.B. Tauris logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2022 Copyright © Özge Baykan Calafato, 2022 Özge Baykan Calafato has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. For legal purposes the Acknowledgments on pp. x–xii constitute an extension of this copyright page. Cover design by Catherine Wood Cover image: Portrait of Nebahat Karaorman, photo Courtesy of Akkasah. (© Photography archive at al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art, New York University Abu Dhabi) All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. ISBN: HB: 978-0-7556-4327-1 ePDF: 978-0-7556-4328-8 eBook: 978-0-7556-4329-5 Typeset by Integra Software Services Pvt. Ltd. To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com and sign up for our newsletters.

CONTENTS ­List of Figures A ­ cknowledgments

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Introduction Identity and Nation-Building in the Early Republican Era Corpus Selection and Approach Th ­ eoretical Framework Chapter Outline

1 7 16 18 25

P ­ art I PHOTOGRAPHY, GENDER, AND MODERNITY Chapter ­1

The Construction of the New Turkish Woman35 From Subjects to Citizens: Creating the Modern Turkish Woman 36 Women in the Public Sphere 42 Unresolved Femininity: The Case of a Beauty Queen 50 Reading Gender 56 ­Conclusion 60 Chapter ­2

Modern Turkish Masculinities63 The Joyful Soldier 64 The Gentleman 72 The Modern Husband, the Modern Father 77 Modern Forms of Gender Play 89 Conclusion93 P ­ art II THE MAKING OF THE MODERN BODY Chapter ­3

Pose, Posture, and Props as Worldmaking97 Modernizing the Pose: From the Ottoman Empire to the Republic 99 Playing with the Pose 106 Conclusion111

Contents

vi Chapter ­4

The Bodies of the Republic113 Sports Photographs: A New Republican Corporeal Aesthetic 114 Educating Bodies: 19 May Celebrations 118 Framing Turkish Womanhood and Manhood: Lohusa and Sünnet 121 Conclusion125 P ­ art III PHOTOGRAPHY AND SPACE-MAKING Chapter ­5

Photography’s Domestication129 ­Photography, Urban Memory, and Nation-Building: Izmir’s Hamza Rüstem Studio 133 Democratizing the Studio Space: Alaminüt Photography 139 Conclusion146 P ­ art IV PHOTOGRAPHY, MATERIALITY, AND LANGUAGE Chapter ­6

Disseminating Citizenship151 The Curious Case of Şükrü Bey 151 Circulating Memory through Photographs 160 Candid, Cordial, and Courteous: Captions for Lifeless Shadows 165 Conclusion173 Conclusion

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Notes181 R ­ eferences 202 Index227

­LIST OF FIGURES 0.1 and 0.2 (recto and verso) A couple posing in a hall, 1941 2 0.3 Atatürk dancing the tango with his adopted daughter Nebile, 1929 4 0.4 An advertisement for Kodak, 1929, Cumhuriyet11 0.5 A Kodak camera advertisement, 1930, Cumhuriyet12 0.6 A Bioks toothpaste advertisement, 1931, Cumhuriyet12 0.7 An advertisement for Exakta cameras, 1937, Cumhuriyet13 0.8 A Kodak advertisement for a photography competition, 1931, Cumhuriyet14 0.9 The winners of the photography contest, 1938, Akşam15 1.1 A studio portrait, Photo Iris, Istanbul, circa 1920s 30 1.2 A studio portrait, Sébah and Joaillier, Istanbul, circa 1920s 30 1.3 A studio portrait, Jules Kanzler, Istanbul, circa 1920s 30 1.4 A studio portrait, Jules Kanzler, Istanbul, circa 1920s 30 1.5 A studio portrait, Photo Français, Istanbul, circa 1920s 31 1.6 A studio portrait, Foto S. Süreyya, Istanbul, circa 1920s–1930s 31 1.7 and 1.8 (recto and verso) A family portrait, 1920 36–7 1.9 and 1.10 (recto and verso) A studio portrait, signed by “Bedriye,” 1929 40 1.11 and 1.12 (recto and verso) Darülfünun Geography Class, 1919 43–4 1.13 A group portrait, circa 1930s 45 1.14 and 1.15 (recto and verso) Naşide Saffet Hanım, Turkish beauty queen of 1931 50 1.16 Cumhuriyet announces the dedicated photo studios for its beauty contest, 1930 52 1.17 An article promoting Cumhuriyet’s beauty contest, 1932 54 1.18 Outside the Çapa Teachers’ School, 1934 57 1.19 A portrait of Halide Edib 59 2.1 and 2.2 (recto and verso) A young man in a military uniform, 1934 65–6 2.3 and 2.4 (recto and verso) A portrait of a soldier, 1939 68–9 2.5 An aviation officer, 1935 70 2.6 and 2.7 Three men sitting on a bench, Istanbul, 1929 73 2.8 A family portrait, Foto Refik, Balıkesir, 1939 78 2.9 and 2.10 A portrait of a couple, Türk Foto Evi, Istanbul, 1934 79 2.11 and 2.12 (recto and verso) A portrait of a couple, Foto Rekor, Istanbul, 1933 80–1

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­List of Figure

2.13 and 2.14 (recto and verso) A wedding portrait, Türk Fotoğrafevi, Istanbul, 1934 82 2.15 and 2.16 (recto and verso) A portrait of a couple, Sebah Joaye, Istanbul, 1939 83 2.17 A hand-colored individual portrait, December 18, 1940 90 3.1 A studio portrait of a couple, circa 1930s 98 3.2 A woman poses next to a car, circa 1930s 102 3.3 and 3.4 (recto and verso) A woman named Bedia poses outdoors, 1931 104 3.5 and 3.6 (recto and verso) Bedia, seated, 1931 105 3.7 and 3.8 (recto and verso) Two men posing indoors, August 5, 1931 107 3.9 Four girls posing outdoors, 1937 108 3.10 and 3.11 (recto and verso) Three men posing with flowers, February 12, 1940 109 4.1 and 4.2 (recto and verso) Balıkesir İdmangücü athletic team, Izmir, 1931 114–15 4.3 A group of schoolgirls in sports clothes 119 4.4 An article on 19 May celebrations, 1937, Cumhuriyet120 4.5 An image of schoolgirls performing at 19 May Celebrations, 1939. La Turquie kémaliste120 4.6 A childbed picture 122 4.7 A boy sitting in a bed decorated for a circumcision ceremony 123 5.1 and 5.2 (recto and verso) A multigenerational family portrait 130 5.3 An advertisement for Kodak and Velox, 1929, Son Saat140 5.4 An advertisement for Kodak, Velox, and Minoteros, 1929, Milliyet141 5.5 A negative print of a group at a picnic spot, circa 1930s 144 5.6 A positive print of Figure 5.5, circa 1930s 145 6.1 A studio portrait, 1927 153 6.2 A studio portrait. Geyve muavin, February 26, Sivrihisar 153 6.3 A studio portrait. Burdur muavin, 1927 153 6.4 A studio portrait. Denizli Çal muavin, 1927 153 6.5 A studio portrait. Registrar at Yenişehir Banking School, Ankara, 1927 154 6.6 A studio portrait. İçel muavin, Ankara, 1927 154 6.7 A studio portrait. Şarköy muavin, Ankara, 1927 154 6.8 A studio portrait. Bozkır muavin, 1927 154 6.9 and 6.10 (recto and verso) A studio portrait, Erdek, 1923/1924 155 6.11 A studio portrait. Ereğli muavin, 1927 155 6.12 A studio portrait, Ankara, 1927 155 6.13 A studio portrait, 1927 156 6.14 A studio portrait, Ankara, 1927 156

­List of Figure

6.15 and 6.16 (recto and verso) A studio portrait. Akçaabat muavin, 1927 6.17 A studio portrait. Erbaa muavin, 1927 6.18 A studio portrait. Çorlu Ziraat Bank muavin, 1927 6.19 A studio portrait. Karacasu muavin, 1927 6.20 A studio portrait. Kangri (Çankırı) muavin, 1927 6.21 A studio portrait. Taşköprü muavin, 1927 6.22 and 6.23 (recto and verso) A studio portrait. İnegöl Registrar Zekeriya Bey 6.24 and 6.25 (recto and verso) A studio portrait of a woman, 1935 6.26 and 6.27 (recto and verso) A man in a sickbed, Balıkesir, 1934 7.1 A medical student behind an autopsy table, 1941

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156 157 157 157 157 158 158 169 170 176

­ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This book, based on my PhD thesis, is the result of a unique journey that helped me discover and reconnect with a rich social history that belongs to the geographies in which I grew up. First and foremost, I owe the greatest debt to my supervisors Luiza Bialasiewicz and Esther Peeren. I am deeply grateful for their invaluable intellectual guidance, moral support, and encouragement at every stage of my PhD. I also thank Christoph Lindner, who supported my research project and guided me through the first phases of the dissertation. I would like to thank the members of my doctoral committee, Joan M. Schwartz, Karène Sanchez Summerer, Julia Noordegraaf, Guido Snel, and Uğur Ümit Üngör. I am deeply grateful for the generous institutional support I received from the Amsterdam School for Cultural Analysis (ASCA) and the University of Amsterdam. In particular, I would like to thank Eloe Kingma from ASCA, Hotze Mulder from the Dean’s Office, and Astrit Blommestijn from the Amsterdam Institute for Humanities Research for their support and assistance. My research primarily drew on Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art at the New York University Abu Dhabi (NYUAD), along with a number of other archives and libraries, and was facilitated by the generous support of a large network of colleagues, family, and friends. First, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Akkasah’s director Shamoon Zamir, who supported me at every stage of this research. I would like to thank Salwa Mikdadi, the Director of al Mawrid, which Akkasah has been a part of since 2020. Along with Shamoon Zamir and Salwa Mikdadi, I am grateful to the wonderful Akkasah team that I had the privilege to be part of between 2014 and 2020, including Jasmine Soliman, Jonathan Burr, Jennifer Sumner, and all the student assistants, including Yağmur Ünal, Lusine Yeghiazaryan, and Aygül Sayapova. I am especially thankful to Jonathan Burr, who spotted the very photograph that helped me unearth Nebahat Hâmit Karaorman’s story. The NYUAD community, particularly my colleagues and friends at the NYUAD Library, including Ginny Danielson, inspired this research in countless ways. I am indebted to Zeynep Devrim Gürsel, whose invaluable advice opened up a new perspective on the way I study photography. I would like to thank Engin Özendes, Lucie Ryzova, Elizabeth Edwards, Geoffrey Batchen, Sibel Bozdoğan, Edhem Eldem, Nancy Micklewright, Issam Nassar, Murat C. Yıldız, Hale Yılmaz, Tanıl Bora, Stephen Sheehi, Costanza Caraffa, Joan M. Schwartz, Karène Sanchez Summerer, Rıfat Bali, Sary Zananiri, Dimitris Kamouzis, Enis Dinç, Selen Akçalı, Pelin Aytemiz, Ahmet Yıldız, Deepali Dewan, Ahmet Ersoy, Deniz Türker, Saadet Özen, Lukas Birk, Ayşegül Yaraman, and Shahidul Alam, whose work and advice I greatly benefitted from in shaping this research. I want to thank Onursal Erol,

­Acknowledgment

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whose meticulous feedback offered the much-needed support at the final stages of preparing the manuscript. I am deeply grateful to Mert Rüstem for generously sharing his family history. I thank Orhan Cem Çetin and Yusuf Murat Şen, who kindly shared their expertise on the photographic histories of Turkey. I want to acknowledge Maya Röder, Tuba Biret Burkett, Enno Maessen, Ahmed Nuri, Inessa Kouteinikova, Walter Feldman, Raees Calafato, Aynur Saygın, Kıvanç Aköz, Nurçin İleri, Sary Zananiri, Yasser Alwan, Erdem Çolak, Melitte Buchman, and Christina Sanoudou for their critical readings of various chapters and their guidance. They, together with other wonderful friends, including Ebru Üner Taşar, Banu Üner, Ömer Üner, Yusuf Ertaç Taşar, Su Başbuğu, Hande Ortaç, Tuğba Çelik, Engin Türkgeldi, Mevsim Yenice, Ruggero Calich, Edibe Saraç, Fariba Sumanska, Karolina Abbas, Nada Baroudy, Cindi Rowell, Özge Esma Talaş, and Borga Kantürk, have patiently answered my questions to help me interpret the photographs I study. I would like to thank Alexis Gambis not only for his constructive comments on the manuscript but also for his constant support throughout this journey. I am grateful to Alia Yunis for her continuous guidance and friendship. The Library Research Grant I received from the Getty Research Institute (GRI) to study the Pierre de Gigord collection provided me an invaluable intellectual environment for shaping this research. I would like to thank Frances Terpak, the Head of the Department of Photographs and Optical Devices, along with the wonderful GRI team for their help and guidance. Equally important was the fellowship I received from the Netherlands Institute in Turkey (NIT) in Istanbul. I am grateful to director Fokke Gerritsen and the NIT team for welcoming me to the Institute’s dynamic community. I would also like to thank the teams at Salt Research, the Developing Room at Rutgers University, the Koç University Research Center for Anatolian Civilizations (ANAMED), and Boğaziçi University’s Archives and Documentation Center, whose collaborations and contributions have been instrumental for this study. I thank Amy Cox Hall, the editor of The Camera as Actor (Routledge, 2020), for her detailed feedback on my article focusing on Turkey’s itinerant photographers, a version of which is part of Chapter 5 of this book. At I.B. Tauris, I would like to thank Rory Gormley who welcomed the manuscript and guided me through the review and publication process. I am grateful to him, along with Yasmin Garcha and the editorial team at I.B. Tauris, as well as the reviewers of the manuscript for their constructive feedback. I would like to thank Nurçin İleri and Ebru Aykut for their expert translations from Ottoman Turkish into modern Turkish and English. I am indebted to Roza Hakmen for her masterful translations of a number of Turkish texts into English, as well as several Ladino texts on photographic prints into Turkish. I am also grateful for the help I received from İrfan Çağatay Aleksiva and Vahit Tursun regarding the translation and transliteration of the photographic inscriptions in Pontic Greek. Over the past six years, this research has offered me a unique chance to reflect on the journey that my family took when they emigrated from Kosovo to Turkey during the 1912–13 Balkan Wars. During this emotional journey, Dokufest’s artistic director Veton Nurkollari remained a great mentor and inspiration. I would like to thank him and Prizren’s amazing Dokufest team. I am deeply grateful to

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­Acknowledgment

my dear friends Thomas Huisman, Nur Özgenalp, Aylin Kuryel, Gözde Onaran, Aslı Özgen, Canan Maraşlıgil, Judith Naeff, Aslıhan Gürbüzel, Alev Berberoğlu, Nezar Andary, Maartje Alders, Vigen Galstyan, Iris Elezi, Enise Şeyda Kapusuz, Özgül Özdemir, Kıvanç Koçak, Ece Boyacıoğlu, Aude Aylin de Tapia, Elif RongenKaynakçı, Nedim Bali, and Sarp Keskiner, who helped and supported me both intellectually and emotionally in so many ways throughout this journey. A milestone in my life was joining the photography magazine Geniş Açı in 1999. The editors of the magazine, my two dear friends Refik Akyüz and Serdar Darendeliler, have always been in my life since then and continued to support me during this study. I thank them and the whole Geniş Açı family, which kept growing and helped me grow over the years. Last but not least, I would like to thank my mother, Yasemin Topçu, who has supported me and my research in all possible ways. With her resourcefulness and her profound knowledge of modern Turkish history and literature, she also helped me decipher the images that unfolded some of the key stories in this book. This book is dedicated to her. This book is supported by Tamkeen under the NYU Abu Dhabi Research Institute Award CG006 and al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art.

I N T R O DU C T IO N

Everything started with this photograph. I found it in an antique shop opposite the historical Kızlarağası Han in central Izmir and had the immediate urge to purchase it from the shop owner, who, with a look of arrogance, nearly refused to sell it to me. He had bought it at an auction and wanted to make sure I was worthy of becoming its future owner. My fascination with the image stopped me from arguing any further. This was the only item I bought from him that day; little did I know that this transaction would initiate a long journey of serendipitous discoveries and academic challenges. I was attracted by the naïve, shy smile of the young man holding the hand of a young woman who looks slightly embarrassed; the delicate smile on the woman’s face as she looks off camera; an audience consisting of four young ladies in the background; an empty hall decorated with colored glass; a sunny garden outside; and the gaze of the photographer, trying to center the two in such a way as to create the perfect composition. But what really drew me into this photograph was not what it revealed but rather the succinct handwritten note on the reverse that read: “The sweetest days of life.” Printed as a Ferrania postcard, a commonly used print brand at the time, the photograph is dated May 1, 1941, with an additional note (Figure 0.2) saying “My trip.”1 Decades after it was taken, I am now looking at this image, capturing the “sweetest” time in the life of this person. This image was not meant for me; I was certainly not given permission to see it. I am a well-intentioned intruder, an unvetted bystander. As I inspect the photograph, I catch myself making assumptions about its protagonists, their lives, and the message that inscribes them. I assume that the “sweetest days” are those of the young man as he is right in the center, looking into the camera/at the photographer, carefully posing for the occasion, like a movie star. The young woman, on the other hand, is either too shy to look into the camera or fully aware of her staged artistic posture. This does not rule out, however, that she could be the one who scribbled these words, identifying the sweetest time of her life. What is the relationship between this man and woman? There’s a shiny spot on the young man’s left ring finger, which could be a wedding ring. Are they a couple, perhaps newlyweds, on a trip? The photograph could have been taken

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Figures 0.1 and 0.2  (recto and verso) A couple posing in a hall, May 1, 1941. 8.5 × 13.3 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

outside Izmir or somewhere in the city. Looking at the tables outside, the setting is possibly a tea garden. The small stage on the right could indicate that there is occasionally live music. Is this a gazebo at one of the Ottoman kiosks? Or are they in a private club?

Introduction

3

It is striking that the note refers to “life” rather than “our life,” and to “my trip” rather than “our trip.” Similarly, unlike many portraits of the era that are addressed to other family members, particularly in-laws, the note on this photograph is a stand-alone statement, almost a “note to self,” a private memory. What defines a moment as the “sweetest time” of one’s life? What makes one describe a photographed moment as such, and for whom? I ask myself who was supposed to see this image, and wonder about the path through space and time that brought it to an antique shop in Izmir. Three years after I purchased it, this image became the impetus for my research. The motivations behind this were not very different from why I was drawn to the image in the first place: I chose the photograph both for its aesthetic appeal and for the unique historical moment that it evokes. Dated from the year 1941, the photograph resonates with many of the tensions of the social and political context of the time. Three years after the death of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, Turkey continued to be run by a one-party regime under the RPP, the Republican People’s Party (CHP, Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi). Under İsmet İnönü’s presidency, Turkey, which remained neutral until the last stages of the Second World War, was under strong political and economic pressure, trying to safeguard Kemalist reforms from earlier decades while pushing against growing opposition in the country. Despite these tensions, Kemalist ideology continued to nevertheless permeate the political agenda, focusing on the promotion of Westernization, secularism, science, and modern education. From their fashionable suits and long pearl necklaces to their exquisite hairdos, the women in Figure 0.1 demonstrate the modern look the Kemalists strived for. The emancipation of women was deemed particularly important for the Kemalist revolution, which aimed to raise the nation above “the level of contemporary civilizations” (muasır medeniyetler seviyesi) following the popular motto of the early years of the Republic. For the regime, the emancipation of women meant their (at times mandatory) participation in the public sphere, which required “taking off the veil, establishing compensatory coeducation, granting women’s suffrage, and the social mixing of men and women” (Göle 1996: 86). The ballroom dancing pose of the couple in Figure 0.1 reminded me, indeed, of the iconic photograph of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk dancing the tango with his adopted daughter Nebile (Bayyurt) at her wedding at Ankara Palas in 1929 (Figure 0.3).2 In the early Republican era, ballroom dancing stood as a marker of modernity, civility, and social progress. As mixed-gender socialization and entertainment became more common, participation in Republic balls (Cumhuriyet Baloları) and dance parties became a status symbol for the emerging middle classes. What might have inspired the dancing pose in Figure  0.1? The photograph appears to have been taken in a city setting, providing a glimpse into the social life of a nascent Turkish urban middle class. The people in the photograph may only be emulating this encouraged European lifestyle without having the means to afford it, but even so, they are posing for a still image that complies with the ideals that the new Republic wanted to uphold. With its modern urban décor and its showcasing of novel modes and mores of social life, as well as shifting gender roles, this single image can be seen in many ways as a stage for the performance

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Figure 0.3  Atatürk dancing the tango with his adoptive daughter Nebile at her wedding in Ankara Palas, February 27, 1929, Milliyet, Istanbul University Library

of modernity and happiness, the latter being a state that the elites of the Republic believed could only be achieved in a Westernized society in which the visibility of men and women was equally important. The photograph discovered in the antique shop emblematizes the subject of this book, which studies the self-representation of the developing Turkish urban middle classes through vernacular photography in the 1920s and 1930s. In particular, I

Introduction

5

examine the relationship between photography, nation-building, and identity formation, focusing specifically on the evolution of photographic representations and their relation to the Turkish modernization project in the early Republican years. This study aims to scrutinize the role of middle-class representations in the making of the modern Turkish citizen, in order to demonstrate the classed and gendered nature of the emerging new and Republican Turkish identity. I intend to show how urban middle-class men and women used photography to construct a modern identity, and how this identity was negotiated in relation to the desired citizen image propagated by the Kemalist state. Recognizing gender, body, space, and language as four focal points for the construction of the modern Turkish citizen, I look at how the relationship between photography, gender (Chapters 1 and 2), body (Chapters 3 and 4), space (Chapter 5), and language (Chapter 6) contributed in important ways to the making of the new Turkish nation. By identifying the common genres, patterns, and practices that emerged in vernacular portraiture and its circulation (Chapter 6), I furthermore attempt to draw attention to some of the key components that made up the dynamic photographic culture of those decades. Finally, throughout the chapters, I show how photographic practices evolved in the context of wider global sociopolitical changes in the 1920s and 1930s in order to probe how these broader shifts also contributed to the shaping of modern Turkish identity. In influential studies of Turkey’s political, economic, and social history, the early Republic period features prominently.3 However, there is still a lack of research focusing on the relationship between photography, social memory, and visual culture in this period. On the one hand, popular newspapers of the time such as Cumhuriyet, Akşam, Son Posta, and Milliyet, which promoted the state’s discourses on modernization and Westernization, give a rather distinct image of Turkish society, mostly confined to the ruling elites.4 On the other hand, the Turkish cinema industry, known as Yeşilçam, would not start to flourish until the late 1940s and early 1950s.5 In this context, vernacular photography, which remains a niche area of academic research in Turkey, provides a different, more quotidian and less institutional perspective on the modernization processes of the early Republic. The wealth of vernacular material from those years available in antique markets and in collections offers a fascinating lens into the daily lives of people in the young Turkish Republic. The “ordinariness” of these images, which were part of people’s everyday lives, is what makes them a great resource for rethinking not only the history of Turkish modernity but also the history of photography in Turkey. Yet, for extensive periods of time, no great value was attributed to these photographs, so much so that they were thrown away and ended up circulating in the market for low prices. Indeed, it is only recently that they have started to evoke the interest of collectors and researchers. The timing of this study therefore corresponds also to a rising interest in vernacular photography, particularly in Turkey. Nevertheless, this interdisciplinary research, drawing on a range of fields, including photography theory, gender studies, cultural studies, visual anthropology, and urban studies, constitutes one of the first attempts to present a cultural analysis of vernacular

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

photography from the early Turkish Republic. It supplements existing scholarship by discussing Turkish vernacular portraiture through the notions of performativity and worldmaking, while also placing a strong emphasis on the materiality of the photographs themselves. Almost a century after the foundation of the Republic, Turkish modernity and Kemalism remain widely debated subjects in politics, academic scholarship, and media accounts. Different interpretations of Kemalism continue to cause friction among political parties and various segments of Turkish society. Moreover, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and the Republican era reforms have increasingly been discussed within the context of a renewed political and cultural interest in the Ottoman Empire, particularly since the AKP (Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi, or the Justice and Development Party) under Recep Tayyip Erdoğan took power in 2002. With the spread of digital platforms, there is now more visual material available than ever before, both relating to the Ottoman era and the early Republican one, scattered across social media platforms, recycled and recontextualized according to ideological biases and often without proper references or copyright information. My research speaks also in part to this proliferation, and to the continuing resonance of late Ottoman and early Republican imagery, offering the first systematic study of vernacular photography from the 1920s and 1930s. In doing so, it aims to contribute to a deeper understanding of the construction of modern Turkish identity as a process that straddled official, commercial, and everyday spheres. In addition, by including detailed lists of references, I intend to provide a substantial literature review on photography from the late Ottoman and early Republican periods. At the same time, I aim to contribute not only to the study of the making of Turkish modernity specifically, but also to the history of vernacular photography more broadly, by investigating frequently photographed events, such as sports activities and circumcision ceremonies (Chapter  4), and distinct photographic representations pertinent to the Turkish context, such as the transition from fezes to European style hats (Chapter 2). Early Republican era vernacular photographs demonstrate a great diversity of representations that are absent from the official imagery of the regime disseminated through the press and in propaganda films. Looking at this diversity will contribute to reaching a broader understanding of the impact of ongoing political and social changes on the lives of the middle classes, and of how they saw and wanted to present themselves, privately and publicly. The main set of photographs I analyze is sourced from the Turkey Collection, which I built for Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art, New York University Abu Dhabi (NYUAD), between 2014 and 2018.6 The collection includes more than 17,000 images from the late Ottoman era and the modern Turkish Republic (from the 1910s to the 1990s). It is primarily composed of individual and group portraits taken by studio and itinerant photographers, as well as amateur snapshots taken in a wide range of social settings. After buying these photographs from secondhand booksellers and antique dealers, I was also involved in cataloguing them. This study builds its argument around the detailed analysis of 60 photographs from the Akkasah collection.

Introduction

7

Identity and Nation-Building in the Early Republican Era The early Republican period has been defined and redefined in scholarly works and is typically seen as starting in 1923, the year the Republic was established, and running through the 1930s until the end of the single-party period (1923–45) or the end of the RPP rule (1923–50).7 The period between 1923 and 1950 was marked by the Kemalist ideology and policies of the RPP until it lost in elections to the right-wing Democrat Party in 1950. Having abolished the Caliphate in 1924, the RPP introduced a series of reforms, including the Turkish civil code in 1926, the adoption of the Latin script in 1928 and full universal suffrage for women in 1934. Serpil Sancar (2017) calls the era from the mid-nineteenth century to the midtwentieth century the “early modernization” period, marked by constant tensions between the modern (asrîlik) and the national (millîlik), which would evolve into a period of conservative modernization in the 1940s and 1950s. Studying the formation of Turkish national identity in the Kemalist era, Ahmet Yıldız (1998) divides the period between 1919 and 1938 into three parts and shows that, in the first period (1919–24), Turkish national identity predominantly showed a religious character. The second period (1924–29) demonstrated a radical rupture from the religious definition with the adoption of Republicanism and was concerned with achieving unity in “language, culture and ideal” (Yıldız 1998: 377). In the third period (1929–38), Kemalism adopted an “ethnicist” approach with racial motives, emphasizing the importance of unity in “language, culture and blood” (Yıldız 1998: 418). These social and political developments under single party rule constitute the historical framework within which I study vernacular photography. Considering the looming political and economic anxiety on the eve of the Second World War, which altered the regime’s priorities with regard to the nation-building process, as well as the rapidly changing trends in photographic technologies and practices, I limit the focus of this research to the period from the mid-1920s to the late 1930s, with a few excursions to later periods, such as in my discussion of Figure  0.1 from 1941, to better demonstrate some of the particularities of Turkish family photography. In Becoming Turkish, which looks at how nationalist reforms were negotiated in the society of the early Republic, Hale Yılmaz (2013: 181) points out that for the nationalist leadership that established modern Turkey there was a strong desire to break with the Ottoman past and Ottoman identity in order to be able “to create a new secular nation and state with its own legitimating ideology, traditions, and institutions.” A “collective amnesia” (Anderson 1991) was necessary for the regime to be able to build a collective memory that would tie modern Turkish citizens to their new nation. The efforts to achieve such a collective amnesia were aided by the traumatic impact of the war, which provided a shared social and psychological context for citizens to be “more receptive to state-initiated changes than would otherwise have been the case” (Yılmaz 2013: 169). Since the 1960s, however, revisionist scholars such as Erik-Jan Zürcher (1991, 1992, 2004, 2008, 2010), Feroz Ahmad (1993, 2003), Şükrü Hanioğlu (1995), and

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Şerif Mardin (1991, 2000 [1962]) have increasingly emphasized the continuities between late Ottoman era reforms and the Kemalist revolution. In The Ottoman Legacy of the Turkish Republic: An Attempt at a New Periodization, Zürcher (1992) draws strong parallels between the Young Turks era (1908–1918) and the early history of “new” Turkey, which he defines as the period between 1918 and 1945. Similar to the Young Turks, he argues, the Kemalist elites were primarily concerned with “saving the state,” finding the solution in the modernization and secularization of society through the power of education. They believed in the active role of the state as a catalyst for modernization and progress (Zürcher 1992). In line with Zürcher’s approach, my study underlines the continuities between the Westernization and modernization reforms in the late Ottoman era and the policies of the Kemalist elites, rather than seeing the Turkish Republic as an absolute rupture from the Ottoman past. Correspondingly, the character of the Kemalist state has become a major point of academic debate in the past few decades. Revisionist scholars have increasingly adopted the term “reform” over “revolution” with regard to the various sociopolitical and cultural changes implemented by the Kemalist regime. Zürcher (1992: 16), for instance, argues that there never was “a Kemalist revolution (at least not a social revolution), only an attempt by the ruling military/bureaucratic elite to reshape society from above, according to a limited nineteenth-century concept of modernization.” As Yılmaz (2013) points out, in Turkish the word inkılâp was used for both reform and (nonviolent) revolution by the Kemalists. The Kemalist leadership distinguished between the terms ihtilâl, used for the French and Russian Revolutions, and inkılâp, used for the Turkish experience (Zürcher 2001 in Yılmaz 2013: 5–6). The new Turkish word for revolution, devrim, on the other hand, referred to both the Turkish experience and social revolutions elsewhere, merging ihtilâl and inkılâp in one word. In recognition of the continuities between the Young Turk and Kemalist regimes, and in an effort to avoid terminological ambiguities, I predominantly use the term “reforms” in this study. Unlike Zürcher (1992), however, I do recognize the revolutionary aspect of Kemalism in the sense that it did construct a new Turkish nation-state with a mission to change the political regime and transform society as a whole after the abolition of the Sultanate and Caliphate. Given my focus on photographic representations of the Turkish middle classes, understanding the Republic’s efforts to create a new “indigenous Turkish bourgeoisie” following the expulsion of the predominantly Christian bourgeoisie of the Ottoman Empire (Zürcher 1992: 251) and to eliminate the urban–rural divide is important for my study. As Akcan and Coşkun (2015: 9–11) explain, in the early years of the Republic, “the statist policies in economic terms went hand in hand with the discourse of creating a classless society,” which was incorporated into the principle of “populism,” one of the fundamental pillars of Kemalism. Scholars like Şerif Mardin (2003), Kemal Karpat (2010), and Nezih Neyzi (1973) have critiqued the discourse of classlessness and discussed the role of the middle class in the making of the new Turkish nation, as the reforms predominantly affected the already modernizing portion of society living in cities.

Introduction

9

In the early Republican era, a large segment of the middle class consisted of government bureaucrats, including army officials and civil servants such as teachers, lawyers, and doctors, as the state remained the principal employer. Along with newly educated young professionals, the cadres of the late Ottoman bureaucracy also became part of the new Republican middle class. The welleducated Westernized bureaucracy that formed the middle class cemented the close connection between the construction of modernity and that of social class and gender identity (Yılmaz 2013). In principle, both men and women were encouraged to participate in the public sector. However, in reality, only a small portion of professions, such as that of teacher or nurse, was deemed appropriate for women. In the early twentieth century, the rural areas, where 80  percent of the population lived, primarily consisted of peasants and craftsmen, who were culturally conservative and religious, and largely resentful of the Young Turks’ secularist policies (Zürcher 1992). In order for the new regime to be successful, the RPP had to build a nation-wide middle-class network to spread its ideology and reforms in the countryside as well as in the cities. The regime’s efforts to respond to the socioeconomic discrepancies between urban and rural Turkey intensified in the 1940s with the establishment of Village Institutes (Köy Enstitüleri) across Anatolia. Young men and women from rural areas were trained as elementary school teachers in these boarding schools with the expectation that, upon graduating, they would return to their village and spread the concepts and discoveries of modern science, technology, and progressive politics that they had been taught, in order to contribute to the social transformation of Turkey. The Institutes graduated over 25,000 people, including some 17,000 teachers, until they were shut down in 1954 due to pressure from the opposition, which labeled them “anti-Islamic” and “Communist” organizations (Dündar 2015). Mardin (1984: 217 in Yıldız 1998: 463) argues that, upon adopting the nineteenth-century Orientalist worldview of Europe that attributed the “decline” of the Ottoman Empire to Islam, Kemalist secularism aimed to liberate the individual “from the ‘oppressive’ constraints of Islam-as-culture.” The Kemalist definition of Turkishness denied both ethnic and socioeconomic differences and confined religious life “to the privacy of the individual consciousness” (Yıldız 1998: 463). As a result, ethno-secularism emerged as “the bedrock of Kemalist nationalism” (Yıldız 1998: 465). The “ethno-secular Turkish man” was defined as “the one who embraced the cause of the Republican ideal, devoted to Westernized Turkish culture, spoke Turkish and descended from Turkish origin.”8 Still, Yıldız (1998: 470) argues, “Kemalist elites envisaged an ethno-secular society melted in Turkishness, not a society based on ethnic stratification, at the top of which being Turks.” Despite the confinement of religious life to the private sphere, the secularization efforts primarily targeted the Muslim population, a policy crystallized in the reforms designed to unveil women. With this in mind, my study of vernacular photography relies on the ethno-secular definition of Turkishness, while recognizing the position of the Muslim population as the primary target of Kemalist secularization.

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

A key concern of this study lies also with how economic, technological, political, and social developments in the early Republican Period informed the formation of a new vernacular photographic culture. Similar to my acknowledgment of the continuities between the Young Turks and Kemalists in the political realm, I examine the photographic culture of the early Republican era in relation to the emergent Ottoman photography scene in the final decades of the Empire. The early Republican era corresponds to a period when well-established studio practices, which had been largely reserved for the elites in the Ottoman Empire, rapidly spread among the middle classes. Concurrently, amateur photography was becoming popular among middle-class households, enabling a wider variety of representations of Turkishness outside the studio setting. Photography arrived in the Ottoman Empire almost immediately after its invention in 1839 and was welcomed by the ruling elites, who were eager to showcase their Empire to Western audiences. Exploring the links between photography and modernity in the Ottoman Empire, in Camera Ottomana Eldem (2015: 113) notes that while “Western curiosity was most aroused by what were perceived as Orientalist or exotic elements in the Ottoman Empire,” from an Ottoman perspective, “what mattered most was to show to Western detractors that the empire was modernizing rapidly and inexorably.” This was the reason behind Sultan Abdülhamid’s commissioning of photographers such as Abdullah Frères to document the Empire. Photography in the Ottoman Empire soon became an indispensable part of everyday life, press, and the state. From images used in newspapers to postcards sent out to family members, from studio portraits that were given to friends and acquaintances as souvenirs to pictures of employees and convicts, photography was rapidly integrated into the public and private sphere (Çelik and Eldem 2015). Starting with non-Muslim photographers in commercial hubs like the Grande Rue de Pera in Istanbul and Frank Street in Izmir during the late Ottoman era, the profession became increasingly popular among Muslims, who opened studios across Turkey in the 1920s and 1930s.9 While mobile photographers managed to penetrate small towns and villages, photography primarily remained reserved for the urban upper and middle classes until the late 1930s (Ak 2001). The obligation to include a photograph in all official documents such as identity cards, marriage certificates, passports and deeds of trust contributed to the mushrooming of new studios across cities. In the Yarımay magazine dated July 15, 1937, journalist Niyazi Acun wrote that photography had already become a necessity for everyone (in Akçura 2020a). As studios multiplied and became more affordable, having one’s photograph taken increasingly became an integral part of modern life. The desire to enact and display modernity through photographs remained strong throughout the early Republican period as Turkey adopted the Young Turks’ discourses on nationalism, secularism, and positivism. Photography was utilized to endorse the RPP’s Westernization reforms in the press, which perpetuated the image of a new republic that had successfully created a modern society with images of Atatürk, Prime Minister İsmet İnönü and other RPP leaders walking proudly in chic Western suits wearing fedora hats, or of unveiled women, including Atatürk’s

Introduction

11

adopted daughters,10 in stylish dresses standing next to men. The RPP, perceiving photography as a modern tool, promoted photography education in People’s Houses (Halkevleri), which were launched across the country as part of a statesponsored “enlightenment” project in 1932 (Ak 2001; Ervin 2006).11 While the state relied on the power of photography to promote its political agenda, amateur photography progressively became a part of the everyday life of the urban elites. According to a survey by the prominent literary magazine Servet-i Fünun, there were already 150 amateur photographers in Istanbul in the 1890s (Çelik and Eldem 2015). In 1896, Servet-i Fünun organized an amateur photography competition of which the first prize was a camera (Bölük 2014: 30). Servet-i Fünun also published photos of amateur photographers and answered questions regarding photography (Bölük 2014: 31). Bölük (2014: 31) writes that 82 people participated in a photo contest that the Şehbal magazine organized in 1909. In a 1936 interview, Febüs Efendi (Bogos Tarkulyan, or Boghos Tarkoulian), the famed owner of Photo Phébus (Foto Febüs), reminisced about the old days when studio photography was a lucrative business and “the photographer was a whimsical artist whose work was exquisite” (in Akçura 2020a). He noted that before the First Constitutional Era (1876–1878) there were only five studios in Istanbul, but “that number is now around 80.” He also complained about the changing profile of his customers: “Nowadays my customers are primarily from the Turkish middle class. The rich do not come to the studio anymore: they either already have a camera, or, since they travel often, they have their pictures taken in Europe.” He added that the majority of his customers consisted of students and that the number of women customers was also increasing (in Akçura 2020a). Febüs Efendi’s interview sheds light on a period when portable consumer cameras were gaining popularity among middle-class families.12 The increase in ads for brands such as Kodak (Figures 0.4–0.6), Nori, Zeiss Ikon, and Exakta (Figure 0.7), published regularly in newspapers in the 1930s, suggests that cameras were becoming affordable and promoted as desirable consumer items for more and more urban households, similar to fridges, vacuum cleaners, gramophones,

Figure 0.4  An advertisement for Kodak claiming that a Kodak camera is the most desirable gift for Christmas and New Year’s Eve, December 15, 1929, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Figure 0.5  A Kodak camera advertisement, published by the Sahibinin Sesi (His Master’s Voice) gramophone shop in Beyazıt, July 29, 1930, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

Figure 0.6  A Bioks toothpaste advertisement offering the chance to win a free Kodak camera with the purchase of a tube of the product, August 17, 1931, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

Introduction

13

Figure 0.7  An advertisement for Exakta cameras, sold at Studio Foto İskender, Istanbul, December 28, 1937, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

radios, and automobiles. The camera ads also indicate that Western brands arrived in Istanbul as soon as they were released thanks to dealers based in Beyoğlu, Sirkeci, and Beyazıt, which served as hubs for photography studios and photographic equipment. For instance, an advertisement in the Cumhuriyet13 newspaper from July 29, 1930, invites people who are interested in buying a Kodak camera for 370 cents to come to the Sahibinin Sesi (His Master’s Voice) gramophone store in Beyazıt, Istanbul (Figure 0.5), revealing the relatively reasonable prices for amateur cameras at the time.14 The promotion of cameras as “astonishing” and “desirable” (Figure 0.4) further indicates that cameras were seen as attractive consumer items suitable for gifting. As was the case with the Village Institutes, the mission of People’s Houses to ensure the success of Kemalist ideology and advance Turkey to “the level of a civilized country” resulted in the Centers’ promotion of photography as an art form. In an effort to reinforce patriotism and national identity, young citizens were encouraged to document the country in an artistic way, which contributed to a fast acceptance of amateur photography in the 1930s. Contests also helped increase the popularity of amateur photography among the middle classes. Figure 0.8 from 1931, for instance, announces a photography contest for amateurs organized by Kodak. The ad urges people to send their pictures in as soon as possible, asserting that “you will not lose anything if you

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

submit a copy of every picture you have taken. On the contrary, you may win 23600 liras.” A few years later, Figure 0.9 shows the works of the winners of an amateur photography contest that the Akşam newspaper had been organizing on a regular basis, with a 20 Lira first prize. Similarly, in 1939, the Ankara People’s House organized its first amateur photography contest, receiving 400 submissions from 50 participants (Ervin 2006). Besides photography competitions, photographs were solicited on various other occasions in the Turkish press in the 1920s and 1930s. In the early 1930s, the publication of photographs of the Cumhuriyet beauty contest applicants was a major attraction, which went on for months, generating various letter exchanges between the newspaper, the readers and the contestants (see Chapter 1). In another campaign from 1929, Son Saat asked newlyweds as well as couples with newborns to submit their family pictures to be published in the newspaper for free. As part of this campaign, people were able to call a dedicated photographer paid by the newspaper to have their wedding ceremonies photographed. In 1930, Son Posta launched a new campaign, this time inviting people to submit their passport pictures for a “character analysis.” In a dedicated column, the newspaper’s “expert” evaluated a person’s character based on the submitted image. The photographs and their evaluations would be published together, unless the reader requested to remain anonymous. The newspaper warned its readers that the pose in the submitted photograph needed to be “as natural as possible” to ensure the accuracy of the analysis. On June 15, 1939, Nurullah Berk, a prominent art critic, wrote in the Cumhuriyet newspaper that “the modern photographer is no longer satisfied with the dominance of the camera and wants to prove their worldview as well as their feelings and personality,” referring to the need to perceive photography as an art form rather than just a technological tool to be used by craftsmen for

Figure 0.8  A Kodak advertisement for a photography competition, urging people to submit their pictures as soon as possible, July 31, 1931, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

Introduction

15

Figure 0.9  The winners of the photography contest organized by the Akşam newspaper, April 1, 1938, Akşam. Istanbul University Library

documentation purposes. For Berk, it was time for photographers to develop their unique style, demonstrate their point of view in the photographs they took and recognize themselves as artists. It is unclear how many people shared Berk’s ideas on photography at the time; nevertheless, the popularity of photography only continued to grow, with new studios popping up in big cities, affordable cameras entering the market and ever more photography contests and exhibitions. The 1920s and 1930s correspond to a period when photography became a crucial part of the Turkish modern middle-class lifestyle, in contrast to the late Ottoman era when access to photography had been largely reserved for the elites. By the 1930s, studio photography predominantly appealed to the urban middle classes, who simultaneously adopted amateur photography as a fun activity, changing the ways in which public life was enjoyed and documented. These developments ensured that an unprecedented number of vernacular photographs were produced in the 1920s and 1930s, of which a significant proportion survives, not just in private homes but also in a lively market that serves public and private collectors.

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Corpus Selection and Approach The methodology I used for the selection of my corpus was informed by both the visual and material properties of photographs. On several trips to Turkey between 2014 and 2018, I purchased over 17,000 photographs from antique stores and secondhand booksellers in Istanbul and Izmir. Similar to Egypt, Turkey has an expansive market for photographs. One can find a great number of studio portraits and family snapshots in secondhand booksellers and antique stores for reasonable prices. While the selected photographs were collected in only two cities, they demonstrate a significant geographical diversity, reflecting the large-scale internal migration Turkey has witnessed from the 1950s onwards, from rural areas to major cities like Istanbul, Ankara, and Izmir. My selection reflects the changing social and political scenery of the country in the early Republican era and provides insight into the newly modern Turkish secular public life that was taking shape through a host of social practices. I develop my arguments on the basis of an analysis of a selection of 60 photographs from the collection, featuring individual and group portraits taken on a variety of occasions, such as national holidays, weddings, and family outings. When fine-tuning the selection, I first identified some common types of portraiture from the 1920s and 1930s, such as individual portraits (Chapters 1–4, and 6), group portraits including family groups, friends, classmates, or sports teams (Chapters 1–5) and portraits of couples (Chapters 2 and 3). I then identified some of the common occasions portrayed in vernacular photography of the time, such as school portraits including graduations (Chapters 1, 2, 4, and 6), soldier/military portraits (Chapters 2 and 3), sports photographs (Chapter 4), and photographs of circumcision ceremonies and childbeds (Chapter 4). In parallel, I determined the three main types of photography existing at the time, namely studio photography, itinerant (alaminüt, from the French à la minute) photography, and amateur snapshots, all of which include examples of the previously mentioned categories. The final selection is evenly distributed among the three types of photography, which are central to my discussion, as they together make clear the reach of vernacular photography across different parts of Turkey, public and private spaces and occasions, and different classes. Studio photography is discussed throughout the chapters, while alaminüt photography is specifically addressed in Chapter 5, and amateur photography in Chapters 3 and 5. Within the categories I determined to be important for a comprehensive discussion of Turkish vernacular photography in the 1920s and 1930s, it was each individual photograph’s visual appeal, historical relevance, and material qualities that determined whether it would be included in the final selection. I adopted a multilayered approach in the sense that the stories of the people or places in the photographs, if they were identifiable, informed my selection but were not the determining factor. Indeed, in most cases, the stories only unfolded as I continued my research after I had selected a particular photograph, as in the case study of the Şükrü Bey series of photographs inscribed to a banker of this name in Chapter 6.

Introduction

17

Another important point regards the geographical distribution of the photographs: while I recognize the Kemalist regime’s efforts to build an administrative network that eventually spread representations of desirable modern Turkish selves across the country, my selection features an overrepresentation of photographs taken in large cities like Istanbul, Izmir, and Ankara, in line with the classed and urbancentered nature of vernacular photography at the time, and partly as a result of the fact that the locations of some of the images were only revealed after I selected a photograph based on its relevance for my study in other respects than geography. Given that the use of the Turkish language was a core element of the Kemalist definition of Turkishness, the language of the inscriptions on the prints, namely Ottoman Turkish and modern Turkish, also informed my selection of photographs. While I specifically focus on Ottoman Turkish and modern Turkish in this research, however, I acknowledge a multiplicity of languages spoken among various communities in Turkey, including Greek, Armenian, Ladino and French. Inscriptions written in these languages would offer further insight as to how Turkish identity might have been negotiated between the state and its citizens at the time.15 Working with a self-assembled collection rather than an already established collection creates a number of challenges for research. While collectors like Engin Özendes and Cengiz Kahraman have extensively written about their personal collections, my experience differs in the sense that I built the collection that I examine here for a research-driven academic institution that has the mandate to make its archive publicly accessible. Thus, a primary challenge was to address the kinds of limitations that the collected material may pose given the way in which the collection was built. I tried to build a collection that is representative of both what is presently available on the market and what was produced at the time, in order to be able to offer as comprehensive a range of materials as possible for future research. All the while, I was limited in my purchases to what I was able to find in secondhand booksellers and antique stores. Navigating the layers of curation that shape the dynamics of the market also proved to be challenging. There are different ways in which vendors obtain family photographs. One common way is when a person’s or family’s entire belongings are sold once they have passed away and photographs end up in an antique store along with discarded furniture and other paraphernalia. Some vendors accept a whole lot when it comes to photographs, particularly if they do not have to pay per item. Others act as photography collectors and not only are selective in terms of the material they accept but also actively seek out photographs that they find of interest or think will create value for their business. Indeed, in some cases, I was limited to what the vendors wanted to sell from their personal collection because they needed money or were “bored” of seeing the same material. It is highly likely that a slice of genre-specific photographs, or ones deemed to have historical value, were no longer on the market when I built the collection because researchers or collectors had already purchased them. In the case that a vendor develops a liking for a particular genre or theme (e.g., people posing at

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

dinner tables), they may offer a large number of such images. Since the dealers and collectors have the potential to influence the circulation of material, making a certain genre more or less common on the open market, the sheer number of vernacular photographs available representing a certain type of portrait, activity or photographic material is not necessarily an indicator of its popularity at the time the photographs were taken. These limitations were partially overcome by my ability to purchase a significant number of photographs, which include a wide range of representations that I know, also on the basis of available scholarship, to be reflective of the common photographic trends and practices of the time. My research, moreover, has shown that the patterns and genres I have identified across the Akkasah collection are in line with those present in other vernacular material I have looked at for a comparative analysis, including the collections of SALT Research and the Boğaziçi University Archives and Documentation Center, photographs sold by auction houses such as Pera Mezat, and on shopping websites such as gittigidiyor.com, as well as several family archives, including those of my own family and friends. Looking at other vernacular collections from the era was essential to gain a better understanding of the popularity of certain genres, themes, poses and props that may be underrepresented in the Akkasah collection, such as pictures of mothers posing in a childbed (Chapter 4), or toys used as studio props in children’s portraits (Chapter 3). The study of a large body of material in a comparative approach helps to establish what was deemed worthy or appropriate with regard to documenting family lives and curating shared memories at the time, and thus to determine exceptions and absences in the images of the Akkasah collection. For instance, while festive occasions are ubiquitous in the Akkasah collection, there are hardly any photographs of deathbeds or funerals. Looked at in conjunction with other collections, this relative absence can be related to how specific religious norms with regard to burial and mourning shaped vernacular photography in Turkey. Also, the rarity of certain props may provide clues about the overall socioeconomic structure of the country. For instance, pictures that feature cars are scarce, illustrating the limited penetration of cars as luxury items and the low-purchasing power of Turkish society in the 1920s and 1930s. In addition, the disappearance of certain poses or props from vernacular photographs offers insight into the social, cultural, and economic transformations that Turkey went through in the 1920s and 1930s.

­Theoretical Framework In Each Wild Idea, Geoffrey Batchen (2000: 58) defines vernacular photographs as “photography’s parergon, the part of its history that has been pushed to the margins (or beyond them to oblivion) precisely in order to delimit what is and is not proper to this history’s enterprise.” For Batchen (2000: 59), vernacular photography is “the absent presence that determines its medium’s historical and physical identity; it

Introduction

19

is that thing that decides what proper photography is not.” Despite the emergent popularity of academic work on vernacular photography since the 2000s, theory concerning vernacular photography remains a niche area for researchers (see Sandbye 2014). This study aims to contribute to a shift in the understanding of vernacular photography from seeing it as an absent presence to treating it, rather, as a principal subject for academic research. I use the term vernacular photography in the sense of popular photography, in other words, photography of the everyday, produced in commercial studios, by itinerant photographers or in the home with hand-held consumer cameras.16 By employing the term “vernacular” for the photographs I study, I aim to underline the popular nature of their production and to make a case for their specific significance for academic research. In The Image sans Orientalism, Lucie Ryzova (2015a) identifies the three fundamental properties of vernacular photography as indexicality, iconicity, and performativity. By tracing these three properties through my corpus of photographs, I will explore the various visual vocabularies that vernacular photographs present and how they interact with and negotiate the social and political conditions of the period in which they were taken. Ryzova (2015a) describes indexicality as the perceived evidentiary function of photographs as truthful records of real events, or, as Edwards (2005: 323) puts it, “the sense of ‘it was there.’” Drawing on C.S. Peirce’s theory of the index as trace (in Price and Wells 2015), photography theorists like Batchen (2004), Barthes (1981) and Sontag (1979) have explored the photograph as a “physical trace” of its object as the referent, without which there can be no photograph. For Barthes (1981: 87), the photograph’s indexicality is created by the physical interaction between the sign (the photograph) and the referent (the object photographed) so that “every photograph is a certificate of presence” of “that-has-been.” However, Tagg (1993 [1988]: 3) warns that the indexical nature of the photograph, “the causative link between the pre-photographic referent and the sign,” is “highly complex, irreversible, and can guarantee nothing at the level of meaning.” Understanding the complexities of indexicality, I attempt to excavate the indexical properties of vernacular photographs as pointing to the fashions, family structures, traditions and daily habits of Turkish society of the 1920s and 1930s. Thus, I draw on the indexicality of the photographs to place them within the broader social and political context in which they were taken, while also unpacking the microhistories and personal narratives around the photographs revealed in other visual and textual sources, and through oral histories. The second aspect of vernacular photographs identified by Ryzova, iconicity, refers to the capacity of photographs to become symbolic, in other words, “to carry meanings wider than those actually depicted, pointing not to the referent (the photographed) but to social values” (Ryzova 2015a: 164). In Peirce’s theory of signs, “iconic signs are held to work by resembling what they denote” (in Landau 2002: 10). For iconic photographs, “meaning transcends the specific circumstances of their making” as they become charged with new meanings according to particular ideologies or political attitudes (Price and Wells 2015: 34). Exploring the relationship between iconic photographs, public culture,

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

and liberal democracy, in No Caption Needed, Hariman and Lucaites (2007: 12) explain that photographs as icons achieve their effectiveness through their visual expressiveness and wide circulation. The iconic power of photographs is reinforced through “multiple appearances over the years, in many contexts and forms” (Price and Wells 2015: 34). Ryzova’s third aspect of vernacular photography, performativity, will be my primary focus in this research and points to how subjects are encouraged or urged to perform a certain self in front of the camera (Pinney 2008; Ryzova 2015a). To discuss the way performativity appears in my selected corpus, I primarily draw on Elizabeth Edwards’ notion of “theaters of the self ” (2004), referring to photographs as a performative space through which people assert and negotiate their emerging positions as modern classed and gendered subjects. In this analogy, like theater, photography “confronts the viewer, opening a space for reflection, argument and the possibility of understanding” (Edwards 2001a: 19). As Edwards (2001a: 20) points out: Through the heightening nature of the medium and the theatricality within the photograph and its inscription, points of fracture become apparent. The incidental detail can give a compelling clarity, through which alternative histories might be articulated. The performance thus extends the possibilities of authorship of history through the interaction with precisely those points of fracture.

Examining the poses, postures, and compositions in my corpus, I specify the kinds of portrayals that were performed (happily or not) by families and individuals, and promoted by photographers. This allows me to illuminate the role that family photographs, in their performative dimension, played in inventing and disseminating vernacular histories of Turkish modernity in and outside the studio. In addition, I study local and global cultural and political influences on these performative self-representations, from the new civil code to images of Western celebrities, as, for example, in my discussion of modern Turkish femininities in Chapter 1. As Edwards (2001b: 18) argues, “photographs have a performativity, an affective tone, a relationship with the viewer, a phenomenology not of content as such, but as active social objects projecting and moving into other times and spaces.” Accordingly, I suggest that photographs may be seen as dynamically interacting with the viewer through their performativity, “as the past is projected actively into the present by the nature of the photograph itself and the act of looking at a photograph” (Edwards 2001b: 18). In my study of photographic performances of a new modern Turkish identity that generated new normative femininities and masculinities, I also draw on Judith Butler’s notion of gender performativity (2007 [1990]), which sees gender identity as constructed over time through repeated performances of social norms that, in retrospect, become defined as “natural.” As Butler (2007 [1990]: 45) argues in Gender Trouble, “gender is the repeated stylization of the body, a set of repeated acts within a highly rigid regulatory frame that congeal over time to produce the

Introduction

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appearance of substance, of a natural sort of being.” Vernacular photography is one of the social practices in which this repeated stylization of the female or male body is most deliberately present and also policed. I draw on Butler’s theory of gender performativity to explore how gender is performed in photographic portraits from the early Turkish Republic within the framework of the strict gender-binary system that the Kemalist regime adhered to. Importantly, this framework presented a significant departure from the equally rigid normative gender matrix espoused in the late Ottoman era. Looking at vernacular photography makes clear that the quick transition between these two normative models presented a challenge to the citizens of the early Republic, and underlines how certain citizens may not have been able or willing to perform in line with the new norms. Accordingly, I use the notion of gender performativity both to show the general eagerness with which the new gender norms were adopted, especially by the urban middle classes, and to examine the instability of gender performativity, which sometimes also makes it difficult to read gender in photographs of the time as either conforming to or resisting Kemalist norms, as I illustrate in Chapters 1 and 2 by discussing a series of images that appear to point to gender fluidity in the early Turkish Republic. Edwards (2004: 29), while not explicitly referring to Butler, makes a similar argument by linking the history of portraiture “to the parallel history of the concept of identity and, those aspects of identity which are deemed appropriate for portrayal at a given historical moment.” The selves portrayed in photographs are “a form of projection of an ideal, which might be both personal and collective,” while also “making visible the abstract norms, values and feelings that surround social life,” such as happiness, sobriety, prosperity and congeniality (Edwards 2004: 30). Analyses of “the performances of idealized selves” in my corpus reveal how photographs mediate “the tension between the longed-for ideal and the ambivalence of lived experience” (Holland 1991: 4 in Edwards 2004: 30). The plurality of performances manifested in the photographs I look at speak to the kinds of desired representations in various types of portraiture. I examine how the performativity of an image negotiates self-expression, agency, memory, identity, and nation-building. I also emphasize how the performative power of photography is not independent of the interventions of the photographer, the posing subject, and the camera as an apparatus. I discuss the nature of such interventions and their contribution to redefining individual, family and national narratives, as well as their impact on the evolution of photographic practices. As a counterpart to Butler’s theory of gender performativity, which emphasizes the constrictions within which subjects shape their identities, I invoke Goodman’s concept of “worldmaking” (1978), adopted by scholars such as Chalfen (1987), Ryzova (2015a), and Gürsel (2017) for their studies of photographic images. This concept offers a useful framework for my understanding of vernacular photographs as also a potential site of empowerment for the portrayed subject. The notion of worldmaking refers to photography as a tool through which people make their worlds by enacting multiple selves (Ryzova 2015a: 217). Photographs, in this conception, serve as “visual statements” of constructed realities rather

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

than as copies of reality (Worth 1976 in Chalfen 1987: 4–5). Using the notion of worldmaking in the context of early Republican era vernacular photographs, I examine the kinds of classed and gendered worlds that were made through these photographs by the urban middle classes and how these worlds spoke to the new world that the Kemalist regime was simultaneously constructing for its citizens. The materiality of photographs as performative social objects (Edwards 2005) is an integral part of my study. Edwards (2002: 68) explains that materiality takes two interrelated forms with which “photographs are inseparably enmeshed,” namely, “the plasticity of the image itself ” (e.g., the print paper, the toning) and its “presentational forms” (e.g., cartes de visite, albums, mounts, and frames). Combining these two forms, which each also include the marking of the physical traces of usage and time, “materiality translates the abstract and representational of ‘photography’ into ‘photographs’ which exist in time and space” (Edwards 2002: 67). The objecthood of photographs is closely linked to social biography and should be seen as part of “a continuing process of meaning, production, exchange and usage” (Edwards 2002: 68). Accordingly, I analyze how photographic prints, in their material dimensions, were produced and circulated (asking whom they might have been meant for and whom the inscriptions could have been addressed to) in order to better understand their significance in negotiating power relations in various social and familial networks. I also investigate how the materiality of photographs informs the way we interpret the photographic image and, hence, how this materiality contributes to the construction of meaning. Returning to Figure  0.1, it is clear that both the young man and the young woman in this image perform a self as which they want to be remembered. The inscription on the back, moreover, suggests how a “sweet moment” could be defined in this particular setting in 1941: as being with a beloved one, on a trip, posing hand in hand, dancing in a space that is enjoyed together. What the photograph, at the levels of its indexicality, iconicity, and performativity, and across the image and the inscription, reveals is a modern Turkish self that celebrates heteronormative romance, love, and happiness publicly. The image of the non-veiled secular woman is now an accepted part of the public sphere, yet also staged in such a way as to preserve the woman’s honor and virtue, a social expectation at the time, as is clear from her mid-height heels and the non-revealing skirt that prudently covers her knees. The photograph thus allows these two people to stage themselves as part of a particular desired reality, namely that of modern Turkey as imagined by the Kemalists. For those who encounter this image decades later, its iconicity feeds off its indexical quality, off what it represents as a historical document. In this regard, what the image offers as a performative space tends to be seen as secondary: we often focus on what people used to wear rather than on asking why they might have worn this particular dress for this particular picture. In focusing on the role of performativity, I aim to contribute to a multilayered reading of vernacular photographs, which goes beyond analyses based on indexicality, thus offering alternative ways in which to understand the functions and meanings of such photographs.

Introduction

23

As Batchen (2000: 59) argues, “by reminding us of the differences within photography, vernaculars insist that there are many photographies, not just one, indicating a need for an equally variegated array of historical methods and rhetorics. In other words, vernacular photographies demand the invention of suitable vernacular histories.” Over the past few decades, an increasing number of scholars have contributed to the rethinking of visual histories in such a way as to accommodate a plethora of local vernacular practices, particularly outside the West.17 In the wake of the pivotal works exploring the materiality of photographs by Sontag (1979), Barthes (1981), Berger (1992, 2008, 2013), Edwards (1992, 1999, 2001a, 2003, 2012), Batchen (1997, 2000, 2003, 2004, 2009a, 2009b), and Pinney (1997, 2003b, 2005, 2008), scholars have increasingly written about the objecthood and circulation of vernacular photographs.18 In addition, there has been a surge in studies of the functions and meanings of family photographs.19 More broadly, vernacular photography has been discussed in the context of photographic archives, building upon earlier works by Derrida (1996, 2010) and Sekula (1986a, 1986b),20 and in relation to global cultural economies and heritage.21 While an expansive vernacular photographic culture has thrived in Turkey over the past century, scholarly research has typically focused on prominent photographers who worked in the late Ottoman era. This group includes Western photographers like Antonio Beato, Félix Bonfils, Tancrède Dumas, James Robertson, and Guillaume Berggren, who opened photography studios and sometimes settled in Ottoman lands; as well as local photographers that made a name for themselves with studios in metropolises like Istanbul, Izmir, Damascus, Beirut, Cairo, and Jerusalem, including Abdullah Frères (Abdullah Brothers), Vasilaki (Basile) Kargapoulo, Theodor(e) Vafiadis, Rober Caracachian, Gülmez Brothers, Atelier Phébus/Phebüs (run by Bogos Tarkulyan, or Febüs Efendi), Sébah and Joaillier, Nicholas Andriomenos, Apollon (Aşil Samancı), Khalil Raad, and Georges Saboungi (or Jurji Saboungi).22 Many scholars have explored the dynamics of late Ottoman-era photography, particularly the relationship between photography, Orientalism, and the Empire, producing studies of the photographed landscapes of the Empire including the Holy Lands of the Levant, studio-staged local “types,” as well as cartes postales that catered to the demands of Europeans fascinated by the “Orient” and tourists looking for souvenirs to take home after their travels in the region.23 In this context, scholarship on Iran stands out with a particularly large number of works, partly due to the attention that Qajar era photographs made under the rule of Naser al-Din Shah Qajar (1848–1896) have garnered.24 At the same time, scholarship on vernacular photography in modern Turkey, particularly from the early Republican era, remains scarce. Studies that deal with studio portraits and amateur snapshots are limited, and among the existing texts, which include Seyit Ali Ak’s seminal book Erken Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türk Fotoğrafı (2001) and Gülderen Bölük’s Fotoğrafın Serüveni (2014), works focusing on photography as a performative space and on photography’s interaction with the wider context of the time are particularly rare.25 This study aims to fill this gap by exploring the various ways in which local photographic practices were developed in modern Turkey. To do this, I will draw on works by Eldem (2015, 2018), Ersoy

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

(2012, 2016), Gürsel (2016, 2018), Nassar (1997, 2003, 2006, 2011, 2018); Ryzova (2012, 2014a, 2014b, 2014c, 2015a, 2015b, 2015c, 2015d); and Sheehi (2007, 2015, 2016), who have all written about photographic practices in the Eastern Mediterranean. This research is also highly relevant because photography archives and collections in Turkey tend not to fully acknowledge the significance of the vernacular. While there are several fascinating personal and state collections of photography in Turkey, such as the Ömer Koç Collection and collections at the Istanbul University Central Library, the Istanbul Research Institute (İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü), the Atatürk Library (İBB Atatürk Kitaplığı), the Koç University Suna & İnan Kıraç Research Center for Mediterranean Civilizations (AKMED), and the Yıldız Palace Archive, these do not include many vernacular photographs.26 On the other hand, SALT Research and the Archives and Documentation Center at Boğaziçi University, and collectors such as Cengiz Kahraman (2015, 2017, 2019) and Gülderen Bölük (2014) boast a substantial vernacular photography collection and have produced some books and articles related to vernacular photographs from modern Turkey. Along with scholarly writings, projects around family collections revealing the alternative narratives presented by various photographic vernacularities outside the West have risen in prominence in the past few decades. These projects include Susan Meiselas’s Kurdistan (1997); Project SAVE Armenian Photograph Archives; Houshamadyan on Armenian life in the Ottoman Empire (Minassian 2014); Box Camera Now (Birk et al. 2020); the Armenian Photography Foundation Lusadaran; the family archives published by the Levantine Heritage Foundation; the Nepal Picture Library in Kathmandu; Anusha Yadav’s Indian Memory Project (2010); A Lebanese Archive: from the Collection of Diab Alkarssifi (Dabrowska 2015); the Kaddu Wasswa Archive from Uganda (Wasswa, Kisitu and Stultiens 2010); and Lest We Forget: Emirati Family Photographs 1950–1999 (2015) from the United Arab Emirates. Furthermore, contemporary artists from the Middle East have shown a great deal of interest in everyday photography and local studio practices, discussing a myriad of issues related to the use of archives. In Lebanon, Akram Zaatari, cofounder of the Arab Image Foundation in Beirut, has been a pioneer in his work with local studio archives such as Van Leo in (Collective 1999) and Hashem el Madani’s Studio Shehrazade in Saida (Zaatari and Feuvre 2005). This work was presented in various exhibitions, including Van Leo (2000), Mapping Sitting on Portraiture and Photography (Bassil, Maasri and Zaatari 2002), Hashem el Madani: Studio Practices (2004) and, more recently, Akram Zaatari: Against Photography: An Annotated History of the Arab Image Foundation (2017; 2019–20). The Arab Image Foundation itself has hosted a number of exhibitions of Arab vernacular photography since the late 1990s, including Albums Marocains 1900–1960, curated by Yto Barrada (1999). In Turkey, Tayfun Serttaş’s Foto Galatasaray project (2011) brought to light the complete professional archive of Maryam Şahinyan (1911–96), who worked at her studio in Galatasaray (Beyoğlu, Istanbul) from 1935 until 1985. The project consisted of the categorization, digitization, and digital restoration of over 200,000

Introduction

25

images from Şahinyan’s archive with the help of the SALT Research team in Istanbul. Serttaş’s previous project, Stüdyo Osep (2009), also dealt with self-representation through the archive of the late Osep Minasoğlu, who worked as a studio and set photographer for over sixty years. The books published based on these studio collections offer a wealth of material for comparative research. Benefitting from these works, I aim to offer a broader account of vernacular photography’s role in building the new Turkish nation, covering a range of photographic practices and photographic genres.

Chapter Outline The book is divided into four parts, exploring the relationship between photography and gender (Chapters 1 and 2), photography and the body (Chapters 3 and 4), photography and space (Chapter 5), and photography, materiality, and language (Chapter 6). Given that visual representation emerged as a central element of the Kemalist nation-building process, the parts of this study correspond to the key areas the Kemalists tackled when building a new visual vocabulary for the Turkish nation. For the Republican elites, the representation of gender, particularly the visibility of women, stood at the heart of the Kemalist revolution, which they believed would put Turkey on the global political map as an advanced Westernized nation. Part 1 of this study explores the formation of modern gender identity, focusing on Turkish femininities in Chapter 1 and Turkish masculinities in Chapter 2. I compare vernacular photographs from the final years of the Ottoman Empire and the early years of the Turkish Republic to demonstrate how the desired images for women and men evolved following the secularist reforms by the Kemalist regime. More specifically, I discuss the political meanings of visual markers such as the veil (Chapter 1), the mustache (Chapter 2), and the hat (Chapter 2) in the construction of modern gender identities. Chapters 1 and 2 primarily draw on Judith Butler’s (2007 [1990]) theory of gender performativity to dissect some of the key components shaping gender normativities in the early Republican era, and to understand how these normativities were reproduced and negotiated in photographs. I explore the performative character of gender representations in photography and photography’s performative possibilities “for proliferating gender configurations outside the restricting frames of masculinist domination and compulsory heterosexuality” (Butler 2007 [1990]: 192–3). Chapter 1 examines how urban middle-class women negotiated modern femininities and the Republican ideal of the new Turkish woman, embodied in the notion of the Republican Woman (Cumhuriyet Kadını), through photographic portraits taken in and outside studio settings. It highlights how these women adopted photography as a way to perform their classed and gendered identity as modern secular citizens in the transition from the Ottoman Empire to the Turkish Republic. By analyzing photographic self-representations of women in the private and public sphere, the chapter highlights the cultural and social disruptions, as

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

well as the continuities between the late Ottoman era and the Kemalist regime when it came to the visibility of women. Chapter 2, in turn, looks at some of the key components of the performance of normative masculinities in vernacular photographic portraits of modern urban middle-class Turkish men. It investigates how men in family photographs performed their desired selves as modern, secular, and loyal citizens; soldiers; husbands and/or fathers, negotiating their male subjectivities within the restrictions of the imposed hegemonic masculinities and state feminism. This chapter specifically addresses questions of conformity and subversion regarding modern heteronormativities as envisioned by the Turkish regime. While Part 1 discusses the specific visual markers that shaped gender normativities, such as the dress code, Part 2 looks at the role of the pose, posture, and props (Chapter 3), and of distinct genres of vernacular photography (Chapter 4) in the making of the new bodies deemed necessary for the creation of a strong and healthy nation. As Merleau-Ponty (1962 in Butler 1988: 520) argues, the body is not a “natural species,” but rather “an historical idea,” gaining its meaning “through a concrete and historically mediated expression in the world.” Part 2 accordingly investigates how the modern Turkish body as “a construction that constitutes the domain of gendered subjects” (Butler 2007 [1990]: 12) came into being and was reproduced through photographic representations of citizens engaging in a range of activities, from casual outings (Chapter 3) to the tightly choreographed sports performances of students on national holidays (Chapter 4). In addition, this Part looks at how negotiations between modernity and tradition shaped the middle-class body image for women and men. Studying where such negotiations appear in photographs helps understand the making of new public and private spheres in a modernizing society. Chapter 3 specifically focuses on the significance of pose, posture, and props for the making of new Turkish bodies. It explores how these three attributes contributed to the construction of modern selves by middle-class women and men in vernacular photography. Investigating issues of intimacy and agency, the chapter also studies how people explored the performative potential of photography as playfulness was gradually introduced in portraiture in the 1920s and 1930s. This chapter includes a detailed discussion of Elizabeth Edwards’ notion of the “theater of the self ” (2004) and Nelson Goodman’s “worldmaking” to illuminate how the Turkish middle classes used photographic portraiture as a performative space in which to make worlds, which largely (but not always, and not necessarily flawlessly) replicated the new Republican world created around them by the Kemalist regime. Chapter 4 expands on the meaning of the pose and posture in the construction of male and female bodies in the founding years of the Republic through an analysis of sports photographs, including portraits of schoolgirls taken at the Youth and Sports Day celebrations. It further examines the making of modern womanhood and manhood through two distinct examples in Turkish vernacular portraiture, namely childbed pictures and circumcision ceremonies. Exploring how postpartums and circumcisions were reimagined through photographic practices that signaled modernity but also allowed for the inclusion of ancient

Introduction

27

Turkic and Ottoman customs, the chapter reveals the multilayered nature of the modern Turkish identity-building process. For the Kemalists, creating new, extended geographies of public life around newly constructed Republican spaces was as important as the forging of new Republican citizens. The effort to redesign the public realm as a secular space that would also include women prompted extensive transformations of both the central cities and smaller towns through ambitious architectural projects and intensive urban planning, all meant to mark a radical break with the Ottoman past. Part 3 (Chapter 5) discusses the role vernacular photography played in the making of new Republican spaces through Koch and Latham’s notion of domestication (2013) and examines how this making of new Republican spaces through photography was intertwined with the making of classed identities, in both the urban and the rural. Chapter 5 approaches the relationship between photography and spacemaking through the case study of the Hamza Rüstem Studio, a century-old photography studio from Izmir that still operates today. The chapter explores how the work of this studio in the 1920s and 1930s contributed to the making of a new Republican city and its social memory for a newly forged urban Turkish middle class. In the second part of the chapter, I study how itinerant photography helped to democratize photography in the 1920s and 1930s. I analyze the role itinerant photography played in the making of modern Republican spaces and the domestication of public life through the extensive documentation of citizens in cities and the countryside across Turkey. As noted, the materiality of photographs is an important issue throughout this study, which focuses not only on what vernacular photographs show us but also on how they were produced, consumed, and circulated. Part 4 (Chapter 6) examines the circulation of prints and the role of language in shaping the early Republican era photographic culture that produced the new modern Turkish citizen. Given the radical language reform that Turkey went through in the 1930s, this Part also highlights the multiple political and social meanings of photographic inscriptions beyond their communicative functions. In Chapter 6, through a series of portraits given or sent to one individual named Şükrü Bey in the late 1920s, I look at how the circulation of vernacular photographs helped to construct and disseminate the image of the new Republican citizen among family, friends, and colleagues. Taking the Şükrü Bey series as a starting point, the chapter reveals how middle-class Turkish citizens used photographic exchanges and inscriptions not only to build and share memories but also to promote a classed self-image. This chapter analyzes the complex networks in which photographic prints were circulated within and outside family circles, serving multiple functions as effective modes of communications. Through a detailed analysis of the linguistic patterns used in photographic inscriptions in the 1920s and 1930s, it shows the political, social, and cultural significance of language in the making and dissemination of the modern Turkish identity.

28

­Part I PHOTOGRAPHY, GENDER, AND MODERNITY

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

Figure 1.1  A studio portrait, Photo Iris, Istanbul, circa 1920s. 13.4 × 8.7 cm.

Figure 1.2  A studio portrait, Sébah and Joaillier, Istanbul, circa 1920s. 13.8 × 8.5 cm.

Figure 1.3  A studio portrait, Jules Kanzler, Istanbul, circa 1920s. 13.9 × 9 cm.

Figure 1.4  A studio portrait, Jules Kanzler, Istanbul, circa 1920s. 13.7 × 8.7 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

I. Photography, Gender, and Modernity

Figure 1.5  A studio portrait, Photo Français, Istanbul, circa 1920s. 13.3 × 8.5 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

31

Figure 1.6  A studio portrait, Foto S. Süreyya, Istanbul, circa 1920s–1930s. 13.7 × 8.6 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

In 2014, I purchased a series of six images (Figures 1.1–1.6) from a second-hand bookshop that sells old photographs in the Taksim Cihangir area of Istanbul. Taken in five different studios, the portraits feature a young person with fine features posing in various outfits: a light linen shirt in Figure 1.1, a V-neck sweater in Figure 1.2, a patterned jacket in Figure 1.3, fur in Figure 1.4, a laced collar blazer in Figure 1.5, and a striped sweater in Figure 1.6. The hairstyles also differ in each portrait. In a few instances, the photographs have been retouched to give the hair relief or texture. In Figure 1.3, for example, the model has a wavy hairdo, reflecting a fashionable hairstyle for women in the 1920s and 1930s. In the same image, the mouth and chin appear to have been retouched. Despite these differences and alterations, however, the six portraits appear to be of the same person: in Figures 1.2 and 1.3, the pointy nose bears the same features, yet the beauty spots on both cheeks could be considered the decisive feature. The dates of the images are unknown. One can therefore only deduce a broad timeline based on the studio names, the type of photographic paper used, and the overall visual style of each studio portrait. Figure 1.6 seems to be the last of the series and was possibly taken a few years later than the rest, which I can trace back to the late 1920s or early 1930s. In this period, all five studios in the series were still active. Four of the five Istanbul studios in which these portraits were made, namely Photo Iris (Figure 1.1), Studio Jules Kanzler (Figures 1.3 and 1.4), Photo Français (Figure  1.5), and Sébah & Joaillier (Figure  1.2), were run by non-Muslim

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

photographers.1 The fifth studio is Foto S. Süreyya (Figure  1.6), which was established by the Muslim photographer Süleyman Süreyya Bükey in 1928.2 These studios may have been chosen because of their prominence or their familiarity, or simply because of a personal affinity, for instance, with the craft of Jules Kanzler, who enhanced the feminine aspects of the face with retouches.3 In Raw Histories, Elizabeth Edwards (2001a: 20) argues that “[p]hotography is like ritual or theater because it is between reality, a physical world, and imagination, dealing not only with a world of facts, but the world of possibilities.” With regard to making sense of photographs and what they show, she (2001a: 6) notes: “There is seldom a ‘correct interpretation’: one can say what a photograph is not, but not absolutely what it is.” As I was cataloguing these six images, I struggled to provide a description of the person portrayed. My interpretation is that in Figures 1.1 and 1.2, but particularly in Figure 1.2, the pose and clothing give the appearance of masculinity, while Figures 1.3–1.6 bring forward a sense of femininity. How should I refer to the person portrayed in these photographs? Is this a man who enjoys dressing up as a woman? Is this a self-defined tomboy with indistinct features? Is the model an actor who relishes taking on an array of gender roles? Or do the photographs capture a fleeting moment of cross-dressing? The absence of dates makes it difficult to place the portraits along a chronological timeline, which keeps us from making assumptions regarding the potential evolution of this person’s appearance over time. Why does the attempt to say something about the gender identity of this person even matter? As Joanne Hollows writes (2000: 27), “[g]endered identities and cultural forms are produced, and negotiated in specific historical contexts within specific and shifting forms of power relations.” In this process, the state has played an important role as “a powerful cultural agency helping to shape gender practices and expectations” (Hamilton 1998: 79). The way in which these six portraits indicate differently gendered selves is relevant in terms of what it has to say about how the Turkish modernization project, which was directly concerned with redefining gendered identities, particularly for women, was negotiated in photography.4 In this first part of my study, composed of two chapters, I will analyze how the evolving gender roles assigned to men and women are performed in photographic portraits from the first two decades of the Turkish Republic. As Holmes and Marra (2010: 1) write, since the 1980s, “language and gender research has shifted from essentialist approaches, which treat male and female as discrete social categories to social constructionist and performative approaches (Butler 1990), which emphasize the diverse, flexible, and context-responsive ways in which people do gender (among other identities) in different situations, and even from moment to moment within a situation.” Gender, then, is increasingly conceptualized as a dynamic performance through which it is continually produced, reproduced, and changed (Eckert and McConnell-Ginet 2003: 4 in Holmes and Marra 2010: 1). To study gendered performances in vernacular photography of the 1920s and 1930s, I draw on Butler’s theory of gender performativity as well as on scholarship that explores what it means to discursively do femininity and masculinity in a range of different social settings.5

I. Photography, Gender, and Modernity

33

Chapters 1 and 2 investigate the gender roles that, respectively, urban middleclass women and men adopted and represented through “performances of desire,” which Ryzova (2015a: 161) defines as “the production of particular selves that respond to socially situated expectations (masculine or feminine selves, modern selves, confessional selves, pious selves, respectable selves, playful selves, debauched selves); of social identities and communities (class, gender, family, confessional groups, networks of affiliation and association, networks of commerce); or forms of cultural memory.” Specifically, I will ask to what degree such performances accorded with the modernizing reforms of the Turkish Republic. As Butler (2007 [1990]: 31) argues, “[t]he institution of a compulsory and naturalized heterosexuality requires and regulates gender as a binary relation in which the masculine term is differentiated from a feminine term, and this differentiation is accomplished through the practices of heterosexual desire.” The six images discussed above provide a vital vantage point from which to elaborate on the broader, sometimes contradictory relationship between photography and gender roles in the early Republican era, since these images urge us to probe the visibility of gender and rethink the normative forms of masculinity and femininity that the Turkish modernization project worked so hard to establish, impose, and propagate.

34

­1 T H E C O N S T RU C T IO N O F T H E N EW T U R K I SH WOM A N

As Göle (1996: 14) has persuasively argued in The Forbidden Modern, “the grammar of Turkish modernization can best be grasped by the implied equation established between national progress and women’s emancipation. More than the construction of citizenship and human rights, the construction of women as public citizens and women’s rights were the backbone of Kemalist reforms.” Unlike most national revolutions, the Kemalist revolution was primarily concerned with the reconstruction of the “ideal woman” instead of the “ideal man” (Göle 1996). The reconstruction of an “ideal woman” started with the promotion of a Western, non-veiled appearance, associated with being civilized and progressive. The Kemalists perceived women as the “bearers of Westernization and carriers of secularism” (Göle 1996: 14). The Turkish nation-state relied heavily on a genderbased hierarchy and a hegemonic masculinity (Connell 1987, 1999) in assigning gender roles to the modern Turkish citizen. It did so while negotiating feminist movements in Western industrialized countries and a conservative Muslim pushback that wanted to exclude women from the public sphere. In addition, like many other modern political regimes of the time, the Turkish republic was built on the endorsement of heterosexuality, with love, sexuality, and desire tightly regulated through marriage and inheritance laws (Sancar 2017). Recognizing the central role of visual representations of women in constructing the modern citizen for the Kemalist elites, this chapter will study how women performed their desired selves in photographs in the formative years of the Republic and how these self-representations corresponded to the regime’s efforts to construct the modern Turkish woman (also referred to as the Republican Woman). Specifically, I will look at the ways in which representations of Turkish middle-class women were formed, reproduced, and circulated in the 1920s and 1930s through vernacular photography. I will probe how self-representations of modern secular Turkish women differed in the public and private spheres, and how such representations might have contributed to the making of modern public life in the new Republic. First, I will focus on how women performed their modern selves in the semiprivate setting of the studio before and after the foundation of the Republic to demonstrate the continuities and disruptions with regard to the modernization of urban women. Second, I will discuss representations of modern femininities in group portraits taken in a public setting in order to question

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

how the gender performativities evident in them compared to those in studio portraits. Third, I will look at photographs of beauty queens to show how women negotiated the secularization reforms, state feminism, and a conservative society that disapproved of the public display of female bodies. Finally, I will discuss the portraits of a Republican teacher to demonstrate the complexities involved in the contextualization of gender normativities in the 1920s and 1930s. A growing number of publications have examined the negotiations of gender roles in politics, in the media, and in literature, as well as in daily life under the early Kemalist regime with a focus on women.6 There are also a number of works recounting the transformations in large cities (Duben and Behar 2014) and the countryside (Yılmaz 2013) in the early years of the Republic.7 I will draw upon these sources to contextualize the visual representations that I analyze in this chapter.

From Subjects to Citizens: Creating the Modern Turkish Woman

­. The Construction of the New Turkish Woman

37

Figures 1.7 and 1.8  (recto and verso) A family portrait, August 17, 1920. 16.4 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

In Figure  1.7 from August 17, 1920 (August 17, 1336, according to the Rumi calendar), two women wearing the black çarşaf pose with a little girl for a studio portrait.8 The woman on the left wears pearl earrings; a sizable, matching pearl ring; a gemstone necklace and a fancy handbag with an elegant, beaded chain strap. The Turkish note in blue pen on the reverse of Figure 1.7 reads: “me, with Aunt Hamdiye and Aunt Zahide,” which suggests that the writer is the little girl in the middle, the daughter of a third sister not shown. The two women in black çarşaf must be the two aunts mentioned in the note. The note in pencil in Ottoman Turkish, however, was written by Zahide, who signs as “Zahiş,” a diminutive of Zahide. She writes in Figure 1.8: “A souvenir for our precious sisters and respectable brother-in-law.”9 Zahide and Hamdiye wear their çarşaf in a similar fashion: It reveals their neck and chest, serving as a coat. Under their çarşaf, they show off their beautiful jewelry, complemented by fashionable accessories including handbags and gloves. Their hair is only partially covered, and the face veil has already been removed,

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Making the Modern Turkish Citizen

showing that the sisters are wearing makeup. Unlike the little girl in the middle, the two women look straight into the camera. They appear serious but show hints of smiles and seem fairly at ease posing in the studio. In this way, these two women reflect the desire to present a well-off, refined, and respectable feminine self that combines modesty and elegance, in line with what was expected from modern Ottoman elite women at the time (Köksal and Falierou 2013). As Yılmaz (2013: 106) writes, “while the wife or the mother was usually excluded from the late nineteenth-century family photographs of Ottoman Muslim families, by the early 1920s it had become acceptable for the entire family to pose together for a family photograph.” Revealing a remarkable social transformation of the family portrait, here the two sisters, Hamdiye and Zahide, pose in a studio setting, which, in this case, could have been outside Ottoman urban space, namely in Napoli, Italy, per the inscription. While male photographers dominated the profession at the time, one cannot be certain about the gender of the photographer.10 There are also no data to indicate if a man accompanied the women to the studio. In any case, the fact that two women could pose in this way for a studio portrait in 1920 indicates the degree of modernization elite Ottoman women experienced in the final years of the Ottoman Empire. In Photography in The Ottoman Empire 1839–1923, Özendes (2013) writes that only three decades earlier the Empire’s male photographers, unable to find Muslim models, had to convince non-Muslim women and sometimes even men to pose as Turkish women for the Orientalist photographs they produced for touristic consumption. The fact that the women in Figure 1.7 do not wear a niqab but show off their wealth and fashionable clothes that flatter their bodies thus indicates a major shift in social conventions since the second half of the nineteenth century. The existence of this family portrait, accomplished through the act of going to the studio to pose in front of the camera, demonstrates how these women embrace modernity. Hamdiye and Zahide perform modern selves not only through their confident embracing of the photographic act, but also through the way they appear in front of the camera: the two-piece çarşaf they are wearing are, in fact, transformed versions of a traditionally one-piece black cloth that loosely covered the body, adapted from European fashions and banned by Sultan Abdülhamid in 1890 for not complying with Islam. The çarşaf itself only became popular toward the end of the nineteenth century, replacing the traditional ferace (a heavy, baggy overcoat) and yaşmak (a transparent white scarf) combination (Şeni 1995; Toprak 1998). In Figure  1.7, the women’s self-presentation is complemented by a painted backdrop and European-style furniture, further emphasizing the subjects’ engagement with modernity. By the early 1900s, elite Ottoman women in Istanbul and other major cities were adopting European-style clothing and manners, encouraged by the Young Turks’ modernization project. The increased cultural and commercial contact with Europe, the availability of imported European clothes and fabrics, the opening of European-style department stores, the circulation of European fashion magazines, and advertisements of European products in the press facilitated the process of adapting the çarşaf to Western trends (Koçu 1969: 65–7). Subsequently, the newly

­. The Construction of the New Turkish Woman

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invented two-piece çarşaf we see in Figure 1.7 served as a basis for the favorable reception of the two-piece European suit (Yılmaz 2013). By the start of the Turkish War of Independence (1918–23) most women, who played an active role in the struggle for independence alongside men, had already abandoned the face veil and were transitioning to European attire (Göle 1996). As Westernism became the dominant ideology after the War of Independence, images of Turkey as a modern Europeanized society began to circulate more widely among the middle classes. Founded in 1923, the Turkish Republic aimed to build a new nation-state that would break away from the institutions of the Ottoman Empire through a series of reforms implemented in the 1920s and 1930s. In this nation-building process, the ruling elites sought to transform Ottoman subjects into modern secular citizens by enforcing drastic political and social changes, including the abolition of the Sultanate and the Caliphate, as well as the adoption of the Latin alphabet and the Gregorian calendar. Women’s issues, including women’s education, political participation, and public visibility, were central to the Kemalist project of cultural transformation (Göle 1996). In 1926, polygamy was officially banned with the abolition of Sharia law and the introduction of the new Turkish Civil Code, which ensured equal rights to divorce and inheritance for women. Compulsory coeducation for girls and boys was established in 1924. Women gained the right to vote and to be elected locally in 1930, and nationwide in 1934. From 1935 onward, female deputies became part of the Grand National Assembly (TBMM) and joined debates on women’s issues, including women’s attire (see Yılmaz 2013; also Davaz 2014).11 There is little doubt that the policies of the Republican People’s Party under Mustafa Kemal Atatürk mobilized society for a shift to modernity, but this change did not happen overnight or without precedent. Improving conditions for women was also a key element of the modernization efforts of the Tanzimat reformers (1839–76), who introduced laws allowing marriage in civil court and inheritance for daughters, as well as policies supporting formal education for women. The Young Turks movement continued these efforts to advance the status of women. Undergraduate education for women started with the establishment of İnâs Darülfünunu (Women’s University) in 1914 (Mahir Metinsoy 2017). The portrait of Hamdiye and Zahide thus gives a sense of the degree of liberalization and Europeanization achieved during the Young Turk era, which, later on, made it easier for the urban middle classes to adopt and, to a certain degree, also welcome the drastic reforms of the new Turkish Republic. Figure 1.9 from October 18, 1929, features a confident young woman named Bedriye, who crosses her arms and stands, in a way that suggests equality, power, and freedom, next to a man. Her bob haircut with soft curls reflects one of the internationally fashionable hairstyles of the 1920s, as worn by the likes of Marlene Dietrich and Coco Chanel. She shows a hint of a smile and does not wear any makeup or jewelry. Looking at the pose and posture of both figures in this studio portrait, it seems unlikely that they are husband and wife. The similarities in the facial features instead suggest they might be related; they could be siblings. However, it is hard to

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Figures 1.9 and 1.10  (recto and verso) A studio portrait, signed by “Bedriye,” October 18, 1929. 13.5 × 8.7 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

guess the age of both sitters, particularly that of the man, due to heavy retouching. The note on the back of the portrait (Figure  1.10) reads “to my dear uncle and Ms. Fahrünissa,” possibly referring to the uncle’s wife.12 Bedriye could be a college student or a fresh graduate who recently started working, perhaps as a teacher, which was one of the most prestigious and highly promoted professions for women at the time. After the foundation of the Republic, the term “Cumhuriyet Kadını” (The Republican Woman) became increasingly popular. Throughout the first half of the twentieth century, the image of the “new Turkish woman” as the Republican Woman was promoted through newspapers, magazines, novels, and films, particularly catering to middle-class women (Sirman 2005: 254–5). The Republican Woman is most closely identified with a new, secular appearance that replaced religious and ethnic clothing with Western dress. Yeşim Arat (1997: 100) suggests that the reforms that helped secularize and Westernize the Republic encouraged women to play new public roles in Turkish society. As Göle (1996: 31) explains, women’s visibility in the public sphere and the social mixing of men and women were promoted, also through photography: Photographs of women unveiled, of women in athletic competitions, of female pilots and professionals, and photographs of men and women “miming”

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European lifestyles depicted the new modernist interpretations of a “prestigious” life in the Turkish nation-state. Novels of the Turkish Republic, focused on this new “civilized” way of life-on its decor, goods, and clothing-celebrated the ideal attributes and rituals of a “progressivist and civilized” republican individual: tea saloons, dinners, balls, and streets were defined as the public spaces for the socializing sexes; husbands and wives walking hand in hand, men and women shaking hands, dancing at balls, or dining together, reproduced the European mode of encounter between male and female.

Unlike in the Ottoman era, when modernization remained limited to small circles of elites, the Kemalists aimed to spread the reforms rapidly among the new Turkish middle class. In this context, the Westernized upper and upper-middle classes served as a “support base” for the RPP, particularly given that “their dress and life styles furnished a model for the lower and middle classes to emulate” (Yılmaz 2013: 105). With her boyish appearance and poised posture, Bedriye represents a classed desire to construct an image for herself that resonates with what the new Turkish woman represented for the Kemalist regime: a secular, Westernized, educated woman who is no longer covered and no longer wears either çarşaf or peçe (face veil), or any ethnic or traditional clothing. The idea of the Republican Woman also included that of being a loyalist who believes in and supports the modernization project of the new regime. A young woman like Bedriye, who would be encouraged to participate in the workforce, exemplifies the dynamic femininity required in a rapidly changing society. She would be expected to enjoy Western (alafranga, from Italian alla franca) music, adopt European eating habits, adhere to Western fashion and lifestyle trends, and attend public ballroom dances. As a fervent believer in modern education, she would be encouraged to have a Western education. After finishing her education, she would be expected to contribute to the national economy alongside men, in sharp contrast to the image of the traditional Ottoman woman as a “passive subject,” who was confined to the private sphere and kept away from the public eye. The differences between Figures 1.7 and 1.9 illustrate the striking changes that occurred in the visual register considered appropriate for urban Muslim women within the span of a decade under the influence of Kemalism. Yılmaz (2013: 2) argues that “it was the image of the new, Western-looking Turkish woman that symbolized Republican modernity more forcefully than any other image,” and that replaced the normative ideal of the “Muslim Family Woman” (Ersoy 2016). Regulating the dress code for women, significantly, was not only considered a way to ensure national unity, but also a way to construct a modern image of Turkey in the international political arena. In these two portraits, women negotiate their shifting identities as Ottoman subjects and, later on, as modern Turkish citizens. The portraits reflect the social changes that upper- and middle-class urban women experienced in the last days of the Ottoman Empire and during the first decade of the Republic. Their representational value is what makes them iconic today: They exemplify the image of a nineteenth-century Ottoman Muslim elite woman

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versus the image of a modern Republican Turkish woman, regardless of the sitters’ individual identity. These two images reflect both state discourses and debates in the media regarding modern Muslim womanhood at the turn of the twentieth century, which hint at the emergence of a thriving feminist movement. Indeed, the creation and adoption of the new Turkish woman image by women like Bedriye were only possible thanks to the legacy of the burgeoning feminist movement that spread among the Ottoman elites from the mid-nineteenth century onward. Ottoman modernization made it acceptable, by 1920, for the two sisters in Figure  1.7 to pose, without a face veil, for a family portrait. Thus, both portraits, taken in the semipublic/semiprivate setting of the studio, can be seen as embodiments of a proud modern self that is representative of the period in which they were taken.

Women in the Public Sphere Figure 1.11 is one of the first photographs I purchased in Istanbul in 2014. The detailed handwritten note in Ottoman Turkish on the reverse (Figure 1.12) reveals a momentous gathering: It is a group portrait of the first graduating class of the Darülfünun (today’s Istanbul University) Geography Faculty and their teachers, taken in August/September 1919 (or 1335 according to the Rumi calendar). The students, standing at the back, are Hamdi Efendi, Şükûfe Nihal Hanım, and Huzni (?) Efendi. The note indicates that alumnus Ali Efendi was not present at the time of the shoot.13 The teachers, seated, are Faik Sabri Bey (Faik Sabri Duran, 1882– 1943); Ali Macid Bey (Ali Macit Arda 1885–1967); and, in the middle, Director Mehmed Emin Bey (Mehmet Emin Erişirgil, 1891–1965). I found this image compelling because it shows an Ottoman woman posing next to men in what appears to be a classroom setting, a public space. It is very rare to find a large late-Ottoman era group portrait like Figure 1.11 on the market, even less so now than in 2014, given the rising value of photographs from the Ottoman period. The woman in the middle is Şükûfe Nihal Başar (1896–1973), a prominent feminist writer, poet, activist, and the first female Darülfünun graduate of the Ottoman Empire (and consequently Turkey).14 Şükûfe Nihal Hanım came from an elite family; her grandfather was chief physician to Sultan Murad V. She was educated in various cities, including Damascus and Thessaloniki, and was sent to private schools where she learned French, Arabic, and Farsi. She started writing poetry at a young age. She was married off at the age of sixteen and had a child soon after. Yet she was adamant about continuing her education and enrolled at the Women’s University in 1916 (Argunşah 2011). She eventually divorced her first husband and married an ex-classmate from the university, Ahmet Hamdi Başar, who must be the man listed as Hamdi Bey in Figure 1.11, standing next to her (possibly to her left) (Argunşah 2011). In 1919, the alumni and teachers of the Darülfünun Geography Department represented a small Westernized intellectual elite. Having fought for women’s access

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to education, Şükûfe Nihal became one of the most prominent feminist writers and activists of the Ottoman Empire and modern Turkey, alongside Fatma Aliye (Topuz), Nezihe Muhiddin (Tepedelengil), and Halide Edib (Adıvar).15 After the Turkish War of Independence, Hamdi Bey went on to become a prominent Kemalist politician. Their Sorbonne-educated teacher Faik Sabri Bey (Faik Sabri Duran, 1882–1943) was one of the first and foremost Turkish geographers, publishing a number of textbooks and atlases between the 1910s and 1930s. The other teacher in the picture, Ali Macid Bey, also educated in France, was one of the founding scholars of modern geography in Turkey and taught geography at Darülfünun until

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Figures 1.11 and 1.12  (recto and verso) Darülfünun Geography Class, first alumni and teachers, Istanbul, August/September 1919 (Rumi 1335). 29.7 × 23.7 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

1952. Director Mehmed Emin Bey took up various government posts following his position as Dean at Darülfünun, including that of Interior Minister in 1949. Negotiating space and gender, the men in this image perform their modernity and progress by posing next to Şükûfe Nihal, which emphasizes her status as a modern, educated, and independent woman. In many group portraits of the era,

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women are placed in front of men, oftentimes seated rather than standing, as a gesture of politeness that also conveys the man’s duty to “protect” and “take care of ” women. Here, however, the hierarchy between the teachers and the students takes precedence, with the front row occupied by the three male teachers, the director in the middle. The single woman student is positioned in the middle of the second row, giving a sense of symmetry. Figure  1.13, a group portrait of 16 men and 1 woman, bears similarities to Figure 1.11 in the way it was composed. The woman is placed in the center of the composition, with the men evenly distributed to her left and right. Both images are formal group portraits. Like Figure 1.11, Figure 1.13 seems to have been taken by a professional studio photographer. The outfits and mustache styles, particularly the toothbrush mustache that became increasingly popular in the 1930s, help us place the picture in the early to mid-1930s. Figure  1.13 could be a group portrait of government employees or teachers, although the garden and the type of building in the background give the impression of a school. The profession of teacher was one of the most socially acceptable and prestigious professions for women at the time, making the setting more likely to be a school. While Figures 1.11 and 1.13 are a decade apart, they have the similar setup of a group portrait in which a hierarchy of social and professional positions is highlighted through a carefully designed seating order in rows. Taking Figure 1.11 as an example, the four men sitting at the front in Figure 1.13 seem to be of a higher rank, possibly the headmaster and head teachers. Men dominated the professional

Figure 1.13  A group portrait, circa 1930s. 9.0 × 13.9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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sphere in the 1930s, as indicated by the fact that the male colleagues surrounding her vastly outnumber the only woman in the picture. Like Şükûfe Nihal, the woman is emphatically put at the center of the picture. She is not placed according to the institutional hierarchy but according to her gender. Because of her position in the center of the image, our eyes are drawn to her. Her centrality could be read as a gesture of respect or a form of positive discrimination, setting her apart from the male teachers, while simultaneously sending a message of equality and thus progressiveness. As in Figure 1.11, placing the woman at the center with the same number of men to her left and to her right provides a sense of symmetry. In Figure 1.13, some of the subjects, including the woman, pose with a slight smile, and they seem more comfortable and relaxed in front of the camera than the men and woman in Figure 1.11, whose poses are rather stiff. In Figure  1.11, there is only a small space between Şükûfe Nihal and the men next to and in front of her. For a Muslim woman, posing with men for a formal photograph that was probably meant for public use would have been an exceptional act in a conservative society in which, until the early 1900s, women were barred from being seen in public with men (Yaraman 2001: 25). Accordingly, in Figure  1.11, some distance is maintained. A decade later, in Figure  1.13, the woman is fully integrated into the group with no extra space around her. Given the public nature of these images, it is highly likely that Figures 1.11 and 1.13 were taken by male photographers, who dominated the profession both in studio and itinerant photography. This brings up the question of the agency of the male photographer, who had to negotiate his masculine and modern self in representing modern femininities. It is hard to speculate as to the degree to which the photographer manipulated the poses and postures and, through cropping and retouching, the final print. The level of interference would also have been determined by the professional style and reputation of the photographer. In both images, the appearance of the women and men reflects the fashion trends of their era. In Figure 1.11, Şükûfe Nihal, just like Hamdiye and Zahide, wears the fashionable two-piece çarşaf with short sleeves, and sections of her hair are visible behind the head cover. In Figure 1.13, the woman wears a dark-colored 1930s maxi dress and, similar to Bedriye in Figure 1.9, is unveiled and has a short, wavy hairdo. As for the men, apart from minor differences such as the absence of a pocket square or wearing a bow tie instead of a tie, their outfits, poses, and postures are almost identical in Figures 1.11 and 1.13. Their suits, carefully knotted ties, collared shirts, long jackets (redingot), pocket squares, pocket watches, round glasses and double-breasted vests bear a high degree of similarity. However, while the men in Figure 1.11 affirm and reinforce their identity as progressive Ottoman men, the men in Figure 1.13 embrace their loyalty to the Kemalist regime and its modernization project through the same appearance. Figure  1.13 seems to have been composed in such a way as to emphasize professional and class differences. In the upper row, the only three men (two on the far left and one on the far right) who do not wear a suit or a tie seem to belong to a different profession and class. Their outfit suggests that they could be workers. Notably, all three have a trimmed mustache in the Ottoman fashion, similar to the

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men in Figure 1.11. This might indicate that the mustache as a sign of Ottoman masculinity remained prevalent among the lower classes, which tended to be more conservative. The class differences are also discernible in the poses and postures. In Figure 1.13, the three workers in the top row all adopt the same stiff posture with their arms by their sides, while the others are comfortable striking distinct poses, putting their hands in their pocket (three men sitting in front), clasping their hands behind their back (the men standing in the second row), resting their hand on a chair (the woman and the man sitting at the far right in front) or on their coat (the man in the middle of the top row), similar to the upper-class men and woman in Figure 1.11. In Figures 1.11 and 1.13, the composition of the front row is strikingly similar. The men on the far right are looking off camera, the men in the middle are crossing their legs, a pose that represents civility and refinement, and the men on the far left strike a similar, slightly awkward pose with one or both hands on their legs. These similarities and the overall resemblance between the appearances of the men in both pictures suggest that the shift in the desired image of masculinity for urban middle-class men was less radical between the late Ottoman and early Republican periods than that in the normative image of femininity. Feminist thought had already started to spread among the elite women of Istanbul and other cosmopolitan cities in the nineteenth-century Ottoman Empire.16 Debates on issues related to women’s rights and gender roles, including access to education and paid work, and the abolition of the Islamic veil and polygamy were circulating in novels as well as in progressive newspapers and magazines.17 The first women’s magazine Terakki-i Muhadderat was launched in 1869, soon followed by several others.18 In a 1919 article in Büyük Macmua, for instance, the prominent journalist Sabiha Zekeriya (Sabiha Sertel) illustrated the prevalent nationalist-modernist mentality of the time by defining the ideal woman as the modern woman who participates in social life and labor force as equal to men, and who strengthens her position in her family, as opposed to the parasite bourgeois woman who lives off her rich husband, or the abused housewife type (Özman and Bulut 2003: 202–4 in Sancar 2017: 108). Ironically, the burgeoning feminist movement of the late Ottoman period, in which Şükûfe Nihal was a major figure, was cut short by the introduction of state feminism under the RPP regime (Çaha 2016; White 2003; Yılmaz 2010). The RPP used state feminism as a government policy, establishing official bodies that were “formally given the task of working on behalf of women’s status and rights” (Stetson and Mazur 1995: 1–2). The Kemalist regime soon alienated some of the most prominent women activists who had supported the Independence War and the revolution, including Nezihe Muhiddin and Halide Edib Adıvar,19 particularly following the installation of the Turkish Constitution of 1924, which denied women the right to vote and stand for election despite numerous demands and campaigns (Sancar 2017). Zihnioğlu (2003) aptly describes the Turkish case as a “women’s revolution without women” that was essentially concerned with giving women civil rather than political rights. Instead of joining the political elite to

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build and rule the country together with men, women functioned as symbols of a modern, national Turkish cultural identity, as mothers of the nation and carers for tradition and national culture (Sancar 2017: 112). The way the Turkish state conceived of the role of women was not isolated from the global political and social context of the time. Turkey acted within a global context of burgeoning feminist movements following the First World War, although the regime was less keen on following international trends that would actually give women real political power than on following international trends that gave women a modern appearance, adopting fashion trends from countries like France, Britain, and the United States in the 1920s. In the 1930s, the Kemalists increasingly came under the political and cultural influence of the rising Fascist regimes of Italy and Germany, which were more interested in using women as national symbols than in giving them political power. Not coincidentally, the image the Kemalists attributed to the modern Turkish woman in the formative years shares certain characteristics with that propagated under the Hitler (1933–45) and Mussolini regimes (1922–43), which confined women to the roles of submissive spouses and strong mothers, although both regimes claimed that they promoted women’s modernity (Koonz 2013). Sancar writes that the vision of the Turkish modernization process evolved from “joining the European civilization” in the 1920s to “creating its own national civilization” by the 1930s. In this process, while feminized images defined the iconography of the nation, the practice of nationalism remained reserved for the masculine (Silva 2003: 37). Despite the Republic’s discourses on women’s rights and emancipation, its policies served to exclude women from politics and state administration by creating social roles and public positions specific to women rather than opening the door to truly equal citizenship. In cases where such policies did not exclude women, they silenced them or made them secondary (Sancar 2017: 125). By the mid-1930s, the ideal of the new Turkish woman, as imposed by state feminism, became primarily concerned with creating secular women citizens responsible for raising future generations and making them equally loyal to the principles of the new regime. Motherhood was designated as the primary duty for the new Turkish woman, and the morality of women was measured by their “dignified” and “pure” behavior as mothers (Sancar 2017; Zihnioğlu 2003). While in the public sphere women remained the symbols and advocates of modernity, they were incorporated into the nation-building process as protectors of tradition at home (Sancar 2017).20 Baydar (2002) shows that in magazines of the time the man owned “the modern Turkish house,” but it was the woman who provided comfort, care, and beauty for the home. In line with this, chastity (iffet) remained a core trait for the ideal woman (Kadıoğlu 1993, 1996, 1998), who had to perform the role of a proper wife (mazbut aile kadını), defined as restrained, prudent, dutiful, and competent (Sancar 2017). With the abolition of polygamy and the setting of an age limit for marriage, women became freer to choose whom they wanted to marry and had equal rights to inheritance, but, as Yeşim Arat (1998) notes, the breadwinner (aile reisi) was

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still determined as being the man. Women’s morality, moreover, was regulated by the ruling men, who were concerned that women’s excessive Westernization could lead to debauchery and moral degeneration. As Sancar argues (2017), the image of the modern Turkish woman as chaste and dutiful was designed to show Turkey’s difference from and moral superiority to the West. To be able to compete with men in the workforce and to “rise” to a certain status in society, women needed to strip themselves of their sexuality and become “masculinized” (Yaraman 2011: 43). As Göle (1996: 15) argues: Among the cast of characters of the new republic, the serious, hardworking, professional women devoted to national progress, appeared as a touchstone set apart from a “superficial” and mannered claim for Europeanness. Against Ottoman cosmopolitanism, Kemalist female characters endorsed seriousness, modesty, and devotion and accommodated the presumed (pre-Islamic) Anatolian traditional traits—thus, they represented the nationalist project.

The regime attributed the “sacred mother” role to peasant or Anatolian women (Anadolu Kadını), who bore the biggest burden of the Turkish War of Independence, fighting alongside men. In a famous speech in Izmir in 1923, Atatürk said that no woman in the world could claim to have worked harder than the Anatolian woman in leading her nation to liberation and victory, and that a woman’s most important task was to become a mother. Yet the new Turkish woman was primarily devised as an urban woman. As a result, the disparity between the normative images available for women grew: Urban women shown in shorts doing sports at national celebrations or dancing at balls in fancy gowns contrasted starkly with peasant women portrayed in traditional clothes, leaving the latter largely unaware of the rights they now had (Yılmaz 2013). The drastic political and social shift from the progressive Roaring Twenties to the rise of Fascist governments across the world might explain some of the ideological confusion experienced by the Kemalists when carving out a new identity for the Turkish nation-state and its citizens. The visual reflections of such ideological confusion can be observed in the portraits of Bedriye in Figure 1.9 and the woman in Figure 1.13. Both women perform a feminine self that highlights their chastity and modesty with their demure pose and posture, and with their clothes, which do not emphasize their sexuality. At the same time, their boyish appearance arguably reflects global fashion trends, from flapper girl bob haircuts and finger waves in the 1920s to maxi dresses in the 1930s. The boyish look itself was a revolution in the West, emblematic of the Roaring Twenties, which, unlike the 1930s, represented “the consolidation of a new emancipatory vision, in revolt against the old order, which included suffragists, but in decided harmony with modern feminist concepts: egalitarianism, vocational commitment outside the home, personal autonomy and empowerment, freedom of sexual expression” (Honey 1990: 26). By adopting the fashion trends of the Roaring Twenties without fully benefiting from what this era represents for women’s rights, the two women

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in Figures 1.9 and 1.13 illustrate the ambiguities of how women were portrayed in the Kemalist era, negotiating the performance of conflicting gender roles between modernity and tradition. The portraits I have discussed symbolize the desire to document the rapidly modernizing public spaces of the Ottoman Empire and the modern Turkish Republic, including educational institutions, in which women became increasingly visible as modern citizens. However, this growing visibility, which was not immediately accompanied by growing political rights, only intensified the burden on women, who found themselves in a position of constantly having to prove their morality. Throughout the 1930s, the imposition of state feminism led to what Tekeli (1986) calls “a schizophrenic identity” for women where they defined the boundaries of their lives according to the national ideals and duties assigned by the state, at the expense of their own personal wishes. Women were expected to perform a modern feminine self that emphasized chastity and modesty even as they were encouraged by the regime to take on an array of professions or social roles previously deemed shameful, such as singing in public, acting, or entering beauty contests.

Unresolved Femininity: The Case of a Beauty Queen

Figures 1.14 and 1.15  (recto and verso): A studio portrait of “Naşide Saffet Hanım Turkish beauty queen of the year 1931.” 13.9 × 9.0 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 1.14, a studio portrait of a stylish woman, embodies much of the ideological confusion with regard to the position of women the Turkish Republic had to negotiate in its early years. It is an original postcard-sized gelatin silver print dedicated “To my dear sister Ulviye”21 per the Ottoman Turkish on the reverse (Figure 1.15), which continues: “Naşide Saffet Hanım, Turkish beauty queen of the year 1931.” This image (Figure 1.14) stands out as a fascinating example of how a studio portrait of a Turkish beauty queen came to be circulated among family and friends in the early 1930s. It suggests that sharing images of Turkish beauty icons to propagate an ideal image of femininity was already a known practice in the 1920s and 1930s (Akçura 2001: 228–61; Shissler 2004).22 It was likely someone of her own generation who gave the portrait to Ulviye as a present, admiring Naşide Saffet’s looks, clothes, or her fame following her “success” as a beauty queen, which the giver must have thought Ulviye would appreciate. In Turkey’s transition to modernity, beauty contests played an important role in promoting and reproducing the image of the modern Republican woman nationally and internationally. The Kemalists supported the idea without questioning the objectification of women involved. In a conservative society where any exposure of the female body had been considered indecent, beauty contests functioned as a way to certify how modern Turkey had become. Sancar (2017: 242) notes that, for Republican modernists, beauty contests were seen as a way to keep up with the West rather than as related to sexual morality. At the same time, beauty queens, who could wear elegant clothes, live in expensive places and marry rich and important men taught the hegemonic male gaze to construct a desirable woman to dream about, while offering young women who dreamed of marrying rich elite men an ideal to emulate (Sancar 2017: 242). Predictably, beautiful women were associated with the institution of marriage and the contestants were often mentioned in relation to the men they married (Sancar 2017: 242). For Turkey’s first “officially recognized” beauty contest in 1929, the organizer, the Cumhuriyet newspaper, launched a major publicity campaign.23 News items and announcements urged Turkish “unmarried girls of high moral character” to enter the contest, insisting that it would be patriotic to do so. As part of its campaign, Cumhuriyet encouraged contestants to go and have their pictures taken for free. These pictures would then be published in the newspaper over a course of four months. Readers were invited to send in their votes based on the published photographs to make a preselection for the grand jury. All parties, particularly the participants, took the publication of the photographs very seriously. Indeed, unsatisfied with the way her picture appeared in the newspaper, Feriha Tevfik, the beauty queen of 1929, asked for her photograph to be replaced, a request that was accommodated by the newspaper (Akçura 2001: 234–7). Figure  1.16 shows a clipping from 1930, which announces a beauty queen contest launched by Cumhuriyet. The headline reads: “In which photography studios should the beauties have their photographs taken?” The text lists the Beyoğlu studios to which the participants could go to have their pictures taken for free: S. Süreyya, Femina, Foto Franse, Kanzler, Sebah—Juvalye (Sébah & Joaillier),

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Figure 1.16  Cumhuriyet announces the dedicated photo studios for its beauty contest. The announcement lists the studios where the beauty contest participants could have their photographs taken, November 21, 1930, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

Febüs, Pera, A. Belikoff, Egl, Hayrettin, Okos, Roman, Melek, and Foto Alman.24 Despite the increasing number of Muslim photographers, it is striking that a great number of the photography studios listed here belonged to non-Muslim photographers. A Bosnian immigrant born in Istanbul, Naşide Saffet Hanım (Naşide Saffet Esen) was only nineteen when Figure 1.14 was taken. She was studying to become a teacher when she was encouraged by her friends and teachers to enter the beauty contest in 1931, organized by the Cumhuriyet newspaper. At the time, participating in beauty contests was still considered a form of indecency for women, as they

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had to expose their bodies in public, thereby tainting their dignity. While both the pro-regime newspaper and Atatürk himself heavily promoted the Cumhuriyet contest, the Ministry of Education nonetheless found it inappropriate for a teacher to participate. On January 22, 1931, Son Posta reported that Naşide Saffet had been “invited” to leave school after entering the contest. According to Cumhuriyet, however, she left her position of her own accord since she had been absent for ten days due to the preparations for the World Beauty Contest in Paris (Akçura 2001: 251). That same year, Naşide Saffet became engaged to Selahattin Alan, one of the first aircraft engineers of Turkey, whom she married two years later (Hekimoğlu 2005: 31). Similar to that of Bedriye, portrayed in Figure 1.9, Naşide Saffet’s appearance reflects the influence of Western fashion on Turkish women in the 1920s and 1930s.25 The simple dark dress she is wearing in Figure 1.14 is less glamorous than the outfits that appear in some of the other studio portraits from the same period, which are skimpier and more expensive, and paired with flashy jewelry, bags, and shoes. Her finger waves, black cloche dress and pose, with her left knee slightly bent to appear leaner, evoke the widely circulated portraits of 1920s and 1930s Hollywood stars such as Mary Pickford, Greta Garbo, Joan Crawford, Norma Shearer, and Clara Bow. The black tulle delicately covering her shoulders and arms accentuates her elegance. Dressed elegantly yet modestly, just like Bedriye in Figure  1.9, Naşide Saffet represents not only the Western look that the Turkish state aspired to, but also the poise and sophistication that were supposed to accompany it. Figure 1.14 does not bear a studio stamp; however, similar photographs of Naşide Saffet published in the press at the time suggest that it was taken by Süleyman Süreyya Bükey (Foto S. Süreyya), who stood out among his contemporaries with his distinct style. Figure 1.17 from December 7, 1932, showing an article related to Cumhuriyet’s beauty contest photo campaign, features two photographs of a contestant, Fahrünissa Hanım, taken in the Foto S. Süreyya studio, exemplifying the photographer’s use of lights to make his sitters cast dramatic shadows (see also Figure 1.14). In the other photographs of her that I have come across, Naşide Saffet appears in different poses wearing the same outfit as in Figure 1.14: in one of the images she turns her back and looks over her shoulder into the camera; in another profile image, she is leaning against the wall with her hands behind her back, looking down to the floor in a pensive fashion.26 These successive poses suggest that the images, including Figure 1.14, resulted from the official free photo shoot before the beauty contest offered by Cumhuriyet. From his iconic Beyoğlu studio, the Western-educated photographer Süreyya Bükey appears to have projected his interpretation of modern femininity onto these official portraits, which were endorsed by the organizers of the beauty contest. With their carefully choreographed and directed poses and postures, Figure 1.14 and the other images in the series serve as evident manifestations of the agency of the photographer, along with that of the newspaper that published the images, in reproducing and spreading the early Turkish Republic’s normative image of feminine beauty. Akçura (2001: 250) writes that, in 1931, due to a decrease in applications, pictures of contestants were no longer published in the newspaper

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Figure 1.17  An article promoting Cumhuriyet’s beauty contest. The article urges the beauty contest participants to “hurry up” and have their photographs taken “immediately,” December 7, 1932, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

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before the contest. Therefore, it is likely that the circulation of Figure 1.14 only occurred after Naşide Saffet won the contest. The article in Figure 1.17 includes a quote from an anonymous reader, who, impressed with the “statue-like” bodies of the German men and women they saw on a trip to Berlin, emphasizes the importance of physical education in achieving national health and beauty. In the political climate of the 1930s, during which the German and Italian fascist regimes were on the rise, references to the importance of physical education in relation to the “beauty of the Turkish race” mirror the Kemalists’ efforts to consolidate the Turkish national identity through an emphasis on ethnicity and race.27 As Öztamur notes (2002), beauty contests were presented as an opportunity for innocent, well-mannered daughters from good families (aile kızı), with their intelligence, well-trained bodies and foreign language skills, to show the character of the “Turkish race” to the world. Indeed, when Keriman Halis was selected as Turkey’s first Miss Universe in 1932 at the International Pageant of Pulchritude in Spa, Belgium, it was celebrated as a major victory that put Turkey on the map alongside the other “advanced” countries of the West. Atatürk congratulated Halis with the following words: “Knowing that the Turkish race is the world’s most beautiful race historically, I find it only natural that a Turkish girl was elected as Miss Universe.” At the same time, he still advised women to focus on excelling in terms of high culture and high virtue. After the Surname Law was passed in 1934, Atatürk gave Keriman Halis the surname Ece, or Queen (Akçura 2001: 256). In this context, the regime struggled to reconcile the contradiction between ethnocentric claims regarding the beauty of the Turkish race and its eagerness to imitate the Western lifestyle in order to achieve a universal modernity. To accomplish this, the Kemalists emphasized the “moral superiority” of Turkish women over the frivolous women of the West (Sancar 2017). Even Peyami Safa, a prominent novelist and one of the judges of the beauty contest, who had been an adamant critic of Western civilization and its “moral weaknesses,” wrote: “What Keriman Halis has proved to the whole world is not just a personal beauty. She revealed the difference between a Turkish woman, who, until now, was seen as a strange poultry that only served to ‘lay eggs,’ and a smart and wise-looking Turkish girl who is involved in today’s international affairs” (in Akçura 2001: 258). While beauty contests, just like photography, Western clothes, European furniture, or ballroom dancing, were framed and encouraged as markers of modernity and social progress, they were equally seen as vital opportunities to prove the strength of the new Turkish nation to the world. The beauty contests of the 1930s reveal a key moment in modern Turkish history where the kinds of ideological negotiations that took place between the desires and ambitions of women, and the limitations of state feminism come to the surface.28 Actively endorsed and widely covered by the press of the time, the annual beauty contests served to “congeal,” “reify,” and “naturalize” modern gender norms for Turkish women (Butler 2007 [1990]: 45), particularly through the repeated photographic representations of the contestants, published in papers throughout the year, and also, as in Figure 1.17, circulated in the form of postcards. In this context, Cumhuriyet’s photo campaigns

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were proven to be particularly strategic, encouraging women to repeatedly perform the ideal images of beauty, modernity, and chastity as proposed by the regime. It is not improbable that Ulviye, the recipient of Figure  1.17, wanted to follow in the footsteps of Naşide Saffet, and perhaps dreamed of entering a beauty contest herself. Yet, she probably would also have felt pressured to marry and become a mother, and to behave in a modest, chaste way. In any case, the production, reproduction, and circulation of this image of a beauty queen imply that both Naşide Saffet and Ulviye consumed photography to create and emulate the normative image of Turkish womanhood as modern, secular, feminine, and fashionable, yet also serious, dignified, and of high morals. Naşide Saffet’s case thus embodies the ambivalence of, on the one hand, encouraging modern Turkish women to aspire to being beauty queens whose photographs are widely shared, while, on the other hand, emphasizing the need to be a modest, chaste woman whose most important task is to have children and thus to reproduce the nation.

Reading Gender As Edwards (2001a: 236) argues, photographs “have the potential to perform history in ways in which we perhaps least expect when they are used not simply as evidential tools but as tools with which to think through the nature of historical experience.” Figure 1.18 turned out to offer a starting point for a discovery journey in which photographs act as “sites of multiple, contested and contesting histories” (Edwards 2001a: 22). In the context of the questions raised in this chapter with regard to the visibility of normative early Republican femininities in vernacular photography, Figure 1.18 provides a new understanding of the series of six images I discussed at the beginning of Part 1 (Figures 1.1–1.6) since it features the same person, whom I was able to identify thanks to the geographical clues offered by the image and the inscription. This oversized photograph was taken in May 1934 in the Çapa district of Istanbul, outdoors, in a park or a garden. Taken outside a studio setting, the slightly blurry image captures a more candid instance in the person’s everyday life than the first six images (Figures 1.1–1.6). The inscription reads “To our dearest teacher, a souvenir from the last days,” and ends with two names: Fahamet and Macide.29 The building in the background is the historical Çapa Öğretmen Okulu (Teachers’ School), the oldest teachers’ training school in Turkey.30 Unlike the ambivalence generated by the first six images with regard to the gender of the sitter, Figure 1.18 features a figure dressed in a recognizably and normatively feminine manner. Embracing the image of the new Republican woman, her hair is not covered, except by a fashionable hat, reflective of the Western fashion trends of the 1920s and 1930s. Her short hair too was quite fashionable at the time, as noted earlier. She is modest in her appearance and does not wear any makeup or ostentatious jewelry, except for an elegant flower-shaped brooch adorning a stylish double-breasted 1930s trench coat. Smiling at the camera or at whoever is holding

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Figure 1.18  Outside the Çapa Teachers’ School, May 1934. 17.7 × 23.0 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

it, the woman in Figure 1.18 seems to be the teacher that the two students dedicate their notes to. Born in 1905, this woman was Nebahat Hâmit Karaorman,31 a prominent educator who taught pedagogy and mental health at the Çapa Teachers’ Training School for Women and philosophy at the Kabataş High School. Her name appears in various articles praising her as one of the exemplary women of modern Turkey as well as in the programs of feminist conferences from the mid-1930s. She wrote a book titled Cinsi Terbiye (Sex Education) that was published in 1933 as part of a conference proceeding. Her name is mentioned among the first feminists of the Republic, as a “sex education specialist,” who advocated for raising awareness of sexuality and adding sex education classes to the curriculum in all schools (Davaz 2014). Taking part in a pivotal moment for Turkish feminism, Nebahat Hâmit was one of the twelve delegates chosen to participate in the 12th International Women’s Congress in 1935, hosted by the Turkish Women’s Union, of which she was a member. She was married to a prominent lawyer, Hamit Karaorman, who held shares in one of Istanbul’s first apartments, the Barnathan Apartment in Galata, once a multiethnic and multireligious neighborhood that, over the decades, witnessed the displacement of Turkey’s non-Muslim communities. In a National

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Geographic article from 1939 on the transformation of Turkey, in which she is described as a “charming lady,” Nebahat Hâmit explains that she and her husband took the surname Karaorman (Black Forest) because they met in the Black Forest region in Germany (Chandler 1939).32 In the photographs that exist of her, Nebahat Hâmit projects, or, in Butler’s notion, performs the image of the new secular Republican Woman. She was well educated, and, as promoted by the regime, became an educator herself. As such, she offers a glimpse into the life of a sophisticated urban middle-class Turkish woman from Istanbul who belonged to the relatively small intellectual elite of the very early years of the Republic. From the Surname Law to the changing demographics of Istanbul, Nebahat Hâmit’s life offers a microcosm through which to explore some of the rapid political and social changes that the country underwent in the early Republican era. In interviews from the 1930s, Nebahat Hâmit demonstrates a pro-Kemalist and modernist outlook. She promotes modern marriage, arguing that young men and women should meet and get to know each other outside the constraints of an arranged marriage, and expresses her disapproval of child brides (March 26, 1930, Milliyet). On the other hand, in an Akşam interview conducted a few years later, she boasts about her happy, long-lasting marriage, claiming that “a good wife is like wine; she excels with age.” In this interview, she presents the view that the woman is tasked with taking care of her husband and her household, a quite traditional perspective on the role of the woman in the family that remained popular in the 1930s (June 15, 1935, Akşam). Why did Nebahat Hâmit have those six studio photographs (Figures 1.1–1.6) taken? Was she experimenting with her own image? Was she looking for a more feminine look in her studio portraits, as the retouching may imply, or was she simply following the trends of her era? Were these photographs meant to establish her image as a teacher? Finally, what do the remarkable similarities between Nebahat Hâmit’s portraits in Figures 1.2 and 1.3 and feminist author Halide Edib’s portrait from profile in Figure 1.19 point to? Undoubtedly, photography was an integral part of her Westernized, urban middle-class lifestyle; yet, even though her interviews offer some clues about her views on gender roles in Turkish society, the questions regarding the portraits remain unanswered. When I first chose to study Nebahat Hâmit’s studio portraits, I imagined them as representations of a subversion of the norm in the form of gender-play, which undoubtedly co-existed with conforming representations in studio photography across the Middle East. The revelation of the sitter’s identity, however, urges us to be careful about reading gender in photography, especially retrospectively, as it suggests that she was most likely trying to embody the new Turkish woman rather than challenging Kemalist gender norms. It is still possible that Nebahat Hâmit was engaging in some kinds of gender-play or, as Browne and Nash (2010: 3) put it, an “assemblage of practices of the self,” in the way she experimented with different looks in the studio photographs. Yet, as Butler (2007 [1990]: xiv) points out, “gender can be rendered ambiguous without disturbing or reorienting normative sexuality at all. Sometimes gender ambiguity can operate precisely

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to contain or deflect non-normative sexual practice and thereby work to keep normative sexuality intact.” In this case, what the ambivalence of the performance of gender in Nebahat Hâmit’s portraits appears most expressive of is not an act of subversion on her part (or that of the photographer), but rather the ambivalence that inhabited the ideal Republican woman at the heart of Kemalist ideology. The portraits evoke the same confusion as Naşide Saffet’s photographs, on the one hand adopting a professional, serious image of the career woman who does not emphasize her sexuality and whose gender performance tends toward the masculine, and, on the other hand, taking on looks in tune with the idea that the Turkish Republican woman should be beautiful and feminine. In her portraits, Nebahat Hâmit negotiates the gap between these two sides of the new Turkish Woman, pointing to the almost impossible task of performing both at the same

Figure 1.19  A portrait of Halide Edib, published in Under Five Sultans (1929).

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time. In the end, therefore, her case reminds us of the perils of assessing gendered performances in historical visual material and urges us to question what our “informed” contemporary gaze may read into such material.

­Conclusion Published on March 22, 1934, the first edition of the women’s magazine Cumhuriyet Kadını defined the Republican Woman as the “Perfect Woman” (in Himam and Tekcan 2014: 249): A woman living in the Republican era is not monolithic. She is as much present in the workforce as she is in social life. She is a thinking woman as well as one who delights in finery. The Republican Woman is the perfect woman, who is as devoted to intellectual debates, literary trends and sports, as she is to being a good housewife, mother and spouse.

This definition, which exemplifies the Kemalist regime’s perspective on women in the 1920s and 1930s, imagines a double identity for the new Turkish woman that is almost unattainable. In this chapter, I have looked at how urban middleclass Turkish women negotiated the Republican ideal of the “perfect woman” in formal portraits taken in and outside studio settings. These portraits suggest that in the transition from the Ottoman Empire to the Turkish Republic urban women increasingly adopted photography as a way to perform their classed and gendered identity, putting forward their “best selves” as modern secular citizens and reflecting the drastic social and political transformations that the Turkish society went through under the Kemalist regime. In the Kemalist psyche of the time, the shift from çarşaf to Western dress was seen as the primary criterion for women’s emancipation. Photographs from the 1920s and 1930s are often evoked as illustrating the Revolution’s success. Comparisons between portraits taken in the late Ottoman and early Republican eras show that, in both contexts, urban women largely performed their modernity and femininity in accordance with the reigning norms. However, while urban middle-class women of the new Turkish Republic generally conveyed a sense of conformity with Kemalist ideas about femininity in their photographic representations, they still had much to contend with and potentially to feel dissatisfied about in the early years of the Republic, including the male-dominated political apparatus, the masculinizing project of state feminism, the constraints of what remained a conservative Muslim society, the limits to their aspirations imposed by their class position, as well as global social and cultural trends. As Kandiyoti (1997a: 128) argues with regard to the latter, the shaping of female subjectivities cannot be thought independently from “mediations through multiple codes articulated through fashion and modes of consumption.” The forms of femininity performed in photographic representations are closely connected to a large, not necessarily

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coherent network of political and cultural influences that includes particular modes of consuming photography. The visual uniformity of the “best selves” portrayed in the studio portraits I have discussed in this chapter reveals the classed and gendered nature of the new Republican identity, which became increasingly monolithic and ethnicity-focused in the 1930s under the influence of rising nationalist and fascist movements globally. In this context, images that challenged accepted social norms and official discourses are likely to have been discouraged and perceived as risky. Even if such images were produced, they are likely to have been destroyed in order to keep them from sullying the sitters’ reputations, thus preventing them from showing up in the public sphere many decades later.

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The Kemalists privileged the construction of an “ideal woman” for the Republic over that of an “ideal man.” Although Kemalist reforms such as the 1926 Civil Code regulated the lives of both men and women, discussions concerning issues such as equal rights to inheritance, testimony, legal marriage, and the ban on polygamy primarily revolved around their effect on women. Yet the role and appearance of men also had to be redefined in the context of a Turkish society that sought to portray itself as modern (Sancar 2017; Yılmaz 2013). Thus, while the veil for women was never officially banned, the state did intervene in men’s attire through the Hat Law in 1925 (Kandiyoti 1997a). In addition, Atatürk closely associated his public image as an industrious and charismatic leader and modern statesman, carefully crafted and communicated domestically as well as internationally, with the image of the modern Turkish nation in progress. As Enis Dinç (2020: 120) has shown, by using the medium of film, the “father” of the nation “tried to leave nothing to chance” when presenting himself and the Turkish nation “as countering Orientalist stereotypes.” For Faik Gür (2001 in Özyürek 2006: 96), “Atatürk came to represent and embody the new nation and the ‘new man’ that the republic aimed to create.” Nevertheless, unlike the widespread conceptualization of the modern Turkish woman, the public debates and social reforms of the 1920s and 1930s did not as explicitly deal with the making of the modern Turkish man. As the Kemalists worked hard to define and disseminate their idea of what the new Turkish woman should look and live like, how was the image of the new Turkish man conceived and circulated? What were the components of the new Republican masculinity, as compared with Ottoman masculinity? This chapter will investigate visual representations of men in vernacular photography in an attempt to dissect the characteristics of the ideal “Republican Man.” As in Chapter 1, I will examine the roots of the image of the ideal Turkish man in the making of the modern Ottoman man as represented in literature and the press from the mid-nineteenth century onward. Compared to the large number of scholarly works in Women’s Studies, scholarship in Men’s Studies in Turkey, particularly scholarship focusing on the molding of the modern Turkish man in the early Republican era, is relatively scarce.1 Among the leading scholars to examine gendered representations in

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the early Republic, Serpil Sancar (2017), Nükhet Sirman (1998, 2000), Deniz Kandiyoti (1997b), Ayşe Durakbaşa (1998), Ayşe Gül Altınay (2004), and Duygu Köksal (1998) have studied representations of the modern Turkish man in politics, literature, the military, and the press, taking a critical stance toward both hegemonic masculinities and state feminism. Through the analysis of several selected photographs, this chapter aims to contribute to the scholarship on representations of Turkish masculinities in general, and in the early Republican era more specifically. Identifying a set of genres that played a pivotal role in the construction of these modern Turkish masculinities, such as military and family portraits, I will begin by looking at how urban middle-class men used photography to perform their desired selves as modern citizens, modern fathers, and modern husbands in the early years of the Republic. Next, I will study what the making of this new modern masculinity meant for the establishment of the Republic and its nation-building process. This chapter explores some of the common types of representations of men that were established and consolidated in vernacular photographs in the 1920s and 1930s, which contributed to the formation of the modern Turkish identity. The four types of representations that I discuss, namely the joyful soldier, the gentleman, the modern husband, and the modern father, collectively shaped the ideal image of the Turkish man as a loyal supporter of the Kemalist regime. This chapter primarily looks at when and how men performed their desired selves in one or more of these categories to negotiate their classed masculinities in portrait photography. In the latter part of the chapter, I also examine the potential forms of gender play that might have challenged the hegemonic masculinities formed in the early Republican era. Paralleling the last part of Chapter  1, I conclude Chapter 2 with a discussion of queer readings of vernacular photographs in order to highlight the kind of challenges such readings pose and the opportunities they offer for a deeper understanding of gender performativities of the era.

The Joyful Soldier Taken on April 3, 1934, Figure  2.1 features a young soldier. It is likely that this young man was a graduate of a military high school, about to start his professional career as a soldier at the time of this photograph.2 Rather than the young man himself, however, it was the Turkish inscription on the back that attracted my attention when I encountered the photograph.3 The inscription reads (Figure 2.2): “Şişmanlayacaksın,” which translates as “You will put on weight,” or “You will get fat.” This note instantly captured my imagination. Perhaps it was the soldier’s retrospective prophecy, written later in life to his younger self, who ended up gaining weight. Or perhaps “Şişmanlayacaksın” was a contemporary inscription by a family member or the soldier himself. Leaving these speculations aside, I was intrigued by the way the reference to the soldier’s weight evokes concerns about his body.

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In Bir Maniniz Yoksa Annemler Size Gelecek, a volume of essays on daily life in the 1970s in Turkey, Ayfer Tunç (2003: 323) explains the tradition of “military photographs” (askerlik fotoğrafı), which seems to have remained unchanged since the 1920s: ­ ere were two types of military photographs. The first kind included soldiers, Th who had their pictures taken by professional photographers that came to their

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Figures 2.1 and 2.2  (recto and verso) A young man in a military uniform, April 3, 1934. 23.7 × 17.5 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

garrison. In such images, everyone looked cheerful yet a little rough; you would notice that people did not put much effort into posing. If a photograph was to be sent to the family, names of all family members would be written on the reverse. Once the son was back from the military, pictures showing him doing various tasks such as peeling potatoes, watering plants, cleaning his rifle would

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make everyone laugh and offer him a good excuse to talk about his memories from the military days. The second type of pictures included official studio photographs of soldiers posing in their uniforms. These would be signed and sent to the family. In the early 1970s, these official studio portraits in uniforms held a central place in the photo albums of many small-town men who served in the military as reserve officers.

Figure  2.1 fits into the latter type that Tunç discusses. Judging by the white tapes without any rank insignia, this seems to be a military high school graduation portrait. The young man in the photograph presents his best self as a soldier-inthe-making. He smiles, looking off camera, indicating his delight at and readiness to join the military. His uniform looks brand new, clean, and carefully ironed. His hair is greased back. Given its large size (23.7 × 17.5 cm) and cardboard mounting, it is likely that the photograph was enlarged by his family to hang it on a wall as a symbol of family pride. As much as being a documentation of his identity as a soldier, the photograph might equally have served as a souvenir for those he left behind, to remind them of the young man. Thus, the smile on his face was directed to those who would be looking at this image during his absence. The smile, conveying this soldier’s joy in joining the army, could also have served as an encouragement to other male family members or friends who were about to go on the same journey. As the large volume of soldier portraits among vernacular photographs reveals, the military has been an indispensable component of Turkish national identity and daily life. Altınay (2004: 161) argues that the Turkish nation was in fact “invented” as a “military-nation” and points out that the myth that “Turkish nation is a military-nation” became state ideology in the 1920s and 1930s (Altınay 2004: 6). Military service has largely been considered a sacred duty, embodied in the oft-repeated motto “Every Turk is born a soldier,” which continues to reverberate today. Nagel (1998: 252) writes that “masculinity and nationalism seem stamped from the same mould—a mold that has shaped important aspects of the structure and culture of the nations and states in the modern state system.” As Altınay (2004: 6) argues, in Turkey, “by defining national pride through masculine pride in the practice of military service, nation-state builders of Turkey have culturalized, masculinized, and militarized an emerging political process.” Regarding the myth of the military-nation, Altınay (2004: 32) adds: I­t is a highly gendered discourse that has important implications for gendered citizenship and gendered self-identification. Just as “Turkish culture” is defined through the military, Turkish masculinity is defined through military-service. In state discourse, as well as in the perception of many Turkish citizens, men become “men” only after serving in the military.

The implications of this culturalization are embodied in the many surviving soldier portraits and the inscriptions that accompany them. The “joyfulness” of the soldiers in Figures 2.3 and 2.5 is enhanced by enthusiastic inscriptions about

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the military, often in clichéd phrases such as “May this be a souvenir of the greatest duty,” in Figure 2.3, addressed to Haydar, perhaps a fellow soldier or a male friend, and “A souvenir from the first days in my beloved profession,” in Figure  2.5, addressed to the soldier’s sister. The three men in Figures 2.1, 2.3, and 2.5 are smiling, which makes them appear delighted and eager to be part of the military, to finally become “men.” At the same time, their smiles are antipodal to the serious, at times angry, warrior image of the Ottoman Janissaries (and the stern images of Mustafa Kemal and other members

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Figures 2.3 and 2.4  (recto and verso) A portrait of a soldier, February 13, 1939. 13.9 × 8.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid4

of the Republican military elite posing in military uniforms during the First World War or the Turkish War of Independence. The masculinity of the three soldiers in Figures  2.1, 2.3, and 2.5 is constructed without the performance of a menacing frown, supposed to intimidate the enemy. Similar to most of the men in the portraits discussed in the previous chapter, the soldiers or soldiers-in-training in Figures 2.1, 2.3, and 2.5 are clean-shaven,

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Figure 2.5  An aviation officer, May 3, 1935. 12.8 × 8.4 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid5

which coincides with a decline in the popularity of beards in Europe in the early twentieth century. The mustache, an important part of Ottoman masculinity, is abandoned for the most part but does not disappear entirely, still serving as a symbol of masculinity. Notably, the mustache had already been at the center of tensions between traditional and modern masculinities that emerged in the late Ottoman period under the increasing influence of Western modernity. In her analysis of Ömer Seyfettin’s 1918 novel Kesik Bıyık (Trimmed Mustache), in which a young man is accused by his father of becoming a “dandy” after getting his mustache trimmed, Özoğlu (2016) shows how the association of the excessively Westernized dandy figure with a deplorable loss of masculinity became a central issue in discussions

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of modernization in Ottoman Turkish literature at the turn of the century (see Gürbilek 2004; Sirman 2000; Saraçgil 2005). In the early Republican era, a clean-shaven image did not contradict the definition of modern Turkish masculinity. With the foundation of the Republic, the handlebar mustache came to symbolize the Ottoman past, and thus was discouraged by the regime. Atatürk himself first trimmed then shaved his iconic Ottoman handlebar mustache after the Turkish War of Independence. As we see often in portraits from the 1920s and 1930s, the toothbrush mustache became popular as a neat, low-maintenance modern style, following trends in North America and Europe, until it became unfashionable after the Second World War due to its association with Hitler.6 The Turkish nation-building process relied heavily on portrayals of the heroic male warriors who had saved and founded the country (Mayer 2000). This included the image of the brave and faithful Anatolian (peasant) man, ready to defend his country against the enemy (Saltık 2010).7 The image of “the male protector” engendered the myth of “the female protected,” contributing to a clear gendered divide in modern Turkish society (Mosse 1997). As Saraçgil (2005) argues, “high values” such as loving one’s homeland and nation, which were attributed to men, became “main pillars of male domination.” Consequently, the man who was assumed to be responsible for protecting the entire nation also became responsible for protecting the women and children who were part of that nation. Early Republican authors such as Halide Edib Adıvar (Ateşten Gömlek, 1923) and Reşat Nuri Güntekin (Yeşil Gece, 1928) reinforced these arguments through the patriotic and idealistic portrayal of the male characters in their novels (Atik 2015). The army was one of the key institutions supporting the modernization mission of the Kemalist state. Beyond its mission to protect the country, the army was promoted as “a people’s school” where young men would learn to read and write, and strengthen their patriotism. In posters produced by the RPP, the new army was portrayed as an institution that turns “young and inexperienced” men to “mature, healthy, and modernized gentlemen” (Yılmaz 2013: 156–7). In the highly masculinized discourse of the military, in which only men served, what was the role of women? As Altınay (2004: 50–1) writes, through the example of Sabiha Gökçen, Atatürk’s adopted daughter and Turkey’s first woman military pilot, “women became a part of this discourse not only as mothers and wives of military-men, but also as ‘daughters’ of the military-nation who themselves were warriors. As mothers and wives, they were responsible for ‘reproducing’ and ‘supporting’ the nation’s military force; as ‘daughters’ they were invited to participate in it directly.”8 The term “daughter” implies an unmarried woman and hence a temporary position for women in the military. Indeed, Sabiha Gökçen’s presence in the army was short-lived, with only three years between her entry and resignation, during which she remained the only woman in the military (Altınay 2004: 46).9 Still, this was enough time to make her not only a female icon of the Turkish military-nation but also a role model for the modern, independent, strong Republican woman as envisioned by Atatürk, up until today.

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With the exception of a few cases like Sabiha Gökçen, however, the military was the realm of Turkish men, who saw military service not only as part of a national duty to protect their country, but also as an opportunity to get the education, training, and discipline they needed in life. In addition, military service was one of the prerequisites for getting a job, with the majority of companies wanting men to have completed their military service before their application. Marriages would also be postponed until after military service, since it would be difficult for the man, as the “breadwinner,” to find a stable, well-paying job before completing it. The cheerful pride displayed by the soldiers in these portraits might then also be regarded as an indicator of self-assertion: through these portraits, they are finally becoming “men,” fully accepted in Turkish society. Military portraits of joyful soldiers constituted a key component of the normative Republican masculinity, reinforcing the branding of the Turkish nation as a military-nation. Since the early days of the Republic, nationalism and the military have been two tightly knit elements defining the identity of the new Turkish citizen. As women were largely excluded from the military, the military-nation myth essentially gave the Kemalist nation-building process a masculine character. The large volume of portraits of soldiers and soldiers-in-the-making among Turkish family photographs reveals that photography served to perpetuate the military-nation myth across the country, with soldiers from all classes sending pictures of themselves in uniforms home during their compulsory military service, which consolidated their identity as modern Turkish citizens. These soldier portraits contributed to the standardization of representations of male subjectivity, serving to bridge the class divide in the emerging Turkish nation. Thus, soldier portraits reinforced and promulgated the image of the modern male citizen across geography, class, and age.

The Gentleman As Gökarıksel and Secor (2017: 5) argue, “masculinities (just like femininities) are formed within broader socio-economic, political and moral contexts through the body and its comportment as part of everyday life and across quotidian spaces.” In Figure 2.6, an alaminüt photograph from July 24, 1929, three men are sitting on a bench in Suadiye Park on the Asian side of Istanbul.10 The Ottoman Turkish inscription is partially legible: “With [Fikri or Fırka?] in the Suadiye Park.”11 The men in this photograph seem to have been caught slightly off guard; their gazes point in different directions, conveying a sense of spontaneity. July 24, 1929, fell on a Wednesday, which may indicate that these men went to the park for a break during their workday. All three men have a cigarette in their hand, publicly displaying a habit that would still have been considered inappropriate for young women at the time. It could have been the itinerant photographer who approached the men asking if they were interested in having their photograph taken, or it could have been any of the three men who called upon the photographer as he was passing by.

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This photograph reveals some of the key features of the desired image promoted for the new Turkish man among the ruling elites and in the press: a Western appearance complemented by elegant three-piece suits, pocket watches (as worn by the man in the middle), round glasses, carefully knotted ties, pocket squares, and lace-up boots and cap-toe shoes, all of which reflect European and American men’s fashion trends of the era. The mustache is either absent or trimmed in the à la mode toothbrush style. The desire to perform a modern self is reflected in the demeanor of the men, and in the way they are careful not to spread their legs but cross them, as a gesture of politeness and civility. The brimmed Fedora hat, carefully laid on the bench, like a fourth person joining the group, complements the fashionable three-piece business suits.12 Like the mustache, headgear was a key object of political tension for both the Ottoman and Turkish elites. For late nineteenth-century Ottoman intellectuals and bureaucrats who supported Westernization, the European-style hat represented an embodiment of the European modernity to which the Ottoman state aspired, just like speaking French or buying European-style furniture did, so much so that Sultan Abdülhamid banned the European hat in 1877 and ordered Ottoman subjects to continue to wear the fez as a symbol of the common Ottoman identity (Yılmaz 2013).

Figures 2.6 and 2.7  (recto and verso) Three men sitting on a bench, Istanbul, July 24, 1929. 14.0 × 8.5 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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The 1925 Hat Law, which banned the fez and enforced the wearing of a Western hat by men as part of their daily attire, reversed the relationship between the fez and the European hat. The Hat Law “drew upon this nineteenth century Ottoman state tradition of imposing and defending a common national headgear through state mandate and control, in the cultivation of a new Turkish identity,” free from any visible markers of ethnic, tribal, religious, classed or professional differences (Yılmaz 2013: 25).13 For the Republic, just like the veil, the fez signified “the backwardness” of the Ottoman Empire, helping the Kemalist regime to break away from the Ottoman past. In textbooks, the fez and the turban were associated with the traditional Ottoman school, which used physical punishment, especially the frightening bastinado (falaka). In contrast, “the new, modern Turkish teacher, depicted in his European style suit or in her modern dress, was more approachable and friendly, and did not use physical punishment” (Yılmaz 2013: 56). As Figure 2.6 suggests, by the 1920s, the trimmed mustache and the European hat, once criticized symbols of excessive Westernization, had been absorbed into the new idealized and hegemonized masculinity envisioned for the new Turkish man. After the Tanzimat reforms, the East-West conflict and excessive Westernization became popular themes among Ottoman novelists,14 who created variations of the comical “effeminate” dandy (alafranga züppe) character to address the negative consequences of “wrong” Westernization (Türkeş 2003).15 In these stories, the dandy is depicted as someone who imitates the Western lifestyle and consumerism without really absorbing Western culture, history, science and technology. He is shallow, arrogant, immature, flamboyant, and extravagant. As he tries to keep up with the dynamic social life of the predominantly non-Muslim Beyoğlu, he squanders his family money in Western-style cafes, restaurants, taverns, theaters, barbers, tailors, and shoemakers. He is lazy and lacks discipline. Rather than focusing on education or hard work, he is busy showing off his luxury clothes and his broken French on the Grande Rue de Pera. Aspiring to be Western, the dandy has lost the “essence” of his “real” identity as an Ottoman Muslim man.16 In fact, the desired image for the Ottoman Muslim man depicted in the Tanzimat novels was a new, modern ideal of masculinity that took shape in the nineteenth century. Prominent author Yahya Kemal (Beyatlı) associates this shift with the disbandment of the centuries-old Janissary corps in 1826, dubbed the Auspicious Incident: “Following the Auspicious Event our old customs disappeared completely because of the aim to raise a dignified and well-mannered generation.”17 For Yahya Kemal, “a foreigner, who would look at the Ottoman generation in this era, would not recognize the sons of the old quarrelsome, strong voiced and manly Ottomans” (1975: 97 in Özoğlu 2016: 92). Around the mid-nineteenth century, the image of the respectable Ottoman “efendi” emerged as a new masculine ideal, embodied in the Râkım Efendi character in Ahmet Mithat’s famous novel Felâtun Bey ve Râkım Efendi (1875). As opposed to the “wrongly Westernized” dandy Felâtun Bey, Râkım Efendi adopts Westernization in the “right” way: he is responsible, hardworking, and reliable. Even though he comes from a poor family, with hard work and thriftiness he

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improves his living conditions. He treats women kindly and with respect. He values the strengths of Western civilization, learns French, makes friends with Englishmen and goes to the theater, yet is also well versed in the Quran and Hadith, and upholds Ottoman and Muslim traditions and customs. Berna Moran (1991) writes that, through the character of Râkım Efendi, Mithat defined the ideal Ottoman man. The image of the Efendi reclaims masculinity, albeit in a changed form, while the dandy was often associated with effeminate behavior, marked by his irresponsible and lazy comportment, and his penchant for wearing flashy clothes, excessive accessories or makeup (kohl on his eyes or powder foundation on his cheeks), all of which were thought to alienate him from his “true” Ottoman self (Moran 1991). In the early Republican era, novelists like Yakup Kadri Karaosmanoğlu, Peyami Safa, and Reşat Nuri Güntekin featured Kemalist characters who were loyal to the revolution but expressed anxiety about losing the “essence” of one’s cultural identity in the process of excessive modernization (Güneş 2005: 9). “Misunderstood Westernization” was a recurring theme in many works in the literary canon of the time. In The Rented Mansion (Kiralık Konak, 1922), for example, Karaosmanoğlu (2004: 14–15) criticized blind admiration of the West through the depiction of his characters’ dandy lifestyle. Servet, the father, is the son of a military judge, yet he hates Islam and his Turkish identity: Somehow, knowing French from a young age, having attended the Galatasaray High School18 and having spent some time with the sweet water Franks of Beyogğlu had given him the right to withdraw to a private place in a pious house with pictures of nude women, volumes of French books, vases and figurines and in this seclusion to spend hours lying in a long chair, staring at the ceiling with his legs up, smoking a Dutch cigar, while singing along to some opera pieces with a wild and miserable voice. Among Turks nobody is as enthusiastic and zealous about European ways as Mr. Servet has been.

By critiquing undesirable personality traits for men, such as pretentiousness, arrogance, egocentrism, and disinterest in politics, Republican authors revealed the ideal image they envisioned for the new modern Turkish man: as the breadwinner, the man should be serious, reliable, hardworking, polite, honest, and loyal. Yet, he should perform this identity by embracing a Western appearance and lifestyle. The modern Turkish man is devoted to his country, and would fight for it not in the name of religion or for personal gain, but for the honor of his homeland. As a man of honor, the modern Turkish man should fulfill his social responsibilities, including having a successful marriage and taking care of his family (Saraçgil 2005: 56). He is critical of arranged marriages and of old-fashioned men who have concubines or multiple wives. He is also against marrying women who are much younger than him (Sirman 2000). In the eyes of the modern man, the family is built on the model of a European bourgeois family, where the relationship between the man and the woman is established through love. The family tasks

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itself with securing privacy, raising the children in a healthy social environment. The modern man should avoid pursuing affairs and fantasies that will destroy him and should respect a woman’s chastity (Saraçgil 2005: 149). In early Republican novels, this ideal image often manifests itself in the figure of the “gentleman of Istanbul” (İstanbul beyefendisi). In Resimli ve Mükemmel Âdâb-ı Muâşeret (lllustrated Perfect Etiquette), Abdullah Cevdet (1927 in Meriç 2007: 292–3) writes that the new social order requires the man to show kindness and politeness toward women in the public sphere, and that the man’s appearance should be respectable. Men meeting these requirements are called “gentlemen” (beyefendi). A gentleman is friendly, modest, courteous, and noble-minded. A man’s kindness stems as much from love for other human beings as it does from fear of upsetting or hurting other people. He respects others more than he respects himself. A true gentleman should be charitable, patriotic and work hard to make Turkey rise to stand “at the level of developed nations” (Abdullah Cevdet 1927: in Meriç 2007: 292–4). Abdullah Cevdet explains that a gentleman’s most important quality is to “have high moral standards when it comes to relations between men and women.” “Until everything is certain,” it is inappropriate for a man to talk about the woman he wants to marry. He should avoid giving gifts to women other than his mother, sister, and wife. On the street, he should not greet a woman accompanied by a man before the woman greets him. He should never ask a woman about her age (Abdullah Cevdet 1927 in Meriç 2007: 399–402). The image of a modern gentleman is also associated with the image of “a young man from a good family,” a courteous eligible bachelor, soon to be transformed into a mature gentleman who prides himself on being a good husband and a good father. A desirable young man should be hard-working, honest, trustworthy, patriotic, and of high morals. He should focus on his work and family, and avoid “bad habits” such as alcohol, gambling, womanizing, or swearing. Occasionally, the phrase temiz yüzlü (which translates as clean faced) is used for polite, wellbehaved young men, indicating that a clean-shaven face was preferred over facial hair for the ideal man. Parla (2004) explains that the changing norms of masculinity created a sense of fear and anxiety among Republican men, as discussed in the works of writers like Yakup Kadri Karaosmanoğlu and Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpınar. Modern men wanted marriages based on romantic love to well-educated women who shared a similar worldview, but they did not know how to handle such a relationship: they were afraid of becoming or being deemed effeminate if they did not try to control women. Over-Westernization was still considered a very real “danger” (Parla 2004). Figure 2.6 is striking in the way it captures a candid moment in a public space; these three men probably had little time to prepare for the poses they perform in this picture. Meriç (2007: 98) explains that parks, similar to theaters, patisseries, and museums, played an important role in expanding the definition of public space and transforming social life in the late Ottoman era and the early Republic. Centrally located in cities, parks quickly became part of modern urban life. Indeed,

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praising the parks in metropoles like Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna, Abdullah Cevdet (1927 in Meriç 2007: 98) advises men and women to go on “healthy walks” in parks. As spaces where strangers coexist and interact, a respectable appearance and gracious behavior are crucial. Putting emphasis on the health aspect, Abdullah Cevdet (1927 in Meriç 2007: 98) defines those who are seen in parks as “men of virtue” who “discuss new fashions.” With their formal daily attire, the three men in Figure 2.6 embrace a classed and gendered self, displaying the image of a modern Turkish gentleman by reflecting the global men’s fashion trends of the 1920s and 1930s, influenced by Hollywood stars such as Rudolph Valentino and Clark Gable. The three men perform a modern masculinity that does not emphasize sexuality, similar to the representations of modern Turkish femininities I discussed in Chapter 1.

The Modern Husband, the Modern Father In this section, I use the five images above to study the representation of Republican masculinity in the context of modern Turkish family life. Albeit quite similar in terms of pose, composition, and purpose, each portrait highlights a different element of the visual language signaling the new modern Turkish family structure. Figures 2.8–2.15 show five young couples. The couples in these portraits seem to be husband and wife, except for the couple in Figure 2.11, who might be engaged. The images were taken in different studios in the 1930s. Figure 2.8 from 1939 was taken in a studio called Foto Refik in the Western province of Balıkesir. It shows a family of three, a wife, a husband, and a toddler, most likely a boy given the dark colored one-piece attire he is wearing. In the absence of any inscriptions, we do not know the occasion for this image. Yet, outside birthdays, weddings, and engagements, the most common occasion for having a family portrait taken would have been the religious holidays (bayram), including the Feast of Breaking the Fast (Ramazan Bayramı/Şeker Bayramı in Turkish or Eid al-Fitr in Arabic) and the Feast of the Sacrifice (Kurban Bayramı in Turkish or Eid Al-Adha in Arabic).21 Families that had purchased new clothes called bayramlık and dressed up for the occasion of bayram (Koçu 1969: 30) would drop by a nearby studio to have their photo taken, particularly on the first day of the holiday before or after the habitual visits to relatives and family graves (Tunç 2003: 350). In Figure 2.8, all of the family members are elegantly dressed. Their clothes are carefully ironed and their shoes polished. The woman wears a fashionable dress and a wavy hairdo to reflect the fashion of the 1930s, in line with the images of women I discussed in the previous chapter. She also wears jewelry and makeup, and seems to have shaped her eyebrows. The man wears a neatly ironed suit and a carefully knotted necktie. The toddler too is wearing matching clothes, which look brand new, along with a beret, implying a cold winter day outside the studio. January 29, 1939, the date on the print, would have been just before the Feast of the Sacrifice.22 If the date reflects the day this picture was taken, 29 January fell on

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Figure 2.8  A family portrait, Foto Refik, Balıkesir, January 29, 1939. 29.2 × 18.4 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid19

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Figures 2.9 and 2.10  (recto and verso) A portrait of a couple, Türk Foto Evi (Türk Fotoğrafevi), R. Koro, Istanbul, August 15, 1934. 22.8 × 24.4 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figures 2.11 and 2.12  (recto and verso) A portrait of a couple, Foto Rekor, Istanbul, July 25, 1933. 13.7 × 8.6 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figures 2.13 and 2.14  (recto and verso) A wedding portrait, Türk Fotoğrafevi (Türk Foto Evi), R. Koro, Istanbul, July 19, 1934. 8.8 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figures 2.15 and 2.16  (recto and verso) A portrait of a couple, Sebah Joaye (B. İskender), Istanbul, August 22, 1939. 8.7 × 13.6 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid20

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a Sunday (even though the day is written as “Friday” on the print), in which case the family might have done their bayram shopping that weekend and gone to the studio afterward. However, as Tunç (2003: 348) writes, normally families would not allow children to wear their bayramlık before the first day of bayram. If the date refers to the day the print was delivered to the family, the photograph would have been taken a few days earlier, which makes it less likely that it is a bayram picture. It was probably taken on the occasion of the child’s birthday, another common occasion for family portraiture at the time. An important provincial city within the Ottoman Empire Balıkesir had a sizable population adding up to 481,372 according to the 1935 census, making it the fourth biggest Turkish city after Istanbul (877,106), Izmir (594,560), and Konya (539,257) (Erdem 2016). Balıkesir was a major front between the Greek and Turkish army during the Turkish War of Independence. After the population exchange between Greece and Turkey in 1923, Balıkesir lost its Greek population and served as a hub for the resettlement of the Balkan populations in Turkey (Bayındır Goularas 2012). Balıkesir remained an important city for the RPP’s political organization in the 1930s. In Figure 2.8, the husband, who appears in a formal suit, could be an employee in the government sector; a teacher, a banker or an office worker, all of which would typically imply an affiliation with the ruling RPP party. While this photograph was probably meant for circulation among family and friends, the family appears eager to present a public image that complied with the aspirations of the Kemalist regime: an unveiled, elegant, joyful Republican woman; a “gentleman” husband who keeps a respectful distance from his wife and child while leaning toward them in a gesture of protection and care; and a healthy, slightly plump toddler on his best behavior. Together they appear to be a happy, loving, and reputable family. There does seem to be some age difference between the man and the woman, reflecting a common trend since Ottoman times. Traditionally, men would be expected to be economically stable before being able to start a family. As a result, men customarily married younger women, whom they believed would have higher fertility rates. Here, in Figure 2.8, the single child is emblematic of family photographs of the time. As Duben and Behar (2014: 252) explain, despite the Kemalist rhetoric that “motherhood is a woman’s most sacred duty,” Istanbul’s birth rates continuously dropped in the 1920s and 1930s. In the 1930s, families increasingly wanted only “enough” children to “reproduce their bloodline.” Indeed, urban middle-class family portraits from the 1930s rarely feature more than three children. As the nuclear family gained more importance, the average marriage age among women increased to 23 and most women stopped having children after they turned 30 (Duben and Behar 2014: 247). Other than changing economic and political conditions, including women’s increased participation in the workforce, lifestyle changes such as people moving into smaller apartments in cities, and various birth control methods that were already in use in the late nineteenth century could explain the declining birth rates (Duben and Behar 2014). While Duben and Behar focus on Istanbul households, a large body of family photographs from across Turkey, like Figure 2.8, indicates

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a similar trend among educated middle-class families living in other cities. Some of those portrayed may have been Western-educated employees who were sent to smaller cities across Anatolia by the RPP regime as governors, doctors, nurses, administrators, or teachers. Sancar (2017: 317) argues that the success of the Turkish modernization project was due to its “family-centered modernity” strategy, which managed to effectively reconcile the demands of modernists, nationalists, and conservatives. Within this strategy, the family was defined as the key moral unit of the nation (Durakbaşa 1998: 36), with the modern Turkish woman not seen as an individual who should strive for personal freedom but, rather, as a collective subject who existed to support her family and nation (Sancar 2017: 209). As future mothers, Turkish women were expected to have healthy and strong bodies to bolster their reproductive capacity, and to raise robust children “as healthy, educated, loyal, and disciplined citizens” (Yılmaz 2013: 186). Accordingly, “the image of the robust child, or gürbüz çocuk, came to represent the ideal Turkish child, and became a powerful symbol of the nation itself ” (Yılmaz 2013: 186).23 Family-centered modernity was adopted by both men and women despite its inherently conservative nature, which codified women as proper wives and dedicated mothers. While the modern woman faced the dilemma of essentially having to choose between her sexuality and respectable motherhood, the man was exempted from any punishment if he acted outside the norms (Sancar 2017: 317). As for the role of the man in the family, Sirman (1998: 37) writes: Before the Civil Code, the men who were respected the most were the owners of the large households, the governors, and the pashas. Their children, their sons-in-law, or their poor relatives who lived with them were not in possession of property. [. . .] The Civil Code therefore introduced equality not only for women but also for men, who would now be entitled to be the breadwinner, own property and head a family regardless of where they come from and whose family they belong to. By enabling the privileges of pashas to all men, the new regime thus turned all men to pashas.24

In accordance with Kemalist gender norms, the modern husband in Figure 2.8 is made to appear taller and seen to embrace his family as the breadwinner. On the other hand, the mother is the one who holds the baby, as if to assert her role as the main caretaker of her child. Her head only reaches to her husband’s shoulder, which she barely touches. The chair helps to create an intimate setting for the three of them, with the man sitting on the very edge. Figures 2.9, 2.11, 2.13, and 2.15 introduce the element of intimacy in a more explicit way than Figure 2.8. The composition of each portrait, with the exception of that in Figure 2.11, is the same: the man is on the right, the woman is on the left, their heads slightly touch each other, indicating the love the couple has for each other. From Figure  2.8 to Figure  2.15, we see the couples smile. The men are shaved and wear either a suit (Figures  2.9 and 2.11) or a military uniform (Figures  2.13 and 2.15), indicating their social and professional status. Unlike

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Figure 2.8, Figures 2.9–2.15 were taken in the popular Beyoğlu studios of Istanbul in the summer months, a popular time for weddings and engagements. In couple portraits from the 1920s and 1930s, we observe that a certain degree of intimacy is allowed. As Duben and Behar (2014: 236) write, between the 1880s and the 1930s, the average age difference between husband and wife dropped from 10 to 6 years, transforming marriages into more intimate and democratic partnerships. Couples started to call each other by their first names, went out, played cards or made music together, and shared more things in common in daily life. By the 1920s and 1930s, mixed gender socialization had become common among the middle-class Muslim families of Istanbul, although this would still be considered a new idea among the lower classes and in many other parts of the country (Duben and Behar 2014: 223). The modern Turkish man and woman were encouraged to fall in love, as long as their love was “pure” and the couples saw each other “under the control of their families” (Duben and Behar 2014: 258). The love expressed in the portraits of the fiancés and newlyweds is thus permissible, since it is regulated by the institution of marriage. Eventually, the spouses’ love for each other would be channeled through or replaced with love for their children. In family portraits with children, as in Figure  2.8, the child becomes the connecting element between a mother and a father, rather than a husband and a wife. For Sancar (2017), the construction of the modern Turkish family meant the construction of the modern middle-class family. This state’s strategy was to promote the modern middle-class family as a role model for the rest of the society. Rather than as a “natural” or “private” institution, this type of family was seen as an instrument for modernization and a founding element of the nation-building process. Because of a growing emphasis on children’s education and children’s health, families started to focus on raising their children “well” at the turn of the century (Duben and Behar 2014). Duben and Behar (2014: 247) ask if families had fewer children because they became more child-oriented or if they became more child-oriented because they were having fewer children. In either case, fathers increasingly adopted the idea that both parents were tasked with raising their children rather than only the mother and became more involved in their children’s education as part of the overall process of Westernization. As Yılmaz (2013: 112) points out, progressive Turkish fathers, as exemplified by Mustafa Kemal, “valued their daughters (or adopted daughters), nurtured them, and supported their education, employment, and participation in social life.” The notion of the modern middle-class family, then, is in fact constituted by the “discovery of the child” and marked by the complete transformation of childrearing (Aytaç 2007: 82). The image of a distant, authoritarian father became undesirable and started to evolve into that of a more loving and caring father figure at the head of the “new family” (Duben and Behar 2014: 249–50). This is reflected in studio portraits of the 1920s and 1930s in which fathers pose with their children in an affectionate manner, at times holding them in front of the camera. In Figure 2.15, taken on August 22, 1939, the woman joyfully wraps her arms around her husband and holds him tightly. The husband’s shy smile implies a

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reciprocal love and happiness. As she embraces her husband, the woman shows off her wedding ring and ostentatious golden bracelets, which remain popular wedding gifts until today. She is well dressed, and her makeup and hair have been carefully done. This portrait was taken in Bedros İskender’s studio after he took over the famous Sébah & Joaillier studio in 1934. Bedros İskender operated the studio until 1952 (Özendes 1999). Figures  2.9 and 2.13 present striking resemblances in terms of composition, pose, and posture. Not surprisingly, they were taken in the same Beyoğlu studio, R. Koro’s Türk Foto Evi (also known as Türk Fotoğrafevi), located on Istiklal Street no. 113, less than a month apart. The man and woman keep the same distance to each other, tilt their head in the exact same manner, and look straight into the camera with a faint smile.25 Figure  2.11 was taken in Foto Rekor in Beyoğlu. This couple performs their happy selves in this portrait, arm in arm, with their heads tilted toward each other. The lack of a wedding ring on the man’s hand could indicate that it is an engagement portrait. Although the image is from 1933, five years after the change of the alphabet from Arabic to Latin, the inscription on the back still includes the Ottoman script, which reads: “Feride’ye,” to Feride, a popular woman’s name at the time.26 The note was written by Şermin, the woman in the portrait. Feride could be a relative, perhaps Şermin’s sister. Figures  2.9 and 2.13, on the other hand, show married couples, per the inscription on the back. The signature in Figure 2.9 reads “Feriha İrfan,” which suggests that the inscription was written by the woman (named Feriha) in the photograph, also on behalf of her husband (possibly named İrfan), dedicated “to my truehearted mother-in-law and father-in-law,” as “a souvenir from us.”27 This indicates that the portrait was given to one of their parents as a gift. The performance of happiness, compatibility, and grace is at the core of this portrait. Simultaneously, the man performs the image of a Republican gentleman with his starched white shirt, his pristine suit, his pocket square, and his perfectly combed hair. He embraces his role as a modern husband who loves, respects, and supports his wife as an equal partner in the marriage. The similarities between the poses on photographs taken in the same studio (Figures 2.9 and 2.13), in other studios within the same metropole (Figures 2.11 and 2.15), and in a provincial studio outside Istanbul (Figure 2.8) show the commonalities in studio practices across Turkey. The ways in which photographers directed the poses and the degree to which these directions seem to have been welcomed and followed by the clients signal the creation of a collective visual culture that reinforced specific gender norms and a specific notion of the Turkish family. Notably, Foto Rekor and Türk Foto Evi belonged to two members of the same family: two Muslim brothers from Kosovo, who had emigrated to the Ottoman Empire during the Balkan Wars in 1912–1913. They opened a studio adjacent to the famous Galatasaray High School called Photo Koro in the 1920s.28 In the following years, the two brothers went their separate ways, opening separate studios in Beyoğlu (Serttaş 2011). Raif Koro opened Türk Foto Evi, while Şerif Koro established Foto Rekor with Vahit Kutsal (Akçura 2003). Both of these

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seem to have thrived as reputable studios through the 1930s and 1940s, given the abundance of family photographs from these two studios on the market. Although the poses in Figures 2.9, 2.11, and 2.13 reflect popular approaches among studio photographers at the time, it is likely that the two brothers, who had worked together on developing a distinct style for their studio, kept using the same “tricks” when they opened their respective businesses. Figure 2.13 stands out as a wedding portrait from the 1930s in which the bride wears an expensive wedding dress with a veil. The note on the back reads: “The day we got married, July 19, 1934.”29 Given the economic hardships and technical constraints, wedding portraits taken outside the studio remained scarce until the late 1930s and early 1940s. Family photographs taken at a wedding ceremony started to emerge in the 1940s. Portraits with the extended family or portraits of newlyweds with flower garlands surrounding them also surfaced in the 1940s. The wedding dress, made mostly of silk or chiffon, was simple and unassuming in the post-war 1920s and 1930s (Özbey 2014). Therefore, the white wedding dress with ornate veil in Figure 2.13 implies not only a highly Westernized but also a very well-to-do couple. Ayfer Tunç (2003: 226) notes that engagements and weddings were very important occasions for couples and families to have their photographs taken. By the 1970s, it had become a common practice for the bride and groom to go to a photo studio with close relatives “once her hair was done.” The photographer would direct the couple into finding the best pose, using some of the “standard” poses popular at the time. The “best” wedding picture taken in the studio would be enlarged and hung on the wall in the family home (Tunç 2003: 226). The clear handwriting on the back gives us more clues about Figure 2.13. The signatures reveal the identity of the bride and groom as C. Yenicioğlu and S.C. Yenicioğlu. The man in the picture is Cavit Yenicioğlu (1910–2009), who graduated from the Turkish Military Academy (Kara Harp Okulu) in 1931, when he was promoted to lieutenant, the rank shown on his military uniform. He served in the Turkish army in various capacities throughout his life, including as Brigadier General, until he was forced to retire by the National Unity Committee that organized the 1960 military coup. He and his wife Sabahat Yenicioğlu were married for 65 years until she passed away in 1999. A graduate of the renowned Istanbul Girls High School, Sabahat Yenicioğlu worked as a teacher until her retirement. She was one of the founding members of the Association for the Development of Early Childhood Education in Turkey.30 Capturing the marriage of a life-long soldier and a life-long teacher, Figure 2.13 presents the embodiment of a modern Turkish family as envisioned by the Kemalist regime. The couple performs their best selves to announce their happiness on their wedding day. They simultaneously highlight their modern, secular, educated, urbane selves and their status as a loyal Republican couple. Together, Figures  2.8–2.16 show some of the key visual elements through which the figures of the modern Turkish husband and the modern Turkish father were constructed. I consider these images as five variations within an emerging genre of family portraiture that features young married or engaged couples in the 1920s and 1930s. Within this genre, each figure tells a specific story: a nuclear

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family from a provincial town (Figure  2.8); a husband and wife who pose with their parents-in-law in mind (Figure 2.9); two young fiancées who express their love and affection, arm in arm (Figure  2.11); an educated, elite couple on their wedding day (Figure  2.13); and a jovial couple comprised of a soldier husband and a wife who passionately holds him, showing off her expensive jewelry in the process (Figure 2.15). For Kemalists, the image of the modern husband and father was built upon the image of the modern urban gentleman, as repeatedly enacted in family pictures in the 1920s and 1930s. As the poses in Figure  2.15 suggest, in the 1920s and 1930s, Turkey was transforming rapidly, creating ever-shifting social and cultural boundaries. Certain types of gendered and classed social behavior that would have been unacceptable or even illegal before the Kemalist era were now encouraged and promoted by the regime, as highlighted by these images. However, this does not diminish the importance of the agency of the people performing in family photographs in expediting social change and challenging traditions, as Figure 2.15 might suggest through the intimacy and apparent candidness of its pose. Given that overt displays of public affection would be considered inappropriate (ayıp) in the 1930s, it is possible that the woman in Figure 2.15 was being daring in the way she held her husband in the studio, pushing the boundaries of socially accepted norms for family photographs. What we interpret as conformity through the contemporary gaze could include forms of subversion as subtle as a slight change in the standard pose. Similarly, what appears as subversion could have been the manifestation of a form of conformity.

Modern Forms of Gender Play As Yaraman (2011: 41) argues, “it is impossible to conceive ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’ in pure forms, detached from all cultural conditioning/codes. The so-called feminine characteristics we know are those inscribed by the maledominant system.” The selves represented in the family portraits I have discussed so far generally comply with the imposed official visual vocabularies for men and women in the 1920s and 1930s. These portraits are representative of the majority of family portraits from the era in terms of composition, pose, posture, props, and dress code. Yet, there are also photographs that do not fit common patterns, making it necessary to ask what potential forms of subversion can be detected in vernacular photographs that appear to present queer or gender-bending subjects. How can we negotiate the contemporary gaze in our attempt to locate subversion in orphan photographs from decades ago? In Figure 2.17, a highly retouched studio portrait offers a suggestion of gender play to our contemporary gaze. The hand-tinted Figure 2.17 portrays a youth with green eyeshadow, red lipstick, and a sweater hand-colored in violet. The heavy retouching in the face makes the already refined features of this young person even more delicate, creating a romantic, dreamy appearance. Could Figure 2.17 be interpreted as a form of cross-dressing, homoeroticism, or gender-bending that managed to carve out a space for itself in spite of the official Republican discourses

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Figure 2.17  A hand-colored individual portrait, December 18, 1940. 13.4 × 8.7 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

on gender? Or is this a variation of a gender manifestation that still conforms to these discourses? Did the subject intend to be photographed in this way as a form of self-expression, or was it the photographer who produced the ambiguity in this image through retouching and hand-coloring? Perhaps the photographer and/or the retouching artist were simply showing off their artistic skills in an attempt to present a beautiful image that would satisfy the demands of their client. Schick (2018) notes that the understanding of gender was quite fluid in the Ottoman Empire until the arrival of Western-influenced heteronormativity in the nineteenth century. For Schick (2018), in the classical Ottoman period one could speak of three distinct genders, namely men, women, and “boys” rather than a male/female dichotomy; and two sexualities, defined by “penetrating” and “being penetrated” rather than a hetero/homosexual dichotomy: “For a man who

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penetrates, whom he penetrates was considered to be of little consequence and primarily a matter of personal taste.”31 Boys were not deemed “feminine” or seen as “mere substitutes for women” despite sharing certain characteristics with women, such as the absence of facial hair: “Furthermore, since they grow up to be men, gender is fluid and, in a sense, every adult man is ‘transgender’, having once been a boy” (Schick 2018). As Özsoy (2021: 20) argues, while homosexuality was legally decriminalized in 1858, “the space that same-sex intimacy used to enjoy and occupy in the Ottoman Empire was narrowed to the private sphere and penalties for the public display of same-sex intimacy had been increased by means of legal transplantation.” A well-known manifestation of gender fluidity in the Ottoman Empire was the long tradition of cross-dressed performers, including köçek, boys who danced and sang in female dress, pushing the boundaries of gender identities from the sixteenth century onward (Öztürkmen 2011). Starting out as an embodiment of divine love and an ideal young male beauty capturing adult men’s desire, perceptions of the köçek changed in the nineteenth century. The köçek came to symbolize the effeminate, lascivious, and morally degraded Oriental Other who was sexually available and could easily be penetrated by the Western masculine. As a result, the practice was banned in the mid-nineteenth century by the modernized Ottoman elites. These elites, influenced by the Orientalist gaze of European travelers, increasingly adopted Victorian heteronormative discourses on sexuality and made efforts to hide other preferences, including “boy-lovers” (Haynes 2014). Özbay (2015: 870) writes that, although the Kemalist regime worked hard to construct the new nuclear family, the role of women and the gendered politics of representation, “the modern revolution in Turkey was seemingly too busy to deal with, cure, ban, or intervene into homosexuality.” Same-sex sexual activities, which had already been pushed underground as part and parcel of Ottoman modernity, started to form “a significant part of the abject, invisible yet connived urban underground culture,” some of which can be traced through works like Kemal Tahir’s (1910–1973) novels and stories, and Koçu’s (1905–1975) unfinished Encyclopaedia of Istanbul (Özbay 2015: 870). In the early years of the Republic, the heteronormalization of love and sex by the Kemalists became “a condition of ‘achieving modernity,’ a project that called for heterosocialization of public space and a reconfiguration of family life” (Haynes 2014: 12). Heteronormativity was seen as essential to the evolutionary success of Western civilization, which depended on sexual difference and monogamous reproduction. Thus, homoeroticism and same-sex practices were deemed “savage,” “backward,” and “uncivilized” and were shunned (Haynes 2014; Najmabadi 2005). Associated with promiscuity and prostitution, the köçek as an ambiguous sexual figure was excluded from the national imagination of modern Turkey. Instead, the Republican People’s Party selected and reinvented its own set of Anatolian folk traditions (positioning wrestling as a “national” sport, for instance) as suitable support for its nation building process (Potuoğlu-Cook 2006). Cross-dressing existed in Middle Eastern countries, including Egypt and Lebanon, as a form of play or an act of dissidence in the 1920s and 1930s

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(Hannoosh 2016; Taan 2021a). This included middle-class girls having themselves photographed in male garb as “efendiyya,” wearing suits and tarbouches/fezes, both at home and in studios. There is not enough evidence to suggest that this was also a popular trend in Turkey in the early years of the Republic. In fact, an article in Akşam titled “Men’s Clothes! What a girl did in Izmir” from December 29, 1929, tells the story of an “odd soul,” a 16-year-old girl, who dressed up as a man and, along with a few young boys, “hooked up with young women in brothels” of Izmir. She was sent home by the police once her identity was discovered, after spending the day drinking rakı with her guy friends. This story implies that in Turkey cross-dressing was seen as an oddity that challenged gender normativities. Mostly written out of official Turkish history, this “oddity” was deemed worthy of a newspaper article. Cross-dressing may have been deemed “odd,” but there are a number of women, including prominent figures like Atatürk’s adoptive daughter Sabiha Gökçen, who appear in photographs from the late 1920s wearing a necktie.32 Similarly, the marine costume appears in photographs from the 1920s and 1930s as a fashionable outfit for girls and some young women (Baydar and Özkan 1999). In Figure 2.17, gender ambiguity is created through the hand-coloring, which remained a popular practice as the easiest and most effective method to produce color images until color film became popular as late as the 1970s (Tunç 2003).33 When coloring photographs, Turkish studio photographers were undoubtedly inspired by romantic European postcards in which couples hold and kiss each other passionately, or are shown longing for each other when they are apart through illustrations of dream scenes. Red lips and pink cheeks were used for both men and women. Vivid colors such as turquoise, green, or orange were popular for women’s dresses, while for men, who typically wore a suit, brown was predominantly chosen. The green eyeshadow is perhaps the most puzzling visual element in Figure 2.17. The hand-coloring itself is not impeccable: the red lipstick brims over to the right cheek and the purple strikes around the neck appear to have been hastily done. It is possible that the retouching and hand-coloring were done separately. The coloring may have been done by a non-professional, perhaps even by the person in the portrait after the print was produced. Regardless, it can be assumed that the person in the portrait was happy with the result, given that the print was signed and given to someone referred to as “Hikmetim” or “my dear Hikmet.” Hikmet, although predominantly a male name today, was a unisex name at the time. In addition, the signature does not reveal the sex of the inscriber. If the coloring was done after the delivery of the black-and-white print, the handpainted version could have served as a form of gender play for this person, meant for circulation among friends or relatives. Perhaps the hand-coloring helped this person, queer or not, to perform a desired self-image that it would not be possible to project in a black and white photograph. Browne and Nash (2010: 132) note that, “Looking ‘queerly’ for the nonconformative sheds light on the possibilities and potentialities for lives lived in incongruent and conflicting relationships with normative systems of meaning—

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neither within nor without—but as a form of fluidity; a mobile instability in experiences, behaviors and practices of the self.” For Deitcher (2001: 156 in Rogerson 2015: 109–10) images of same-sex affection or gender variance include “the act of historical reclamation, which shows persistence of evidence.” However, how can we read queerness in a photograph, particularly an individual portrait like Figure 2.17, when there is “no apparent counter-part to ‘prove’ desire” (Rogerson 2015: 143)? In anonymous vernacular photographs it is difficult to know whether looking queerly is justified, because of the complexity of deciding what certain elements are evidence of. For instance, in Figure 2.17, the apparent makeup could be evidence of retouching that was conventional at the time, or, a gender-bending that went against the norms. In anonymous photographs it may not be possible to be sure whether a perceived queerness was an actual queerness. Similar to Nebahat Hâmit’s portraits discussed in the Introduction to Part 1 and at the end of Chapter 1, Figure 2.17 offers us an opportunity to rethink the way we read gender normativities in vernacular photographs and the challenges we face when placing such images in their historical context. These challenges resonate with the ambiguity of gender performativity itself. As Butler (2007 [1990]: 192) notes, gender is “a norm that can never be fully internalized” as gender norms are “phantasmatic, impossible to embody.” Looking at people’s agency with respect to how they perform gender, Butler (2007 [1990]) suggests that some room for maneuvering is created precisely due to the fact that the norm of the ideal man or woman can never be fully enacted and requires the constant exclusion of the nonnormative, which, paradoxically, is also needed to confirm the norm. Addressing the complexities of queer representation and the issue of “evidence” in photographs, Rogerson (2015: 109) concludes that “unknowables do not mean there is nothing to know.” Indeed, in Figure 2.17, rather than seeking to resolve the uncertainty as to whether this image challenges the Kemalist gender norms or confirms them, I want to leave this uncertainty in place, precisely to emphasize the fact that gender norms, even when not as explicitly formulated and disseminated as the Kemalist ones, are never all-encompassing and always offer potential for resignification, in this case either by the sitter, the photographer and/or retoucher, the receiver of the photograph or us, as the readers of the photograph in the present.

Conclusion Unlike the image of the new Turkish “Republican Woman,” that of the Turkish “Republican Man” was not as explicitly defined and disseminated by the Kemalist regime. While the molding of the new man may have been less radical than that of women, it still meant that men, too, had to adjust their sense of what was a desired self-presentation. The molding of the Republican Man shows up clearly in vernacular photographs. A major component of Turkish male identity was military service, which remains compulsory for men until today. By the time the Turkish Republic was established in 1923, the nation had suffered from a decade of devastating warfare, including the Balkan Wars (1912–1913) and the First World

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War (1914–1918), followed by the Turkish War of Independence (1919–23). In this context, “the myth of the military-nation” played a crucial role in effecting the transition from “military service as a citizenship obligation to military service as cultural essence” (Altınay 2004: 8). The creation of this myth was bolstered by the image of Mustafa Kemal, who established himself as a victorious Turkish military leader, next to the other army generals he appointed to key government positions. In the military photographs I have discussed in this chapter, young soldiers express a sense of pride and joy in their status as soldiers, affirmed by the inscriptions they write, thus contributing to the making of the military-nation myth through selfrepresentations. As the public and private spheres were being redesigned for modern Turkish women and men in the 1920s and 1930s, photography became a popular medium to capture significant milestones in the lives of modern families such as religious holidays, engagements, weddings, births, birthdays, and circumcision ceremonies. Just like women, urban middle-class men welcomed photography as an opportunity to perform their rapidly changing gendered and classed identities as well-bred youths, true gentlemen, liberal husbands or loving fathers, negotiating their male subjectivities within the restrictions of the hegemonic masculinities and state feminism imposed by the Kemalist regime. Formulating gender “as a constituted social temporality,” Butler (2007 [1990]: 191), drawing on Foucault (1977, 1978) writes that “gender ought not to be constructed as a stable identity or locus of agency from which various acts follow; rather, gender is an identity tenuously constituted in time, instituted in an exterior space through a stylized repetition of acts.” Given that it takes time to enact the gender norm in such a way that the body comes to “naturally” inhabit it and it no longer feels like an “act,” a case like the early Republican era, in which gender norms were rapidly transformed, offers an important opportunity to highlight gender as a performative process rather than a given state. At the same time, when discussing the performance of the new Republican gender roles, I have been cautious not to “overread” gender representations in photographs, especially seemingly unconventional or transgressive ones. The fact that certain images that to our eyes appear to show gender-play may reflect common photographic practices of the time, the scarcity of oral histories and personal narratives pertaining to a fast disappearing generation, and the absence of photographs that might have been destroyed or were never taken due to social and political taboos in the 1920s and 1930s, all urge us to be cautious in drawing conclusions about specific images and the overall prevalence of both conformity to and subversion of the new Republican gender norms.

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­3 P O SE , P O ST U R E , A N D P R O P S A S WO R L DM A K I N G

Figure 3.1 features a couple in a studio portrait, presumably taken in the 1930s judging by the outfits and the man’s mustache. The man, dressed in what appears to be a military uniform, strikes a confident and proud pose with his chest pushed forward and his hands behind his back. The pose of the woman next to him, who, judging from her golden bracelets, is most probably his wife, is more subdued, with her face showing a hint of a smile. Her outfit, an elegant long coat with two-toned, low-heeled shoes, and her short hair with subtle finger waves reflect the women’s fashion of the 1930s. Her golden jewelry, probably given to her as a wedding gift, along with her fashionable bag and gloves, reveals her well-to-do status as the wife of a military man. The man and the woman both look directly into the camera, standing side by side. There is no space between their bodies; yet, apart from this proximity, they do not display any physical affection such as holding hands or posing cheek to cheek, as was common in couple portraits of the time. The large military hat enhances the difference in height between the man and the woman, giving the man an appearance of power and authority. On the other hand, the feet of the man and the woman are carefully aligned, creating a sense of parity, presumably as a result of the photographer’s concern with making the picture symmetrical. The man’s rather arrogant pose might appear exaggerated to the viewer today. He seems to be trying to dominate the frame, performing a masculine identity as a proud soldier and husband. I have chosen this particular picture to introduce the chapter precisely because of the domineering nature of this man’s pose, which is not common in Turkish couple portraits from the 1920s and 1930s. As discussed in Chapter 2, the majority of portraits I found show more subdued representations of masculinity. I start with this portrait also to challenge our contemporary gaze with an image that we might find funny or quirky today. Finally, despite the man’s exaggerated masculine stance, this portrait also features some of the most common patterns in terms of composition and pose in studio photography of the time. Indeed, Figure 3.1 serves as a great example for the study of the role of pose and posture in the making of the new Turkish female and male bodies, which is the focus of this chapter. In what follows, I will first look at how poses, postures, and props adopted from Western portraiture during the late Ottoman era were

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Figure 3.1  A studio portrait of a couple, circa 1930s. 13.6 × 8.6 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

appropriated, modified, and repurposed in modern Turkish portrait photography. Subsequently, I will examine how they became part of a broader negotiation of modern gender roles and familial relations for the middle-class citizens of the emergent Turkish state. The photographs I looked at “collectively provide us with a sense of the wider communal world from which they arose, a world view that made them thinkable in certain forms in the first place” (Edwards 2004: 26). With the popularization and democratization of photography, we can observe a gradual increase in playfulness

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throughout the 1930s, as people started to discover the potential of photography as an instrument to “make worlds” by enacting multiple selves (Chalfen 1987; Goodman 1978; Ryzova 2015a). The second part of this chapter will study how such playful uses of poses, postures, and props offered people a renewed sense of agency with regard to their photographic performances, while still pointing to a serious social function (Edwards 2004: 34). The modern Turkish aesthetic particularly manifests in the pose and posture of the photographed subjects; yet little has been written on the meanings of poses and postures in family photographs (Bölük 2014; Eldem 2018; Evren 2004; Shaw 2018). Similarly, apart from a few exceptions (Ak 2001; Bölük 2014; Şen 2002a, b), there is a considerable lack of research regarding the production and meaning of props and backdrops in vernacular photography in the Republican era. This chapter aims to contribute to the scholarship by analyzing how certain poses, postures, and props might have helped Turkish citizens to negotiate gender roles and familial relations in the newly formed nation-state.

Modernizing the Pose: From the Ottoman Empire to the Republic Since the invention of the medium of photography, people have “posed for posterity” in front of the camera (Yablon 2014). As photography studios rapidly spread across the world from the mid-nineteenth century, “already well-established standards for portraiture taken from painting and daguerreotype portraits” set the parameters for the poses commonly used in cartes de visite (Wichard and Wichard 1999: 21 in Hearn 2013: 29). In this regard, André Disderi’s photography manual from 1853 provides a great example, illustrating a series of standardized poses to be used for sitters of different occupations in cartes de visite. For Disderi, the necessary technical elements for a good portrait consisted of “a pleasing face, appropriate presentation, definition, light, shadow, and proportion” (Darrah 1981: 36 in Hearn 2013: 29). Three main types of studio poses were deemed appropriate: head or bust, seated and standing, with many variations of each. From 1860 to 1890, portraits were distributed among these three posing types rather equally, although heads became more popular in the early 1860s and throughout the 1870s (Darrah 1981: 26 in Pérez González 2012: 109). The seated pose was favored over the full standing pose as the subject could be more relaxed and maintain a pose for a longer time (Pérez González 2012: 109). Through the poses endorsed by reputable studio photographers, cartes de visite “helped to invent visually the respectable type” (Volpe 1999: 26 in Hearn 2013: 30) and “provided access to social respectability for the masses” (Hearn 2013: 30). Photographers operating in the Ottoman Empire became concerned with creating masterful portraits early on. This involved the effective use of studio space and lighting. For instance, in Detailed Account of the Practice and Theory of Photography (Ameli ve Nazari Mufassal Fotografya, 1891), Hamdi Paşazade M. Halid (or Hamdi Pashazade M. Khalid) writes that “from the point of view of

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photography, a person has four sides: right, left, up, and down,” but light should only come “from above” and “from the right” (in Shaw 2018: 184–5). Halid’s detailed explanations of the use of technology reveal the degree to which Ottoman photographers were thinking about portraiture and how they aimed to create perfect portraits of their subjects. In a rare essay focusing on the pose, Burçak Evren writes that, among the studio photographers of modern Turkey, each pose was a “trade secret” passed on from generation to generation, from master to apprentice. When an apprentice left a studio to open his own or work for another photographer, he carried with him the secrets he learned. For Evren (2004: 60), this is how photographic knowledge spread across Turkey over the decades. Photographers, as “connoisseurs of human nature,” would know exactly which pose would best suit a client; the poses, developed over decades through a process of trial and error, would “wait for their turn” to be applied over and over again in studio portraits (Evren 2004: 60). Evren’s account could be seen as a romanticized one, colored by nostalgia. In reality, studio photographers would probably have been familiar with each other’s work, particularly in neighboring studios like the ones that operated on Istiklal Street. Poses in studio portraits were already largely standardized by the 1920s; however, some studios, particularly prominent ones such as Foto Süreyya (for instance, in Figure 1.14) or Foto Sabah, do seem to have created “signature” compositions, poses, and lighting. Although it would have been hard to keep a certain pose a complete secret, the fact that there was talk about “trade secrets” shows that studio photographers thought of themselves as masters of the craft. They seem to have thought carefully about the poses they used, creating a certain mystique around them. As Shaw (2018: 181) argues, in the late nineteenth century, the new visual vocabulary of being Ottoman, as embodied in the Abdülhamid II albums, “was defined less through exoticism than through a universalism intended to show it as participating in a supposed global visual culture coded through European norms.” Photography was a by-product of the “individualization and individuation” of Ottoman subjects following the Tanzimat reforms (1839–76), which aimed to establish a concept of modern citizenship informed by European social and cultural conventions (Sheehi 2016). Poses in family portraits from the Republican era suggest an expansion of the late Ottoman-era visual vocabulary in which affiliations with modernity and middle-class aspirations prevailed over ethnic and geographical markers (Shaw 2018; Sheehi 2016). Photographs of women, men, and children showed the character of “a national citizen of indeterminate ethnicity” not only through the secular outfits worn but also through the standardized and Europeanized poses and postures performed (Shaw 2018: 189). The formation of a new national identity was bolstered by the repetitions of the types of poses adopted by studio, itinerant and amateur photographers throughout the 1920s and 1930s. Looking at the influences of Persian miniature and poetry, as well as Qajarera painting on Iranian photography, Pérez González (2012) argues that both the persistence and absence of certain poses and postures typically seen as

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“non-Western,” such as kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor, reveal different “indigenous” interpretations of photography that feed on social norms and local cultural practice.1 In Republican-era studio portraits, the desire to adopt modernity can be observed in the highly standardized poses and postures borrowed from Western portraiture. While the inclusion of modern furniture items, such as chairs, desks, and cabinets, attests to a new Western-inspired identity and class aspirations, the disappearance of certain poses attributed to the Ottoman Empire, including el pençe divan, suggests the Republic’s emphasis on modernity.2 Despite the continued use of objects like books and cigarettes in studio portraits, from the late 1920s onward we observe a general decline in props and in painted backgrounds depicting idyllic landscapes or Greco-Roman interiors. Ornate curtains and expensive furniture items gradually disappear from studio portraits. Still, similar to the Ottoman era, children continue to pose with toys such as dolls or stuffed animals. In particular, the rocking horse appeared as a popular studio prop in portraits of children, along with bicycles (Bölük 2014: 124–39).3 The abandonment of certain poses, compositions, and props in the transition from the Ottoman Empire to modern Turkey corresponds to a systematic shift in the country’s political and social structure, while also reflecting changes in global photographic trends and technologies. Beyond this shift, however, a variety of personal and social factors may have had an impact on the scarcity or absence of certain poses, postures, and props. Families may have discarded the poses “they did not like” and kept only the ones they found acceptable or valuable. An image may have been thrown away if it did not convey the desired “look” or status. Therefore, the poses that appear as common and standardized from the era reveal what people considered better or more proper. Similarly, the absence of certain possessions in photographs may indicate the economic conditions and lack of access of the population to certain technologies and consumer products of Turkey at the time. For instance, the automobile as a novel popular “prop,” which people liked posing next to show off their wealth (as in Figure 3.2), is a rare sight in Turkish photography from the 1920s and 1930s. In addition, the gradual disappearance of popular late Ottoman era props such as walking sticks, gloves, and umbrellas, which symbolized an elegant bourgeois life, may indicate changing attitudes toward studio photography, which was increasingly seen as a practical necessity of modern life, rather than a status symbol (Bölük 2014). The unassuming, monotonous backgrounds and general sense of modesty in many pictures of the era could also be partly due to Turkey’s specific political and economic conditions as a nation that had just emerged from a decade-long war. By the 1920s, the war period resulted in a dwindling of the non-Muslim bourgeoisie, which had constituted the majority of practitioners and a large segment of consumers of studio photography in the Ottoman Empire. Interviews with studio photographers of the era give us clues about the degree of agency of the customers with regard to the pose. For instance, in 1942, prominent photographer Etem Tem (Foto Etem) explains to Hikmet Münir (Ebcioğlu) how sitters used to instruct photographers to create their desired poses depending on

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Figure 3.2  A woman poses next to a car, circa 1930s. 14 × 9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

the intended recipient of the photograph. He recalls a customer who asked him to procure a window screen since he wanted to pose in front of one holding a book, a request that the photographer could not accommodate. By the 1940s, Tem notes, people increasingly left the poses and compositions to the discretion of the photographer. He nonetheless complains about women customers who pestered him with special retouching requests to make sure they looked “young,” “slim,” and “beautiful.” He asserts that, thanks to retouching, “women never get old” (in Akçura 2020a). In another interview from 1937, Foto Rekor’s Vahit Kutsal tells Niyazi Acun that young people and lovers often asked for poses that would make them look like movie stars (in Akçura 2020a). Figures  3.3 and 3.5 reveal how people used their agency to carefully frame the compositions they imagined and the poses they wished to perform outside

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the studio setting with the spread of snapshot photography in the 1930s. Dating from July 17, 1931, these pictures show a woman posing outdoors in front of the same tree for a photographer, whose shadow is visible in Figure 3.5. Both of the images bear the identical signature of Bedia, and the pictures are dedicated to what appears to be a man named Asım, perhaps the woman’s fiancé. The note “2” on both prints suggests that two copies may have been printed of each, perhaps one for the woman and one for the man. In Figure 3.6, Bedia added a note that reads “an eternal souvenir” to the print.4 These two images were taken with a medium format snapshot camera, perhaps a Kodak, which was heavily advertised in newspapers at the time for holidays and outings (see Chapter 5). The shadow suggests that the photographer was holding the camera around the chest, looking through the viewer from above. It is not clear if the photographer was a woman or a man, although the shape of the shadow may indicate a dress. The two shots of the same person featuring different poses reveal how people enjoyed consuming their film stock (typically between 8 and 15 shots) for multiple shots during the same outing. In Figure 3.3, the young woman, in a light-colored dress, stands in front of the tree with her arms akimbo and her hands on her waist, looking off camera. She wears her coat and hat for this shot, taking them off for Figure 3.5. These seem to be deliberate decisions to vary her appearance and pose for those who will see the images. In both pictures, Bedia displays a subtle smile, and her gaze conveys a sense of confidence. Even when she looks away from the camera, she is clearly aware of its presence. The pose in each image is carefully designed, both vertically and horizontally. The tree in the middle serves as a prop, enhancing the sense of symmetry achieved by putting Bedia in the center of the frame. Bedia adopts the conventions of studio portraiture through these poses, presenting a modern feminine self that converges with the proposed image of the new Turkish woman. At the same time, given the relatively private and candid nature of these snapshots, the agency of the sitter, Bedia, and that of the photographer, probably a friend or a family member, is pronounced. It is likely that Bedia would have negotiated her poses in different, freer ways with the person behind the camera than with a studio photographer. These two images, then, give us clues about the kind of poses snapshot photography inspired, and reveal how the pose was seen as an important part of one’s self-representation and selfexpression. Through these snapshots, Bedia demonstrates “how picturetaking has the power to transform on-going patterns of activity” into “patterns of behavior that are socially appropriate and culturally expected when cameras are in use” (Chalfen 1987: 10–11). In his 1942 interview, photographer Etem Tem already reminisces about the “old days” when studios were like “a theater stage” with curtains and painted backdrops depicting interiors, gardens, and seaside sceneries, in front of which customers rowed in prop boats or held prop horses, “seeking happiness through pictures when they could not get what they wanted in life” (Akçura 2020a). As Strassler (2010: 79) writes, “(r)ather than a window onto reality, the portrait offers a carefully staged theater-space for the projection of possible selves.” For Strassler

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Figures 3.3 and 3.4  (recto and verso) A woman named Bedia poses outdoors, July 17, 1931. 14 × 8.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

(2010: 79), “the studio portrait’s charge emerges from its marriage of the possible (‘this might be’) to the actual (‘this has been’).” In photographic representations of the urban middle classes in the early years of the Turkish Republic, the actual and the possible seem to commingle in such a way as to comply with the Kemalist attempt to bring the modern Turkish citizen into being. The studio as a “theater-space” was configured not only to adopt the image of the modern Turkish citizen that was being constructed by the regime, but also to respond to the social pressures produced by citizens’ own nascent class aspirations. Exploring Goodman’s notion of worldmaking in literature, Helgesson (2018: 174) notes that “the world of worldmaking is not simply ‘there’, it is in process.” It is neither “the same as the actual world in its entirety, but nor is it exclusively a self-enclosed system. Rather, the world of worldmaking refers more openly to the domain of human activity and to the world as a relational modality” (Helgesson 2018: 174–5). In the case of the early Republican period, this relational modality clearly manifests itself in the way photography’s worldmaking entailed the replication and reproduction of the modern secular Turkish world that was being created by the Kemalist state. The projection of possible selves was primarily concerned with successfully inhabiting the identity of the new bourgeois subject, as urban middle-class citizens struggled to carve out a space for themselves

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Figures 3.5 and 3.6  (recto and verso) Bedia, seated, July 17, 1931. 8.9 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

and their families in the fledgling political, social, and administrative networks created by the new government. In the early Republican context, then, the studio as a theater of the self, in which worldmaking took place, was not a totally free space but one constrained by social norms, which were not just imposed upon

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subjects but also became part of who they (felt they) were through inculcation over time. Arguably, studio photography and snapshot culture together produced and cemented a “standardized system of visual representation” for the new middle classes in the 1920s and 1930s, through which Turkish citizens made and ordered their worlds by replicating the gender and class normativities that they were urged to adopt (Chalfen 1987: 141).

Playing with the Pose Among early Republican-era photographs, Figures 3.7, 3.9, and 3.10 stand out due to the diversity of the poses struck by their subjects, which break from the patterns I discussed earlier. They appear to add “a humorous flair and an air of informality” to the repertoire of poses we encounter in studio photographs of the time (Ritter and Scheiwiller 2018: 18). Potential moments of disruption through playfulness were enabled as encounters with photography increased and diversified, particularly with the spread of snapshot photography. Playful poses and compositions opened up portrait photography, offering alternative ways of representing the self. Figure 3.7 shows two men having a meal, posing playfully. The Ottoman Turkish inscription, still used here even after the 1928 alphabet change, reads: “August 5, 1931, when eating at home,”5 (Figure 3.8) and is signed by a man named Feridun Mahmut, who must be one of the men in the picture. The man on the left holds the ladle as if eating from the bowl, which would be considered inappropriate behavior at a dining table. By striking this pose with the ladle, he could be signaling how hungry he is or how he loves the food so much that he has forgotten about table manners. However, the exaggeration of his pose and his cheerful glance at the man next to him suggest that he is only playing and is not, in fact, eating from the ladle. Is it true that this photograph was taken when “eating at home” or was the inscription meant as a joke? Is this really a dining or living room in which these men have their meals regularly? The room looks rather untidy, with coats hanging in the background and a large cabinet with empty shelves. The neckties of the two men look identical. Are they perhaps coworkers wearing the same outfit? Did they dress like this for the photograph? The presentation of the food on the table is also curious: Combined with bread, what kind of a meal are these men having (soup, tzatziki, or perhaps hoşaf, a dried fruit compote?) and does the food hold any clues with regard to their social status? Indeed, Figure 3.7 presents a curious case. The highly staged image looks like a scene from a theater play. The size and quality of the print and the type of print paper suggest that this picture was taken by a medium-format camera. The two men might be imitating some of the popular comedians of the time, such as Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, or Harold Lloyd. The picture might have been taken by a third, perhaps professional photographer friend in the room, who was part of creating this lighthearted scene with the other two. Together, they break away from the clichéd poses of studio portraits, using photography as a playground for creativity and entertainment. Even if this photograph was one of a theater set, the

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Figures 3.7 and 3.8  (recto and verso) Two men posing indoors, August 5, 1931. 6.2 × 9.7 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 3.9  Four girls posing outdoors, 1937. 8.7 × 13.7 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

caption that refers to “eating at home” nonetheless offers clues as to how domestic uses of photography were imagined at the time. In contrast, Figure  3.9 from 1937 shows a more common composition and pose: four teenage girls are lying on their stomachs on the ground in a grassy, hilly area, with their hands clasped under their chins, a recurring composition across family collections of the time. This gesture could be associated with thinking or evaluating but also with daydreaming, intending to make the subjects appear feminine. These girls could be on an excursion with their class, with friends or as a family group. All of them smile into the camera. The girl on the right has the most cheerful smile and seems more confident than the others posing for the camera. Her head is up, and she has positioned herself directly in front of the camera. The girl with the patterned and buttoned outfit next to her displays a subtler smile; with her head slightly down, she seems shy in front of the camera, but this could also be intended as a “dreamy” look. The girl on the very left in the dark outfit has a similar gaze, but she is leaning slightly away from the girl next to her. Her hands are not fully intertwined, as if she is failing or hesitating to mimic the agreed pose. It is not the pose itself that leads me to interpret the image as playful; it is, rather, the way in which each girl executes the pose, creating the impression not of four identical girls, but of distinct personalities. The most divergent pose is that of the girl in the dotted dress with the closed eyes. Appearing with closed eyes in a picture usually implies a failed shot and tends to be met with disappointment. Yet this “imperfect” image was printed and kept in a private family archive as a

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Figures 3.10 and 3.11  (recto and verso) Three men posing with flowers, August 12, 1940 6 × 9.2 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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memory until it was discarded many decades later for unknown reasons. Now digitized and published online, this girl has been “immortalized” striking this imperfect pose. She might have closed her eyes because she was disturbed by the sunlight. Whatever the reason, she attracts our attention: our gaze goes to her first because of the way she “disrupts” the composition. At the same time, the position of her hands is the most “perfect,” with her fingers fully intertwined and her arms forming a near-perfect square. Figure  3.9 gives us clues about what might have been permissible for young women in terms of playful poses they wanted and were able to perform, negotiating what was expected from them as fun-loving yet wellbehaved students and respectful daughters. The print size and quality of Figures 3.10 and 3.11 from August 12, 1940, suggest that, like Figure 3.7, it was taken by a snapshot camera. Three young men are in the foreground, looking at the flowers they are holding. Their clothing reflects the trends of the late 1930s and early 1940s. Two of the men wear the Turkish-style hat (kasket) that became popular after the Hat Law in 1925, serving as a more local, “familiar” alternative to the European brim hat (Yılmaz 2013). The three young men hold what look like carnations, which are probably red and white. The man on the right with the European hat and without a necktie also has a carnation in this pocket. A beloved flower since the Ottoman times, symbolizing love, loyalty and purity, the carnation has widely been used as a popular motif in textiles, calligraphy, paper marbling, illuminated manuscripts, as well as Iznik tiles. In Yeşilçam melodramas, it would be common for the men to pin a red carnation in their pocket square for a first date, to be recognized by the other party. In Figure 3.10, each man looks intently at the carnations and executes his own version of the flower-gazing pose: the man on the right stands sideways holding a bouquet of white carnations from which he might have taken one for this breast pocket. His posture is straight while leaning slightly toward the bouquet. The young man on the left, on the other hand, is looking at the flowers but with his body turned toward the camera. He poses with his left foot forward, displaying the inner part of his leg in a way that suggests confidence. His left leg partially covers the body of the man in the middle, who leans toward him, yet is not holding the flowers like the other two. Although the camera is not directly acknowledged, the poses and postures of the men make clear that they are aware of its presence. Seemingly lost in their thoughts and concentrating their eyes and bodies on the carnations, these men might be sending a message to their lovers, telling them that they are thinking of them. However, posing in this way could also be a playful act for them, presenting themselves to the camera as romantic and sensible young men. It is no coincidence that Figures 3.7, 3.9, and 3.10 were all taken outside the studio. The subjects exhibit a more playful relationship to the space they are in and to the people they are with than most of those photographed in the studio. In all three images, the subjects seem to be having fun and enjoying the moment in which the photographic act takes place. They actively take part in it, using their individual agency to make the image more imaginative than the studio portraits they might have performed in on other occasions.6

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As Ryzova (2015b: 231) points out, the worldmaking capacity of photographs, forging particular historical gendered and classed subjects, is “complicit with (and incomprehensible in the absence of) the immense amount of fun involved in posing for pictures” as well as the fun involved “in the process of adding cryptic playful captions that only the initiated would understand.” While creating some room for playfulness and individual agency, however, Figures  3.7, 3.9, and 3.10 still move within the parameters of the socially desired and accepted norms of modern Turkish femininities and masculinities. As they perform their fun-loving, dreamy or romantic selves through the poses they strike, the photographic subjects simultaneously reproduce their modern, urban, properly masculine, or feminine selves, including complying with the dress code of the new Republic. Early Republican vernacular photographs served the practical function of affirming ideal images of the Republican man and woman, hence the overall absence of playfulness in family portraits taken in and outside the studio. Through a repertoire of standardized poses, photography was used as a tool to chronicle a predefined set of important moments for individuals and families, from weddings to religious holidays, shaping their urban middle-class lives. As snapshot photography gained popularity among the middle classes in the 1930s, photography produced outside the studio space offered new possibilities for experimentations with self-representation, which, however, still remained within the realm of Republican gender normativities. Certain playful poses, as reflected in Figure 3.9, seem to have been more permissible for men than women, who may have been under greater social pressure to behave in a certain way that would not embarrass them, their families, and, in the case of schoolgirls, their teachers. A certain level of “goofiness” or “naughtiness” seems to have been tolerated for men as part of their performative masculinities.

Conclusion By the 1920s, urban middle-class families had adopted modern poses for their photographic representations to show their social status and classed aspirations. A sense of Republican conformity is reflected in the props, which included various Western furniture items as well as painted backdrops depicting interiors inspired by Greek and Roman architecture. The desire of the urban middle classes to affirm their new Westernized lifestyle and to conform to Kemalist principles reveals the complex ways in which modern secular Turkish identity was consolidated with the active participation of the growing urban middle classes in the nation-building process. As a result, in the 1920s and 1930s, Turkish citizens were most concerned with making their worlds by replicating the new classed and gendered normativities that were being shaped around them by the new nation state, from a secular middleclass lifestyle to a modern nuclear family structure. The dominance of the world replication mode arguably made it less likely for citizens of the early Republic to

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play and experiment with their photographic representations. Overall, vernacular photography functioned to demarcate the classed and gendered selves in line with the vision of the new regime. As the increasing number of snapshot photographs produced outside the restrictions of the studio space suggests, even when photographed subjects gained more agency within the photographic process, they did not necessarily use this agency to subvert the norms of femininity/masculinity or those of Turkish Republican citizenship. Still, playfulness was gradually introduced to Turkish vernacular photography throughout the late 1920s and early 1930s with the arrival of snapshot cameras into middle-class households. Playfulness is also observed in pictures taken by itinerant photographers outside the studio setting. The playful images discussed in this chapter suggest that, by the 1930s, the emerging Turkish middle class had discovered the potential of photography as a site where different identities could be performed, as well as its potential as a leisure activity.

­4 T H E B O D I E S O F T H E R E P U B L IC

Michelle Henning (2009: 210), in The Subject as Object, focusing on the relationship between photography and the human body, writes that “a photograph constructs different meanings for human bodies through the way it represents them, and through the circumstances in which it circulates.” The muscular male body, for example, can be associated with “a coded homoeroticism” or with “the deeply homophobic culture of Fascism” depending on the historical and political context in which it was photographed or through which we interpret it: “In all instances, photographs do not simply speak of ‘the body’ but of particular bodies, of social groups and the relationships of power between them” (Henning 2009: 210). In Butler’s (2007 [1990]: 189) theory of gender performativity, the body is not formulated as a “‘being,’ but a variable boundary, a surface whose permeability is politically regulated.” As much as this bodily surface “is enacted as the natural,” it can also “become the site of a dissonant and denaturalized performance that reveals the performative status of the natural itself ” (2007 [1990]: 200). Adopting Butler’s (2007 [1990]: 189) notion of gendered bodies as “corporeal styles” that construct meaning through performativity, this chapter attempts to dissect the components of an emerging corporeal aesthetics for Turkish men and women as dramatized in vernacular photographs in the early years of the Republic, while also situating this aesthetics within the global political developments of the time. Specifically, I will examine how, in the transition from the late Ottoman era to the early Republic, visual normativities for male and female bodies were constructed and ritualized through “a regulated process of repetition” (Butler 2007 [1990]), reflecting a shared notion of beauty and health. I will first discuss the construction and popularization of a particular Turkish Republican body image through sports, which was a critical component of the establishment of Kemalist authority. Sports photographs offer a wealth of insight into the way Kemalists imagined a new Turkish nation through the construction of modern male and female bodies. Sports and exercise were seen as signs of a strong and healthy nation, with the regime endorsing a mixture of Western sports such as tennis and fencing, and sports like oil wrestling and horseback riding that were imagined to be in the ethnic Turkic tradition (as opposed to other traditional imaginaries like Islamic or Ottoman). The latter were reinterpreted to fit the modernizing agenda. The second part of the chapter will focus on the meaning of the Youth and Sports Day for the making of the modern Turkish female body. As the large

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number of photographs featuring sportsmen in the public sphere suggests, in the 1920s and 1930s, sports remained a predominantly male activity. Given the central role of the state feminist agenda in the regime’s nation-building effort, however, the modernization of female bodies was equally important. National holidays like the Youth and Sports Day, which were enforced through school curricula, were used strategically to promote the visibility of healthy and disciplined female bodies through public parades and athletic performances. The last part of this chapter will study two elements central to the making of modern Turkish womanhood and manhood in the private space of the home, namely childbirth and circumcision ceremonies, which generated two distinct types of representations in family photography: childbed pictures of mothers with their newborns and photographs of boys in ornate costumes posing on a bed before their circumcision ceremony. While these two photographic genres may not be unique to Turkey, the degree of their popularity, their ceremonial quality, and the inclusion of folkloric elements arguably make them distinctly local, serving as hybrid interpretations of Western portraiture in Turkish photography. Given the strong emphasis of Kemalism on Westernization and Europeanization, this hybridity is particularly relevant to understand the success of Kemalist reforms in shaping the family lives and daily habits of the society. The study of childbed and circumcision pictures also effectively shows that bodies were not only modernized in public space, but also in the private spaces of people’s homes.

Sports Photographs: A New Republican Corporeal Aesthetic

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Figures 4.1 and 4.2  (recto and verso) The athletic team of the Balıkesir İdmangücü Physical Training Club, Izmir, April 30, 1931. 8.9 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figure 4.1 from April 30, 1931, shows a group of nine athletes in their sports clothes posing with a group of men wearing suits. The note in Turkish (Figure 4.2) reads: “The athletic team of the Balıkesir İdmangücü Physical Training Club after the competition with the Altınordu Sports Club at the Alsancak Stadium in Izmir.”1 These athletes could have competed in a variety of disciplines, but most likely in running track. They wear well-fitted outfits that carry the logo of their club. The man on the far left wearing a tie carries a banner that features the name of the team. The young man on the far right too is holding a banner with the logo of the club. The nine men sporting 1930s fashion in the front row must be club administrators. Yıldız (2015b) argues that “sportsman photographs” as a category of vernacular photography emerged during the late Ottoman period with images in which young Muslim, Christian, and Jewish men, shirtless or in tight-fitting athletic attire, show off their fit, muscular bodies. Such images circulated in sports clubs, schools, or among friends as a way to promote healthy physical exercise, bolstering a new form of modern Ottoman masculinity: The defining characteristics of this new body were proportionality, a slim waist, defined biceps, a straight back and a broad and hairless chest. The new look was deemed “beautiful”—because it was based on physical exercise as a personal effort, itself a new bourgeois value—and thus “civilized.” This late Ottoman conception of a modern, urban masculinity, which echoed similar ideas and

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values in major urban centers around the world, stood in stark contrast to older Ottoman views on the body and its relationship to social status. (Yıldız 2015b: 193)

Among vernacular photographs from the 1920s and 1930s, “sports photographs” similarly emerge as promoting a distinct new look.2 In this period, sports were predominantly seen as a masculine activity, which is reflected in the surviving photographs. Pictures of sports teams remain male-dominated until the 1950s, and mostly feature athletes and soccer players. Occasionally, there are photographs related to other sports, including volleyball, tennis (often in mixed-gender groups), and oil wrestling. In group portraits like Figure 4.1, the sportsmen are sometimes photographed with men wearing suits, who could be administrators of the team or officials from the town the team belonged to. At times, men in military uniforms also appear, which might indicate that these photographs portray sports teams within the military. The photographs are usually taken outdoors at a stadium or on a sports field, or in a central location within a town or a village. Traditional sports in the Ottoman territories included archery, wrestling, horseback riding, racing, and swimming, which were associated with “honor, bravery, and male group spirit” as virtues of masculinity (Di-Capua 2006: 440). Around the mid-nineteenth century, Western sports clubs were established in major cities, including Cairo, Alexandria, Istanbul, and Beirut, mostly by European institutions such as embassies and schools. These clubs introduced sports like cricket, hockey, soccer, tennis, and basketball to their predominantly male members (Sehlikoglu 2017). In the early 1900s, these Western sports clubs were gradually replaced by local clubs established by Muslim and non-Muslim Ottoman communities, promoting the modernization of young bodies by making them fit and healthy (Yıldız 2015a, b). As a result, şişman or “the fat one” with a plump belly, previously embraced by Ottoman men as a symbol of “financial prosperity, strength, virility and social status,” came to “represent incompetence, lethargy, and physical inferiority” (Yıldız 2015a: 193). The Kemalist regime adopted the modernist idea that “a physically and mentally healthy individual is a precondition for the well-being of a robust nation” (Di-Capua 2006: 440 in Sehlikoglu 2017: 4). The Türkiye İdman Cemiyetleri İttifâkı (Turkey Training Associations Alliance) was established in 1922 to manage sports activities in the country. Atatürk is said to have argued that the bodies of Turkish people “remained in the East while their thoughts inclined towards the West” (Şenol Cantek 2003: 33), suggesting that the Turkish body too needed to be improved for the creation of a fully Europeanized modern nation. To separate itself from the Ottoman past, the Kemalist regime also promoted physical fitness as an ancient Turkic feature, which, “forgotten” during Ottoman rule, needed to be reclaimed and restored by the new Turkish nation (Sehlikoglu 2017). As Yılmaz (2013: 180) points out, “the imagined ancient past of the Turks in Central Asia provided a rich source of national epics and myths, which helped establish the Turks as an ancient nation.” In this way, the Kemalist nation-building process appealed to a myth of demarcated past bodies, reappropriating them for its agenda of modernism and ethno-nationalism.

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Figure 4.1 offers a striking example of the genre of sports photographs in the way the young men pictured in it perform and negotiate a masculine corporeal aesthetic that was highly promoted by the Kemalist regime. Most of the sportsmen in this photograph strike a similar pose, showing off their slim, healthy bodies. They stand upright with their chest pushed forward and their hands behind their back, except for the third man from the left who is leaning slightly forward. An arresting feature of this image is the man on the far right, who has a bigger build than the rest of the athletes. This may indicate that he practiced a different type of sport within the athletic team, such as the discus throw, the hammer throw, or the shot put. He is also the only athlete with a mustache in the traditional Ottoman style. This contrasts with the seated man right in front of him, who has a toothbrush mustache, in line with the Western fashion trend of the time. Despite this difference, however, overall Figure 4.1 reflects Kemalist attitudes toward the construction of a modern Republican male body in the 1920s and 1930s, placing the emphasis on the representation of a robust heteronormative physique that excludes fat and disability. The early 1930s, when Figure  4.1 was taken, constituted a period in which the emphasis on physical exercise and fit bodies as indicators of a strong nation was spreading rapidly due to the rising political and cultural influence of Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy on Turkey (Akın 2004).3 In this period, public debates and government policies about youth, sports, and health were largely governed by the way the regime promoted sports “as an instrument of physical health and moral regulation” (Yılmaz 2013: 188). Physical activity also remained closely linked to the military and was presented as a national duty, essential for the overall health and productivity of the nation, as well as the defense of the country. Under the influence of fascist ideologies and nationalist movements in Europe, the Kemalists manufactured the image of an ideal Turkish society free from “criminals, political rebels, prostitutes, and other ‘atavistic’ elements” (Ben-Ghiat 2001: 18). In the famous La Turquie kémaliste propaganda magazine, published between 1933 and 1949, slim young men and women with robust and disciplined bodies in perfect proportions were shown ardently fencing, skiing, sailing, and playing tennis, all of which were associated with being Western and modern (Saraçgil 2018). In La Turquie kémaliste, older sports such as archery, horse riding, and wrestling were also encouraged in an attempt to revive the ancient traditions of Turkic people (see Başgelen and Akçura 1998).4 Photographed by the renowned photographer Othmar Pferschy, the male and female bodies portrayed in La Turquie kémaliste exemplify the ideal body image propagated by the new regime, which we also encounter in the national and regional press throughout the 1930s. While the images in La Turquie kémaliste were aimed at “international circles” (Akçalı 2016), photographs of sports teams were circulated among family and friends of team members, as well as among a wide community of fans and local citizens.5 Given the quality of the print, Figure 4.1 seems to have been taken by an itinerant photographer, probably commissioned by the Club on the occasion of the contest. The image might have been reprinted and distributed among those portrayed in the picture, and perhaps included in the official annals of the sports

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club or the city. It may have been used in local or national publications and placed on the walls of the club. The display of photographs in sports clubs, schools, municipalities, and military buildings would help to record, popularize, and normalize the ideal image of the modern Republican male body (Yıldız 2015b).

Educating Bodies: 19 May Celebrations As Sehlikoglu (2017: 6) explains, “the physical changes in women’s public visibility and bodies were considered indicators of the achievements of modernist nationalist projects, and Kemalists heavily invested in women’s sports as a pillar of the project after the 1920s.” With the personal encouragement of Mustafa Kemal, a small number of Turkish Muslim women from elite families, including relatives of members and managers of sports clubs, became involved in sports that were considered modern and thus appropriate for women, such as fencing, horse-riding, and volleyball (Sehlikoglu 2017).6 Prominent figures like Keriman Halis, Miss World 1932, were chosen as role models to promote Western sports for women. In an issue of La Turquie kémaliste, Halis was featured in full skiing gear in the Uludağ mountains, illustrating how this sport was gaining popularity in the Republican era (Başgelen and Akçura 1998: 106). As in the case of other public performances like singing, dancing, or beauty contests, the regime used a combination of discourses to justify women’s participation in sports nationally and internationally, negotiating conservative social norms that obliged women to curtail physical activities in public. The construction of the new desired female Republican body relied on the replacement of the veiled, rural, unhealthy-looking, and therefore “uncivilized” and “outmoded” body with the disciplined, healthy, urban, and therefore “civilized” body (Alemdaroğlu 2005). Women’s unveiled, fit bodies were shown off as symbols of the transformation of the Turkish nation itself, as proof of how modern and secular Turkey had become. Playing sports was deemed a patriotic act and the first sportswomen were perceived as “heroic figures devoted to their nation” (Sehlikoglu 2017: 7). Throughout the 1920s and 1930s, educational networks were used as effective tools to change traditionalist and Islamist attitudes toward women’s participation in sports. Indeed, while vernacular photographs with Turkish women posing in sports outfits remain scarce until the 1940s, girls wearing sports clothes repeatedly appear in school portraits, particularly in pictures taken during festivities such as the Gymnastics Fest (later the Youth and Sports Day). This fest has been celebrated as a major national holiday on May 19 since the mid-1930s, converging the commemoration of Mustafa Kemal’s landing in Samsun, which marked the beginning of the Turkish War of Independence, and the desire “to celebrate youth and to raise awareness of the importance of youth and sports for the well-being of the nation” (Yılmaz 2013: 188).7 Judging by the type of sports clothes the schoolgirls in Figure 4.3 are wearing, the image was probably taken at a public performance, likely at a 19 May celebration in the 1930s or 1940s. The girls embrace the presence of the camera rather than

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Figure 4.3  A group of schoolgirls in sports clothes. 8.9 × 14.0 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

shying away from it. They lean toward each other, eager to fit into the frame. A lot of them smile and appear happy to be part of the group picture with their two teachers. As Yılmaz (2013: 179) points out, “national celebrations have been important instruments of political socialization, legitimacy, and mobilization in Turkey,” helping to build a shared national memory and identity. The Kemalist regime consolidated the structure of national holidays through a state-controlled educational system (Öztürkmen 2001: 47).8 National holidays were celebrated with “sentimental poetry recitation, orderly but hard-to-adapt stadium performances, tiring costume parades, and an authoritarian organizational style” (Öztürkmen 2001: 51). The Youth and Sports Day is an outstanding example of this practice and played a key role in secularizing bodies through athletic performances. Islamist discourses on the female body were publicly challenged by teenage girls marching, jumping, running, and dancing in public in shorts or skirts that fell well above their knees (Koca 2009; Sehlikoglu 2017). Images of schoolgirls performing at 19  May celebrations also appeared in the press (Figure  4.4) as well as in La Turquie kémaliste (Figure 4.5), cementing and disseminating the way Republican femininity and citizenship were imagined by the rulers of the new nation. As in Figure  4.1, the girls’ performed selves in Figure  4.3 were likely meant for multiple audiences: for their classmates, teachers, and the school heads, who would work hard to ensure the “success” of the celebrations;9 for their families, who would feel proud to see their daughters’ successful performances; for the

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Figure 4.4  An article on 19 May celebrations. The story features schoolgirls preparing for the celebrations, May 19, 1937, Cumhuriyet. Istanbul University Library

Figure 4.5  An image of schoolgirls performing at 19 May Celebrations, 1939. La Turquie kémaliste, 30. Issue

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public, visiting officials, and communities members, including those who would later encounter images of the celebrations and performances on the walls of the school; and for the photographer, who would be the one to capture and reproduce the performed selves across these multiple audiences. As Yılmaz (2013: 188) notes, aspects of 19 May celebrations in the 1930s such as “the display of healthy and disciplined bodies through athletic performances and the partial shift from town squares and street celebrations to stadiums” reveal the increasingly visible influence of Fascist regimes on Turkey. Consequently, “the formalism and the overemphasized nationalism of the celebrations, repeated over and over for years, eventually created a sense of alienation,” although “the zeal of the 1930s” survived until the 1950s (Öztürkmen 2001: 47, 51). For girls who looked at Figure  4.3 or pictures like it decades later as adult women, the image of them as modern, active, educated, and secular Republican schoolgirls, a role they may or may not have been conscious of performing at the time, may have induced nostalgia for the early Republican era. Indeed, the Kemalist reforms were fervently supported by many urban secular women, who believed that they were being freed from the religious oppression of the Ottomans and given the rights, dignity, and education they deserved thanks to Atatürk (Heath 2008).

Framing Turkish Womanhood and Manhood: Lohusa and Sünnet In Figure  4.6 a young mother in a nightgown is captured in a medium-long shot, sitting up in a carefully prepared childbed (lohusa yatağı).10 Her figure only occupies a very small part of the frame, a clear convention in childbed pictures of the time. The distance between the camera and the woman conveys a sense of respect, emphasizing her new, “improved” social status as a mother by the inclusion of the bed. The new mother sits in the center of the frame smiling into the camera. At first glance, our attention is directed to the mother, who appears to be holding a baby. Yet, on closer inspection, her baby turns out to be lying nearby on a few cushions, in a slightly elevated position, crying. The bed is decorated with white sheets and matching embroidered cushions and pillows, as well as a satin quilt that covers the young mother. A carpet with traditional patterns hangs behind the bed. What we see at the very top of the carpet behind the bed is likely to be a copy of the Quran, hung in a pouch to protect the mother and the baby. Typically, a silver mirror, symbolizing “a bright life” (parlak ömür), would also be placed somewhere nearby for protection (Çetindağ 2009), which is why the photograph might have been framed to include the mirror.11 Celebrations and rituals around pregnancy and childbirth are not unique to Turkey. From ancient Egypt to medieval Europe, pregnancies and childbirth have been celebrated with prayers, gifts (e.g., baby showers), feasts (e.g., amphidromia in ancient Greece), purification ceremonies (e.g., seemantham in ancient India), tea parties (e.g., Victorian Britain), and animal sacrifices (aqiqah in the Muslim tradition). The Turkish customs around lohusalık (puerperium) are imagined to

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go back to the Turkic tribes of Central Asia. While the lohusa period is considered to last around 40 days after childbirth, the childbed would be dismantled after a week of confinement. Ayfer Tunç (2003: 323) writes that while the mother remained in the hospital after the birth, her close female relatives would prepare the childbed at home with the “best bed sheet sets and the most elegant bedcover.” Since the bedroom was considered the “most private room” of the house, even immediate family members would need permission to enter it. Only women relatives and friends could visit the woman in the childbed. The family would try to ensure the quick recovery of the mother so that she could be more mobile and receive visitors. Traditionally, the spicy lohusa sherbet (lohusa şerbeti), made with water, sugar, cinnamon, and cloves, would be served to the mother after childbirth to prevent postpartum depression and increase lactation, as well as to guests visiting the childbed (Tunç 2003: 323–4). In a strikingly similar composition to that of Figure 4.6, Figure 4.7 shows a boy in bed at a circumcision ceremony, wearing an outfit with an ornate hat bought for this special occasion (sünnetlik). This alaminüt photograph is again taken from a distance, so that the boy occupies only a small part of the frame, although, like the woman in the childbed, he is in the very center. As in the lohusa image, the distance taken seems designed to fully capture the bed and the surrounding ornaments in order to emphasize the significance of the circumcision, a critical moment in a boy’s life.

Figure 4.6  A childbed picture. 8.9 × 14 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 4.7  A boy sitting on a bed decorated for a circumcision ceremony. 8.8 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

The boy in Figure  4.7 is seated in the center of the frame, looking into the camera with a hesitant smile similar to that of the woman in Figure 4.6. The bed has been carefully prepared, with cushions, clean sheets, and an embroidered satin quilt that the boy uses as a cover. The large octagon-shaped cushions on both sides of the bed add a sense of symmetry to the frame. A carpet with traditional patterns is again hung behind the bed. The ribbon over the boy’s shoulder is part of the decoration of the bed. The décor, the boy’s outfit, and the composition are representative of a traditional circumcision bed photograph. It appears that, in this case, the face initially came out as dark as the hands; the photograph was retouched to make the boy’s face look fair. Most common among Jewish and Muslim populations but also in Coptic Christianity and in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, male circumcision as a “religious duty” was seen as a rite of passage marking a boy’s entrance into adulthood. In Anatolia, an elaborate set of customs had been developed around male circumcision, including a ceremony with entertainment involving a large number of guests, including family and neighbors. Traditionally, circumcision of Muslims in Turkey would be done between ages 5 and 13.12 The ceremony would typically take place in the summer months.13 The special circumcision outfit with bright colors, sometimes adorned with jewelry, was meant to give the boy a sense of confidence and power.14 A few days before or on the day of the ceremony, the children to be circumcised would be paraded around the neighborhood, either on horseback or by car to announce this turning point in their lives. For the ceremony, the circumcision bed would be set up in the main room of the house or the garden and would be decorated with embroidered coverings.

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Figures 4.6 and 4.7 document two instances that are considered turning points in the life of a woman and man, respectively, affirming their gendered social identities. Photography is used to witness and evince the newly gained status of motherhood, “a sacred duty for a woman,” in Figure 4.6 (Ahıska 2010; Tekeli 1995), and the affirmation of manhood for the boy in Figure 4.7 (Barutçu 2015; Bouhdiba 2000; Selek 2010). These images also represent the shifting boundaries between private and public life during the process of the modernization of Turkish society, and the renegotiation of what was permissible and desirable to appear and circulate through photography. At a time when photography was still a rare practice within households, a professional photographer was likely called in for these occasions. The print quality of both pictures suggests the presence of an itinerant photographer. In Figure 4.6, the photographer was allowed to penetrate a highly private space, the bedroom of a mother in puerperium, which even close relatives would not be allowed to enter. Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that, for lohusa pictures, a woman photographer on staff would be sent to a house since it would be inappropriate for men to see women in such a private setting. However, it is hard to establish how common this was in the 1920s and 1930s, given the apparent scarcity of women photographers at the time.15 In childbed pictures, the aftermath of a very intimate act is documented to evince the health and safety of the mother and her child, ensuring the woman’s social acceptance and inclusion as a parent. The absence of the father or any other family members in Figure 4.6 enhances the sense of bonding between the mother and the child although some lohusa pictures from the 1920s and 1930s also include the father, and at times the midwife. The circumcision ceremony, on the other hand, would be considered a public event, the photographic announcement and commemoration of which were highly desirable. In both cases, photography is used to not only document but also “prove” an indexical reality: a birth and circumcision, both of which the photographs attest “undoubtedly happened” (Barthes 1981: 80). The making of a new social status for these two subjects is embodied in the staging of the bed. A boy who enters manhood and a woman who, having successfully been married off, gives birth to a healthy child elevate the social reputability of a family. Through the production of these images, the whole family performs itself as a respectable unit, diligently fulfilling its cultural, religious, and national duties. The photographs attest that family members continue to perform their citizenship in private spaces that were increasingly made public. As Barthes (1981: 13) suggests, photography transforms “subject into object and even, one might say, into a museum object.” Similarly, these photographs “fetishize” potentially traumatic and highly intimate corporeal and emotional experiences like childbirth and circumcision. They objectify the people who went through these experiences “by turning them into things to be looked at” publicly (Solomon-Godeau 1991: 221–2). The images invite a voyeuristic looking (Sontag 1979) that Henning (2009: 202) describes as “a mode of looking related to the

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exercise of power in which a body becomes a spectacle for someone else’s pleasure, a world divided into the active ‘lookers’ and the passive ‘looked at.’” In Figures 4.6 and 4.7, the mother and the boy are clearly aware that they are being photographed, but their agency is limited. They may be fearful, exhausted, or in pain, but they have to put on a “photographic mask,” fabricating themselves according to the expectations of the society they live in (Hirsch 1997: 98). By assuming the proper photographic mask, they perform a self that celebrates and memorializes the joy of becoming a mother and the joy of becoming a man. Photography here serves to turn potentially traumatic events into celebrations, as the subjects turn themselves into museum objects in Barthes’ sense to comply with performative gender norms. Figures  4.6 and 4.7 can be seen as early examples of how photography in the home modeled itself on studio photography and was able to do so thanks to the mobility and transience of the itinerant photographers I will discuss in more detail in Chapter  5. Indeed, the compositions in Figures  4.6 and 4.7 are as carefully designed as those of studio photographs. The pose and posture are formal, and the hung carpet is reminiscent of the painted backdrops that were commonly used in studio portraits. The cushions, furniture, quilt and Quran, as well as the bed, function as props in the symmetrically framed photographs. While the photographer used studio techniques in composing the photograph, those portrayed used their own “techniques” in their pose and posture, either prompted by the photographer or imitating photographs they had seen or posed for before. In Figure 4.6, the woman performs the role of a new mother, but also that of a modest young woman, a role she might also have performed in studio portraits taken at her graduation or wedding. The boy, too, performs the role of boy-becoming-man in a way he might have learned from his experience with studio photography, possibly on a religious holiday.

Conclusion As part of the Turkish nation-building process, the forging of modern bodies became a central concern for the consolidation of the regime, particularly in the 1930s. The performative potential of photography was effectively used to promote a particular body image for Turkish male and female citizens, both nationally and internationally, as demonstrated in the example of La Turquie kémaliste. Recognizing the significance of photography for the making of new bodies, in this chapter I have looked at how modern corporeal aesthetics were constructed for Turkish men and women through a series of distinct vernacular genres of photographs taken at sports events, national day celebrations, circumcision ceremonies, and following childbirth. While my focus remains on the forging of an urban middle-class identity, as with the military portraits discussed earlier, the genres analyzed in this chapter were produced by a large segment of society, effectively contributing to the construction of an increasingly coherent national Turkish identity.

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Sports photographs constituted an effective tool for the Kemalist nation-building process, to reinforce the idea that sports and exercise are precursors and indicators of a healthy and strong nation. The predominantly male outlook of sports clubs is reflected in sports photographs from the 1920s and 1930s, serving as a focal point for the analysis of an emerging corporeal aesthetics of male athleticism. For Kemalists, however, the making of the new female body was equally important to signal the regime’s success in modernizing the country to the world. In order to make sports and exercise acceptable for women in the public sphere, the regime used national holiday celebrations and school curricula designed around them. A striking example was the Youth and Sports Day (also known as the Gymnastics Fest), which included mandatory performances and parades for students. The visibility of schoolgirls engaging in exercise at these celebrations was key for the reimagining of modern female bodies. In the formative years of the Republic, post-partums and circumcisions were reimagined through photography, incorporating such representations into the making of the modern Republican manhood and womanhood. The integration of these ancient customs, seen as milestones in people’s lives independent of their class, into modern photographic portraiture suggests the degree to which photography was embraced and democratized in Turkish society, increasingly appealing to a larger public beyond the urban middle classes. They help us explore what was allowed to be documented and shared; what emerged into the public domain; and what remained private, kept from the public eye. Childbed and circumcision pictures reinforce a modern imagery of womanhood and manhood for the emerging urban middle classes, while also suggesting that certain Islamic, Turkic, and/or Ottoman traditions did not necessarily have to be rejected but could be made compatible with desired Republican visualities, similar to the integration of both Western (e.g., tennis) and ancient Turkic sports (e.g., wrestling) into modern Turkish identity. Simultaneously, the childbed and circumcision pictures show how public and private spheres were being renegotiated in the formative years of the Turkish Republic. The spaces featured in the sports photographs are decidedly modern. On the other hand, the spaces of the childbed and circumcision pictures are designed in a traditional fashion while also including Western furniture, indicating that the construction of modern bodies was not limited to modernized public spaces but also took place in traditional settings within the private sphere.

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­5 P HO T O G R A P H Y ’ S D OM E ST IC AT IO N

Among the thousands of pictures that I purchased, this family photograph (Figures 5.1 and 5.2) has haunted me the most. Multiple generations of a modern Turkish family pose together in this studio photograph from the late 1920s. The elderly members are respectfully placed in the center with their children and grandchildren around them. Four generations seem to be represented, although the ages of the portrayed are hard to estimate due to significant retouching. The first generation could be seen as comprising the elderly couple (greatgrandparents) seated in the middle, and the second as their middle-aged children (the couple standing in the middle). Here, I assume the woman to be the daughter of the elderly couple, given the similarities in her facial features and her prominent positioning within the frame. The younger men and women, presumably in their twenties, stand in the back as the third generation; some of them must be the grandchildren of the elderly couple. The men and women at both ends are likely to be husband and wife. The boys in scout costumes are most likely the fourth generation, the great-grandchildren of the elderly couple. The majority of the family members look off camera, to the left. The elderly couple seated in the middle and the woman standing behind them look directly into the camera. This could be a stylistic choice, meant to create a dramatic effect, which was a common practice among photographers at the time. It could also indicate a sense of respect for the elderly and convey a sense of hierarchy within the family, making it more plausible that the woman standing in the middle is indeed the couple’s daughter. The family appears to be well-off, judging by the quality of their clothes and accessories. The boys are well-dressed in boy scout costumes that look new and expensive, which may indicate a special occasion, perhaps a religious holiday (bayram). The long posing times seem to have made it difficult for the photographer to achieve a sharp image of the boys in front, who apparently would not sit still. Perhaps the small flower bouquet was given to the seated boy as a way to distract him as much as being intended as a decorative object. It is difficult to identify the parents of each child, although one could draw conclusions from the physical proximity of the people in the portrait. For instance, the woman in the dark coat on the left with her left hand on the shoulder of the boy wearing the necktie is likely to be that boy’s mother. However, one cannot be

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Figures 5.1 and 5.2  (recto and verso) A multigenerational family portrait. 19.4 × 24.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid.

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certain, since the degree of kinship seems to have been as important as symmetry for the photographer, who appears to have carefully arranged the family members based on their gender and height. More than its visual appeal, created by the symmetrical composition, and more than the elegance of the people and their fashionable flapper-era clothes, it is the gaze of the older woman sitting in the middle that has struck me ever since I bought this photograph in Istanbul in 2014. This detail, which has captivated my attention, could be what Barthes (1981: 27) calls the photograph’s punctum: “that accident which pricks me (but also bruises me, is poignant to me).” The woman looks just like my great-grandmother, whose family emigrated from Prizren, Kosovo, to Istanbul and Izmir during the Balkan Wars of 1912–1913,1 along with hundreds of thousands of muhacirs.2 In a picture I have seen of my great-grandmother, she resembles this elderly woman in the way she covers her hair, the way she poses with an elevated posture and her head up, her fine facial features, and her serious and proud gaze, acknowledging the significance of the photographic portrait as a valuable part of building a family heritage. The woman’s strong resemblance to my greatgrandmother led me to imagine that this could have been my own family, and eventually, that perhaps, this was my family. After all, this is what my family members are likely to have looked like at the time in a family portrait like this, in an attempt to illustrate a belonging to a particular class and the new modern Turkish nation. The studio name and address on the logo turned this speculation into a genuine possibility: the photograph was taken in the famous Hamza Rüstem3 (1872–1971) studio, Turkey’s oldest studio, located in Izmir and in business since 1925 (Ak 2004, 2001: 117–19; Koçboğan 2014; Özel Sağlamtimur and Cabadak 2016; Orhon Targaç 1999; Özendes 2013).4 The Ottoman stamp on the back was used approximately between 1925 and 1929, having been abandoned after the alphabet change in November 1928, which makes it relatively easy to establish the time window within which this portrait was taken.5 A Cretan Muslim who immigrated to Izmir in the mid-1920s, Hamza Rüstem’s story is a striking example of the important role that photographers played in the making of modern secular Turkish middle-class identity as envisioned by the new Kemalist nation-state. From the death throes of a collapsing empire and its ever-changing demographics to the growing pains of a newly founded modern nation-state, the life of Hamza Rüstem and his family epitomizes the lives of hundreds of thousands of Muslim immigrants who went through the trauma of displacement. The trajectory of Hamza Rüstem’s photography studio from Crete to Izmir, moreover, coincides with the remaking of Izmir as an exemplary modern Republican city and with the creation of a new Turkish Muslim bourgeoisie that Hamza Rüstem and his family were part of and contributed to with the thousands of portraits they produced between the 1920s and 1940s, including Figure 5.1. In this chapter, I will focus on the relationship between space-making and photography in urban settings as well as in the countryside. I will start with the case study of the Hamza Rüstem studio to explore how it contributed to the process

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of “making social memory” (Kuhn 2002: 14), recording the newly forged urban middle-class Turkish identity in the first two decades of the Republic.6 I juxtapose the exceptional history of Izmir with that of the studio, which, along with family portraits, produced some of the most iconic postcards of the city. Completely destroyed in 1922, Izmir offers a fascinating case study that discloses the Kemalist agenda regarding building new urban spaces with a distinct Republican identity. Thus, the efforts of the Hamza Rüstem family to make a new home for themselves in Izmir are connected to the larger Republican project of reimagining Anatolia as a new Republican home for its citizens. In addition, the remaking of Izmir shows how the new regime tried to move away from the Ottoman heritage by peripheralizing an Ottoman metropolis in order to construct a new Turkish city. I will discuss the making of Izmir as a modern Republican city through the lens of Koch and Latham’s (2013) concept of domestication, which includes “the processes by which residents make the city into a home” (in Bialasiewicz and Wagner 2015: 3). As Bialasiewicz and Wagner suggest, rather than conceiving of the public and the private as distinct and discreet spheres, I will examine public life as “modes of doing private life in certain configurations of collectively inhabited spaces” (2015: 8). Accordingly, I will study how the city’s newly immigrated Muslim population came to domesticate Izmir and how it used photography to represent this domestication process in a “livable, emplaced, and dwelled in” new home, whether “as a private, familial zone lived behind walls, or as engagement with public spaces of routine, habit, and comfort” (Bialasiewicz and Wagner 2015: 3). The case of the Hamza Rüstem Studio enables me to investigate how the process of “homemaking” (Ralph and Staeheli 2011) worked for a secular immigrant family at the time of the rapid Turkification and Islamization of a multiethnic and multireligious Ottoman city. While Hamza Rüstem’s story has been told by others before, those accounts have mostly focused on revealing the details of the family’s history. In order to go beyond what has already been written and to find out more about Hamza Rüstem’s artistic choices and business practices, I interviewed his grandson Mert Rüstem in June 2018 in their original Izmir studio. Using this first-hand material, as well as written sources, my case study aims to gain a better understanding of some of the processes through which modern Turkish middle-class citizens like Hamza Rüstem made sense of their identity in a new nation-state. Continuing my exploration of the processes of space-making in the early Republic, the second part of the chapter will compare the work of itinerant (alaminüt) photographers who operated in public places across Turkey with portraits produced in the studio as a semi-public/semi-private space. Itinerant photographers played a key role in documenting and domesticating the increasingly secularized public life designed and imposed by the modern Republican regime, in which modern men and women emerged as equal citizens. Thanks to their mobile nature, itinerant photographers were able to reach a large spectrum of society, including the lower classes in the countryside. Consequently, they contributed

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a more expansive depiction of Turkish society than urban studio photographers were able to capture.

­Photography, Urban Memory, and Nation-Building: Izmir’s Hamza Rüstem Studio As Strassler (2010: 4–5) argues, “through popular photographic practices the nation is not only ‘materialized’ but also personalized. Photographic practices help mediate ‘the personal’ as a distinct realm of experience saturated with intimate sentiment.” She continues by writing: Popular photography thus offers a lens onto affective dimensions of national belonging that have remained elusive to scholarship—not (or not only) the strident emotions of nationalist fervor and patriotism but the subtler and often ambivalent sentiments that attach to the nation as people live their lives within its frame and against its backdrop. (Strassler 2010: 4–5)

Strassler’s perspective is particularly relevant for early Republican-era photographs, which hint at some of the ways in which men and women personalized their belonging to the new Turkish nation through their representations in and outside the studio. The workings of this personalization might appear more clearly in some photographs than in others. Thus, the portrait of a soldier in Figure 2.3, in which the subject expresses his devotion to the military service as the “big duty” through the inscription, may not appear personalized. In family photographs such as Figure 2.8 or a wedding portrait like Figure 2.13, however, the affective dimension of national belonging to the modern Kemalist state comes to the surface in subtler ways, blended with aspirations to create a model modern middle-class family. Featuring several generations in one frame, Figure  5.1 effectively embodies some of the “affective dimensions of national belonging” that Strassler refers to, performed in the studio space, where “the work of forging selves, social relationships, and personal memories” tied in with “broader projects of collective imagining” (Strassler 2010: 4–5). Marked by perfect symmetry, masterful retouching, careful enlargement, precise cutting, and delicate mounting, the large print in Figure 5.1 creates a space for these family members in which to represent themselves as a proud, affectionate, and happy familial unit. The changes in the Turkish social and political fabric of the 1920s are palpable in this portrait. Each member seems to have embraced Westernization, as is apparent in the way they dress, from the three-piece suits, pocket squares, and pocket watches of the men to the elegant coats, hats, and bags of the women. The transition from çarşaf to manto (overcoat) is visible in the appearance of the seated older woman in the middle. The younger generation dresses much more fashionably, with blouses with ribbons, fur jackets, and elegant clutches.

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Figure 5.1 also encapsulates the transition away from the veil, which can again be traced between the generations. The black head cover that the older woman wears is reminiscent of the modernized version of the black çarşaf in pictures from the late 1910s, such as Figures 1.7 and 1.11 discussed in Chapter 1. In the generation of her children and grandchildren, however, the women wear the bonnet-style hat, which was characteristic of a transitory phase in the unveiling of women.7 The bonnet-style head cover, used widely in the 1920s, disappears from family portraits by the mid-1930s. In the appearance of the men, the transition is less noticeable, except for the difference in mustache styles. The older man seated in the middle boasts a thick Ottoman-style mustache while the younger men are either clean-shaven or have a toothbrush-style mustache, popularized in the late 1920s and early 1930s. The relative inconspicuousness of the transitions in appearance across the generations in this portrait suggests that, in a rapidly changing society, several generations were transformed simultaneously. The woman with glasses standing in the middle (part of the portrait’s second generation) and the younger women on both ends, who might be her daughters (belonging to the third generation), demonstrate a similar style in fashion. Rather than major differences between the appearance of grandchildren and grandparents, we observe striking similarities, suggesting that their wardrobes changed concurrently as the Kemalist reforms were implemented and adopted by citizens across generations. Such adoptions, the photograph also shows, took different forms: from the black veil to the black manto in the old generation, and to the bonnet in the younger generation. This portrait thus stands out in the way it reveals generational differences and the crossgenerational attempt to comply with the new modern secular Republican identity in a single frame. The portrait was produced in Hamza Rüstem’s famous studio, in its original location on the top floor at Emirler Çarşısı (later known as Hamza Rüstem Pasajı). Hamza Rüstem opened this studio soon after immigrating to Izmir in 1925 with the photographic equipment and furniture he had brought over from his Heraklion studio.8 Hamza Rüstem gained a reputation as arguably the most notable Turkish Muslim photographer in Izmir but is also repeatedly mentioned in association with his mentor Bahaeddin Rahmizade Bediz (1875–1951), who is often referred to as the first Muslim photographer of the Ottoman Empire.9 Hamza Rüstem’s turbulent life story captures some of the drastic political and social changes that swept through the Ottoman Empire in the late nineteenth century. When he was only a child, his family immigrated to Western Anatolia10 after Greek riots in Crete.11 During his studies at The Imperial School of Engineering (Mühendishane) in Istanbul, he was arrested for promoting proYoung Turk publications, and then tried and imprisoned for several months during Abdülhamid’s rule. As he was about to be exiled, he managed to escape by boat, ending up in Crete by “chance” in 1896 as he thought he was heading to Lesbos (Ak 2001: 118; Rüstem 2018).12 Upon his arrival on Crete, instead of working as an engineer, he joined Bahaeddin Rahmizade’s studio as an apprentice for almost no money since, in

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his words, he “saw a future in this business” (1941 in Koçboğan 2014). Bediz and Rüstem worked together for several years in Heraklion and rose to fame across Crete as successful photographers until Bediz left for Istanbul following the 1909 Young Turk Revolution (Ak 2004).13 Having bought Rahmizade’s studio, Rüstem effectively carried on his mentor’s legacy on the island, catering to both Muslim and non-Muslim residents (Koçboğan 2014; Özel Sağlamtimur and Cabadak 2016).14 Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that his grandfather was raised in a Turkish Muslim family but opted for Italian citizenship to avoid having to enroll in the Greek military after Crete became part of Greece in 1908.15 As a result, his family was not included in the 1923 population exchange between Turkey and Greece, commonly referred to as mübadele in Turkish. They did not immigrate to Turkey until 1925 (Koçboğan 2014; Rüstem 2018).16 Despite losing property, Rüstem’s family remained well-off because “photographs were extremely valuable back then” and studio photographers made a good living (Rüstem 2018). The Hamza Rüstem studio opened in Kemeraltı, the traditional bazaar area that emerged as the sole commercial hub in Izmir after the Great Fire of 1922. Before the Fire, in the late Ottoman era, the ancient port city of Smyrna (the city was renamed Izmir in 1930) served as one of the key financial and cultural hubs of the Empire. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Greek influence remained strong (Kitromilides and Alexis Alexandris 1984).17 Various sources state that, by 1919, Greeks made up around half of the population in Izmir, dominating factories, as well as the banking and educational sectors. Apart from Greeks, Jews, Armenians, and foreigners, including Italian, French, German, Dutch, British, and American communities, turned Izmir into “an excellent site to investigate the complex interrelatedness of urban space, institutional practices, and civic culture in the context of multiethnic and multinational imperial polities” (Zandi-Sayek 2012: 3).18 Izmir was often likened to other Ottoman key port cities like Istanbul, Thessaloniki, Alexandria, and Beirut. Until the Greco-Turkish War (1919–22), which resulted in the defeat of the Greek army, marking the end of the Turkish War of Independence, Izmir enjoyed a lively photography studio culture with primarily Greek, Armenian, and Levantine19 (particularly Italian) studio photographers, including Antoine Zilpoche, El-Beder and Cie, Andromeneos, Langello, Garabed Doumainian, Athanassiades, and Carlo Bukmedjian, as well as branches of prominent Istanbul studios such as the ones run by Abdullah Frères and Rubellin.20 The studios were mostly located around Frank Street, which can be regarded as the “Grande Rue de Pera of Izmir,” a bustling commercial area once dominated by Greek and Levantine merchants (Alpaslan 2012: 32).21 The Great Fire of Smyrna, as it is commonly referred to, broke out on September 13, 1922, four days after the end of the war.22 It lasted for five days, burning the heart of the city, including the Greek, Armenian, and Frank quarters, to the ground (Kolluoğlu-Kırlı 2007). Most of the city’s religious and civil landmark buildings, such as major banks, schools, hospitals, churches, theaters, sports clubs, hotels, consulates, shopping areas, and libraries, as well as most of its photography studios

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were destroyed (Kasaba 1993). Kolluoğlu-Kırlı (2007: 226) writes that “[t]he post1922 city, an enormous black hole encircled by a thin line of surviving quarters, presented an ideal opportunity for envisioning grandiose urban schemes.” Izmir thus presents an exemplary case for the construction of a modern and monolithic Republican urban center with its newly arrived Muslim citizens, built on the ashes of a multiethnic, multireligious, and multicultural Ottoman past. It is also an example of how urbanism as “a new science” was used by the Kemalist regime “for the creation of a physical urban frame, the setting of a network, equipment and symbols, and an urban image that would support the modern society that the Republic aimed to achieve” (Bilsel 2009: 13). The reconstruction of Izmir entailed “building a new and drastically different city” (Kolluoğlu-Kırlı 2007: 227), which reflected a new understanding of modernity. As Bilsel (2009: 13) points out, while studies of the ideological dimensions of urban planning practices in the early Republican period have often focused on Ankara as a modern capital, “the reconstruction of Izmir constituted an issue of primary political importance for the Turkish Republic.” In 1924, a “holistic” urban plan was developed for Izmir, the second most populated city in Turkey at the time, by engineer-urbanists René and Raymond Danger in collaboration with architect-urbanist Henri Prost.23 Izmir’s post-fire urban development was part of an early Republican pattern that attempted to reorganize the geography of Anatolian cities and produce national spaces with squares and parks/gardens around or adjacent to them (Bilsel 2009; Kayın 2013; Kolluoğlu-Kırlı 2007). These spaces were typically named Republic Squares (e.g., Izmir’s Cumhuriyet Meydanı) and marked by a statue or bust of Atatürk (e.g., the Atatürk Monument on Izmir’s Cumhuriyet Meydanı). Main streets were frequently renamed after the Republic or its founder (e.g., the famous Izmir corniche, commonly known as Kordon, is officially called Atatürk Boulevard, while the one parallel to it is Cumhuriyet Boulevard). As Kolluoğlu-Kırlı (2007: 227) writes, “every single urban formation, small or large, shared these features and this repetitive pattern emphasized (especially in the small towns of Anatolia) that all were one and the same territory, all of them intrinsically Turkish.” Beyond the physical destruction, the War (1919–23), the Great Fire (1922), and the Population Exchange (1923) led to the disappearance of the multicultural social fabric of Izmir along with its wealth and transformed its demographics, resulting in a massive Turkification and Islamization of the city.24 The population exchange between Greece and Turkey, displacing around 1,200,000 Orthodox Christians living in Asia Minor and Eastern Thrace, and 500,000 Muslims from Greece, would wipe out Izmir’s Greek population, which had already largely disappeared after the Fire, completely (Özkırımlı and Sofos 2008). As Bilsel (2009: 15) notes: “The problem of reconstruction did not only concern rebuilding the burnt districts of the town, but included also the question of revitalizing the economy as well as reconstructing the disrupted social structure.” It was in this historical context that Hamza Rüstem sought to establish what would soon become the foremost Turkish Muslim photography studio in Izmir,

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photographing the lives of a large segment of society, but primarily those of the emerging Turkish middle class in a newly reconstructed city that he now called home. The Hamza Rüstem studio is considered to have been the first of a handful of studios that were established after the Great Fire. Through photography, Hamza Rüstem and later his sons documented the history of Izmir as a modern Republican city until today. Throughout the 1930s and 1940s, Hamza Rüstem not only revived the studio culture in the city but also raised a generation of photographers who went on to open their own studios, shaping the local photography scene for decades to come.25 Referring to the classed nature of studio photography, which was still quite costly at the time, Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that anyone who could afford it would come to the Hamza Rüstem studio to have their picture taken, regardless of their ethnicity or religion. Indeed, despite changes in fashion trends, logos, and studio backgrounds, the classed nature of the clientele is clearly visible in Hamza Rüstem’s portraits, which, through the decades, show urbanized, Westernized, and secular middle-class citizens projecting their best selves in front of the camera. The fact that the Rüstem family carried a multicultural bourgeois lifestyle with them from Crete to Izmir, speaking several languages, wearing Western clothes and using Western furniture, facilitated their integration into the emergent Turkish middle classes. When they first arrived in Izmir, they spoke Greek at home (Koçboğan 2014: 47), but they rapidly assimilated, embracing the Turkish language, like many other emigrants from the Balkans. As the cities of the Republic rapidly became culturally and linguistically monolithic, for the new inhabitants of Izmir, including my own Kosovar family, domesticating meant homogenization and assimilation. Although Turkified, the cross-cultural influences Hamza Rüstem and his family brought with them from their multiethnic and multireligious Cretan life arguably survive in the secular and Westernized outlook of the Rüstem family today. It is no coincidence that, having gone to a French lycée like Bahaeddin Rahmizade Bediz and having studied Engineering like his grandfather Hamza Rüstem, Mert Rüstem is as proud of his secular Turkish identity as of his family’s liberal Bektashi roots, which promoted “respect for women and the value of science” (Rüstem 2018).26 In the same way, he is proud of his grandfather’s ability to speak multiple languages, including Greek, French, Arabic, Farsi, and English. He talks about his grandmother Zehra, who appears unveiled in family portraits, including her wedding portrait from 1911 (see Koçboğan 2014), as a modern, open-minded, intelligent, and strong-willed “true Cretan” woman.27 Hamza Rüstem’s progressive mindset may have been the motivation for his employing women photographers and staff from early on.28 In the early years of the studio, Hamza Rüstem had to overcome numerous hardships in a war-torn, impoverished country. The delayed introduction of photographic technologies to Turkey due to the lack of resources was further complicated by restrictions on imports. Photographic material was scarce. Consequently, Hamza Rüstem was forced to use 6 × 9 glass plates with up to five or six minutes of posing time until the 1930s (Koçboğan 2014: 45; Rüstem 2018).

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Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that “back then, the photographs a family possessed barely filled an album. On average, a family would own one, perhaps two albums.” Indeed, given the tough post-war conditions, a large family picture like Figure  5.1, portraying four generations, is particularly rare in Turkish vernacular photography from the 1920s and 1930s. It is likely that this portrait was taken on the occasion of a religious holiday (bayram), a popular time for family portraits. However, Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that families did not necessarily need a special occasion to have their pictures taken. They could go to the studio anytime to produce a souvenir. While each couple in Figure  5.1 demonstrates the characteristics of a modern nuclear family, together they pose as a large multigenerational familial unit, signaling their strong ties to each other. Simultaneously, the act of posing for this portrait served to strengthen these ties. As Bourdieu (1996: 19) suggests: Photographic practice only exists and subsists for most of the time by virtue of its family function or rather by the function conferred upon it by the family group, namely that of solemnizing and immortalizing the high points of family life, in short of reinforcing the integration of the family group by reasserting the sense that it has both of itself and of its unity.

It is no coincidence that Figure  5.1 was enlarged and mounted, presumably to be displayed prominently on a wall in one or more of the family homes. Beyond photography’s function as a memory aid or “surrogate memory” (Edwards 1999) or as expressing the desire to achieve immortality (Barthes 1981; Batchen 2004; Sontag 1979; Silverman 1996), Figure  5.1 epitomizes the attempt to cement the construction of a proud, respectable family that presents itself as an integrated unit, part of the new Turkish nation. More than just a souvenir, Figure  5.1 is a manifestation of the family’s newly forged identity as middle-class citizens of the Turkish Republic, in which they may not have grown up but which they nevertheless adopted as their homeland. In an era in which mass media outlets were scarce and the local cinema industry small and tightly governed by the Kemalist regime, family photographs played a key role in displaying the ways in which long-term and new residents of the country remade themselves as modern Turkish citizens. In Izmir, a city that had to reimagine its urban identity entirely after losing most of its social, cultural, and material infrastructure in the post-war era, Hamza Rüstem’s photography studio played a pioneering role in generating and reinforcing an ideal image for these citizens. The modern, westernized Turkish identity performed in the portraits he took indicates that the city’s new bourgeois class welcomed the guiding principles of the RPP rule, in the knowledge that this would help them adapt to a new domesticated space. Soon after he himself immigrated to Izmir, Hamza Rüstem became pivotal in disseminating a classed Republican identity, not only among those he photographed but also among the photographers he trained, many of whom eventually opened their own studios, perpetuating the techniques they had learned from him.

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Referring to the high social status of his grandfather as a well-off urban middleclass studio photographer, Mert Rüstem notes that his grandfather’s business was doing well enough that Hamza Rüstem did not feel the need to “go out” to photograph events or people outside his studio (Rüstem 2018). At the time, those who worked outside were primarily itinerant photographers, commonly known as alaminütçü or dakikalıkçı.29 These itinerant photographers contributed to a varied representation of the newly established Turkish nation in diverse urban and rural settings. Yet the makeshift studio space they created came with its own limitations.

Democratizing the Studio Space: Alaminüt Photography From the mid-nineteenth century, itinerant photographers regularly brought cameras to various sites of leisure such as parks and the seaside (About 2015; Dominici 2018). They “set up tents at small fairs and markets, knocked on doors in working class neighborhoods, and visited far-flung villages” in different parts of the world, fostering “a global culture of frequent, anonymous, public photography” (Clark 2017: 227–9). The itinerant photographer typically followed the paths already established by travelling vendors and traders (About 2015). Even though the profession was specialized, it required only simple technical training, which included framing, focusing, and developing prints. It tended to attract artists in the early stages of their career or “in search of inspiration,” as well as young men who were unemployed, making it a male-dominated profession (Werner 1997 in About 2015: 5).30 As Holland (2015: 135) points out, in the West, photography was democratized by the revolutionary hand-held Kodak Box Brownie, launched in 1900 with the slogan “You press the button, we do the rest.” Kodak brought “a revolution in ways of perceiving the immediate domestic world, and in redefining who had the right to record that world” (Holland 2015: 135). For Sarvas and Frohlich (2011: 20–1), the introduction of this Kodak camera as a “disruptive technology” moved domestic photography from the “portrait path,” largely characterized by studio photography, onto the “Kodak path,” marked by snapshot photography, until the emergence of digital image capture in the 1990s. Because of its post-war impoverishment, it would take Turkey several decades to fully join the Kodak path. Snapshot photography spread more slowly than in Western countries throughout the 1920s and 1930s, and was primarily promoted for travel; summer holidays in the countryside/at the seaside (sayfiye); outings (tenezzüh) and gatherings/parties (eğlenti), as illustrated by Figures 5.3 and 5.4. It would be common to use the entire film roll on one such occasion.31 Ads like Figure  5.3 urged people to use a Kodak camera to record “the sweet and vivid memories of the happy moments you spent in your fleeting vacation,” claiming that “holidays without Kodak are fast forgotten.” Indeed, some of the common patterns in terms of location and composition we observe in snapshot photographs from the 1920s and 1930s suggest that such ads successfully generated an appeal for photography as a fun activity. However, due to the technical and financial

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implications of having prints developed and replenishing film, the use of snapshot cameras remained limited until the 1940s. In this context, Turkey’s alaminüt photographers flourished in the 1920s and 1930s, partly thanks to a government regulation that required the inclusion of passport photos in all official paperwork, and continued to operate, mostly

Figure 5.3  An advertisement for Kodak cameras, Kodak film, and Velox print paper, as well as Minoteros carte postale paper for alaminüt photography, “sold everywhere.” The text reads: “If you do not record the sweet and vivid memories of the happy moments you spent in your fleeting vacation with a Kodak camera, your beautiful holiday will disappear. Holidays without Kodak are fast forgotten.” July 15, 1929, Son Saat. Istanbul University Library

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Figure 5.4  An advertisement for Kodak, Velox, and Minoteros. The advertisement urges people to use Kodak film “for the success and excellence of your photographs.” It also promotes Kodak cameras and Velox print paper, along with Minoteros cartes-postales designed for alaminüt photography, all of which are “sold everywhere.” 21 June 1929, Milliyet. Istanbul University Library

anonymously, without any name or logo on their prints, across Turkey up until the mid-1980s (Şen 2002a). The mobile camera set-up, which included a tripod and a wooden box that served as a dark room, accompanied by a black, painted or embroidered backdrop defined alaminüt photography. The wooden box contained the necessary equipment to process paper negatives. The prints were made within minutes, sold for affordable prices and handed over to the customer on the spot.32 With the equipment, chemicals, and colorful backdrops that they carried with them, alaminüt photographers were able to instantly create a studio atmosphere in the street, replicating many common studio practices including poses and compositions. Overexposed, blurry, and poorly framed prints as well as images with tears, creases, black spots, or stains frequently appeared among the pictures taken by itinerant photographers. In contrast to the relatively high social status of studio photographers, the work of Turkish itinerant photographers was often dismissed as “naïve” or “practical” (see Bölük 2014: 53–66; Ak 2001: 141–6; Aksel 1977; Akçura 2003, 2020a, 2020b; Calafato 2021; Özendes 1994; Şen 2002a, 2002b, 2019). Throughout the 1940s, with the spread of amateur cameras from brands like Kodak, Ihagee, Voigtländer, and Zeiss, the alaminüt photographers increasingly relied on the demand for passport photos, which changed the nature of alaminüt

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photography. Photographers positioned themselves in front of government offices, or main public squares, catering to a clientele in need of urgent ID photos. Pictures of people walking on the street in central spots like the Taksim area of Istanbul, taken as snapshots by itinerant photographers (specifically referred to as şipşakçı), also started to appear in the 1940s (Ak 2001: 145). The intricately woven or painted backdrops gradually fell out of favor. By 1985, the number of alaminütçü had declined to around twenty photographers in Istanbul (Ak 2001) and by the 2000s only a handful remained (Şen 2002a).33 As Bölük (2014) argues, considering their limited financial means, Turkey’s alaminüt photographers were quite resourceful in finding creative ways to retouch and color the prints.34 Along with plain backdrops, alaminüt photographs featured a great variety of painted or embroidered backgrounds, which presented a rich and dynamic imagination. It was not uncommon to see luscious urban landmarks, gazebos, fountains, birds, stars, and flags, painted in vivid colors and mostly in the style of two-dimensional naïve paintings. At times, the backdrops would take the form of carpets, rugs, or cutout decors such as airplanes, and occasionally the name of the photographer would be embroidered onto it. In many alaminüt portraits, we also see accessories and furniture items, including bicycles, side tables, chairs, flowerpots, and toys for children. Depending on the purpose of the photograph, alaminüt photographers would sometimes add banners reading “Souvenir” (Hatıra), “Soldier’s Souvenir” (Askerlik Hatırası), “Youth’s Souvenir” (Gençlik Hatırası), or “A Souvenir from Istanbul” (İstanbul Hatırası) or a particular Istanbul neighborhood (e.g., Çemberlitaş Hatırası). Some Soldier’s Souvenir backdrops were accompanied by depictions of fortresses and cannons. In some of these portraits, soldiers would pose holding guns or with cartridge strips draped over their shoulders. In general, the backdrops provided elaborate sceneries for the subjects being photographed, stories in which they could insert themselves, as suggested by backgrounds featuring fairytale silhouettes of Istanbul, in which famous landmarks like the Galata Bridge, the Rumeli Fortress, the Maiden’s Tower, mosques and palaces are mixed together (Ak 2001; Şen 2002a).35 Alaminüt photography played a major role in propagating and democratizing photography in the early Republican era. Specifically, alaminüt photographers in modern Turkey filled an important vacuum by permeating remote towns and villages, and reaching out and giving agency to the lower classes who might have been intimidated by the photography studio, which they might have seen as a space of luxury reserved for upper and middle classes (Şen 2019). Itinerant photography arguably served as “a vehicle that allowed the negotiation and even optimization of the inequalities and hierarchies” for the lower classes (Coronado 2018: 152), contributing to a more heterogeneous, democratic photographic production in the early years of the Turkish Republic. Giving the example of Britain, Patricia Holland (2015: 157–8) writes that in the early 1900s travelling photographers were instrumental in documenting the working classes. Because they came from a class background similar to their customers, their photography acted as “a medium in which working-class

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people could present themselves to each other, creating a confident working-class identity” (Holland 2015: 158). Turkish alaminüt photographers, too, generally came from a lower-class background, but besides documenting the working class they also documented the upper and middle classes, particularly when they worked in popular urban spots. Şen (2019) explains that, unlike studio photographers, alaminüt photographers were not trained within the framework of a long-lasting master-apprentice relationship. Instead, they would learn the basics of the profession from another alaminüt photographer in their social circle, perhaps a relative. Oftentimes, alaminüt photography would be taken up by those who did not have a large number of professional prospects, including ex-convicts who learned alaminüt photography from other prisoners while serving in prison. After a short training they would start working, mostly sticking to the rudimentary technical knowledge and equipment they had acquired, without feeling the need to improve their skills. Alaminüt photography helped the less well-to-do to document and perform their classed and gendered selves in the various social and familial roles they took on, compensating for the absence of access to photography studios in rural areas. It contributed to an expansive survey of the rapidly changing political and social landscape of modern Turkey, and served as a democratizing instrument in creating a photographic culture for family portraiture outside the realm of the urban middle classes. At the same time, alaminüt photographers who operated in cities strategically positioned themselves at busy sites, creating an opportunity for the middle classes to document their public selves in the spaces they dwelled in or traveled to. In metropoles like Istanbul, alaminüt photographers would place their cameras in main city squares like the Taksim Square, around major mosques and in front of government buildings, schools, courthouses, and notaries, particularly on weekdays, serving customers who needed passport pictures for paperwork. On weekends and holidays, they would work in parks, gardens, and at the seaside, where city dwellers typically went for relaxation and recreation (Ak 2001; Bölük 2014; Şen 2002a, b, 2019).36 In such recreational spots, alaminüt photographers catered to clients who wanted an instant souvenir of a special family outing. In the 1920s and 1930s, the change toward a nuclear, more inward-looking family structure and increased access to public transportation meant that families were becoming more mobile (Slater 1995: 132). With the modernization and secularization of public life, mixed couples and young families increasingly enjoyed holidays and days out in various recreational spots as well as on public beaches, which served as sites of making of the modern body. Having a group picture taken for a souvenir became a fun part of outings by the 1930s, accentuating a sense of unity among family members or friends. The presence of alaminüt photographers at specific sites might have contributed to creating an appetite for “doing” such sites among families from all classes, popularizing certain forms of leisure activities and locations (Bærenholdt et al., 2004; Löfgren 1999: 38). In the 1920s and 1930s, a very popular form of entertainment was visiting a mesire yeri (a public garden or a picnic ground), which would typically include a teahouse, a club or a restaurant. A great number of family pictures taken outdoors

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at the time feature various mesire spots, such as the parks and tea houses in Çamlıca and on the Princes’ Islands in Istanbul; riverside restaurants like Hünkar Suyu and Çırçır Suyu in Istanbul; and the hot springs in Yalova. ­Figures  5.5 and 5.6 epitomize a typical mesire yeri photograph taken by an alaminüt photographer from the 1930s, with a family group sitting around a steel picnic table outdoors. The trees in the background indicate a large recreation spot, possibly a park on the Princes’ Islands that had a teahouse, as the table and chairs suggest. It is not clear if the bottles underneath the table were brought along by the family or ordered from the teahouse. They could have been placed on the floor because the table was too unstable to keep them from falling off, or they could have been removed for the purpose of the portrait, to avoid blocking any of the people around the table visually. Alaminüt photographs were developed in two stages. The first print would be a negative image, which was developed in the wooden box. Once developed, the negative print would be rephotographed to make a positive print on another sheet of gelatin silver paper (Çetin 2019; Şen 2002a).37 The negative print, as seen in Figure 5.5, is colloquially called Arap (Arab),38 in a reference to the common stereotyping of Black Africans as “Arabs” (Karabat 2014; Zilfi 2010).39 The existence of arap prints indicates that the negatives might have been given to customers along with the positive prints. The negative prints offer great insight into the locations alaminüt photographers operated in and the types of images they produced, from pictures taken on public ferries to portraits of boys at circumcision ceremonies.

Figure 5.5  A negative print of a group at a picnic spot, circa 1930s. 9 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 5.6  A positive print of Figure 5.5, circa 1930s. 9 × 13.9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

These prints help us establish the range of social topographies covered by alaminüt photography and discern common patterns among alaminüt photographers in the 1920s and 1930s. Alaminüt photography expedited the democratization of photography in the founding years of the Republic, as people explored the sociability of the medium before public life was fully “kodakised” (Urry and Larsen 2011: 167). It helped people document “intermittent moments of physical proximity” in public spaces, negotiating being in the same space with strangers while performing togetherness and intimacy with their loved ones (Urry and Larsen 2011: 21). In this process, the popular urban and rural landscapes that were used as backgrounds for alaminüt photographs were commodified and nationalized (Löfgren 1999). Beyond documenting the way Turkish citizens domesticated public life, the alaminüt camera also gave agency to people from different classes, who took the opportunity to claim ownership of their body and to perform their desired public selves as modern citizens in a great variety of public spaces. Alaminüt photographs helped to multiply and diversify classed and gendered representations of Turkish citizens, as they negotiated the Kemalist reforms and the regime’s surveillance across the country. While the statist elites within the one-party regime aimed to fully control public life, the regime’s degree of surveillance varied between urban settings and in the countryside. Alaminüt photography helps to explore how such manipulations on the part of the single-party regime may have been negotiated by Turkish citizens in urban and rural areas. The images taken in cities chart public life in urban spaces,

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which were closely surveilled by the regime, such as ferries on the Bosphorus, main shopping areas, or the public gardens of Istanbul or Izmir, indicating that the desired image of a modern Turkish citizen was also performed as part of daily life and not necessarily only for the occasion of having one’s picture taken. Alaminüt photography was instrumental in domesticating the street and public life in the 1920s and 1930s, allowing citizens in the cities and the countryside to generate and perform their desired selves in front of the camera, at times for the first time. In urban areas, alaminüt photographers could also be seen as part of a system of social surveillance, operating largely in the form of social pressure, that sought to enforce the modern self propagated by the regime, more than studio photographers, who could be more experimental out of the public eye. In rural areas, where the regime’s surveillance was arguably more relaxed or intermittent, partly due to the difficulty of employing the instruments of the state apparatus in remote areas, performances in alaminüt photography also had to negotiate the strong local and communal pressure on citizens, particularly women, to conform to conservative norms along with the secularist reforms imposed by the Kemalists (Yılmaz 2013: 122–5). Looking at representations in alaminüt photography contributes to a better understanding of the social tensions produced “as a result of the fluid boundary management between East and West” (Ahıska 2010: 81), between those who advocated Occidentalism and a rapid adoption of Western etiquette, and those who were anxious to preserve traditions in the early years of the Republic. This boundary management also came to the fore in the previous chapters with regard to the role of women in society (Chapter  1), the man’s shifting position in the family (Chapter 2), and the integration of older traditions into Republican imagery (Chapter 4).40

Conclusion The story of Hamza Rüstem’s photography studio is delicately intertwined with the story of the city of Izmir in which the studio continues to operate today. Through the thousands of portraits and postcards Hamza Rüstem and his sons produced over the decades, the studio bore witness to the making of a modern Republican city and played an active role in shaping the image of its emerging middle class. The success story of Hamza Rüstem himself, of an immigrant becoming a prominent photographer, also constitutes a striking example of the making of the modern secular intellectual Turkish middle-class identity as imagined by the new Kemalist nation-state. In the 1920s, Rüstem effectively shaped himself into a successful modern Turkish citizen who actively participated in the making of a new bourgeois class as a leading studio photographer and modern businessman. By the mid-1940s, studio photography had largely been democratized, which led to the expansion of the clientele of the Hamza Rüstem studio to the lowermiddle classes. Until then, it had been the itinerant (alaminüt) photographers who filled the vacuum in the less surveilled geographies of the Turkish countryside,

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documenting large segments of rural society in smaller towns and remote villages. The alaminüt camera and colorful backdrops used attracted a curious audience, some of whom may not have had access to photography before. The choice of locations where alaminüt photographers set up their cameras offers clues as to how inhabitants domesticated their cities and shaped their daily life at the time. Itinerant photography played an important role in reimagining modern Turkey as a Republican home for its newly minted citizens.

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­6 D I S SE M I NAT I N G C I T I Z E N SH I P

In this chapter, using the case study of a group of portraits sent to an individual named Şükrü Bey as a starting point, I will explore how the circulation of photographs helped to construct, disseminate, and consolidate the image of the new Republican citizen. In the Şükrü Bey series, a group of men, holding respectable positions at various government institutions, use photography and photographic inscriptions to endorse the image of the well-educated and wellmannered gentleman who is loyal to the principles of the Kemalist regime. This series helps us examine how a classed image of the new modern Turkish citizen was cemented, reproduced, and disseminated through exchanges of photographic prints in various social networks in the early years of the Republic. With their fashionable suits, perfectly tucked-in pocket squares, elegant ties and bowties, polished boots, and clean spats, the men portrayed in the series perform their sophistication and gentility, which is further affirmed through the inscriptions written on the front or the back of the photographs, indicating their belonging to a high social class and the institutional apparatus of the modern state. The 1928 alphabet change from Arabic to Latin, followed by a comprehensive language reform in the 1930s, presents an exceptional historical moment for modern Turkey and can be tracked in the transformation of handwritten notes on photographs. After analyzing the images, therefore, I will study these inscriptions, found on the Şükrü Bey series and on other photographs, which add layers of meaning and function to the practice of exchanging photographs. The way such inscriptions were written and replicated unveils the etiquette that emerged around the circulation of photographs among urban middle-class citizens, across space, gender, class, and age.

The Curious Case of Şükrü Bey In September 2015, I purchased a set of images in a shop in Izmir’s Kızlarağası Han Bazaar, one of the handful of places that sell old photographs in the city. The set includes a series of individual studio portraits of young men in formal Western suits with ties or bow ties and carefully groomed hair. A number of the portraits show the men from the chest up, with a white vignette around them. Along

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with their visual likeness, the similarities between the handwritten notes on the portraits are striking. The neatly written notes are all of a similar length, typically include a date and a location, and end with a signature, implying a conventional genre that had become established and was widely copied by the 1920s. The inscriptions, most of which appear on the front of the photographs, tie these images together. Written in Ottoman Turkish, they reveal a fascinating puzzle that each of these images holds a piece of. The majority of the portraits in the series are signed by “muavin”s (a position corresponding to that of deputy director) of various branches of Ziraat Bank. The notes on these portraits all address to a certain Şükrü Bey (Mr. Şükrü), who seems to have been a muavin at Ziraat Bank’s Balya branch in Balıkesir, as revealed in Figure 6.2 by the Geyve (Sakarya) deputy holding the same title as him. Some portraits, however, do not seem to be of Ziraat Bank employees, such as that of the man in Figure 6.9, who signs as a “Painting and Physical Training Teacher” from Erdek (Balıkesir). From the references made in the inscriptions, it appears that the majority of the men in these portraits were Şükrü Bey’s schoolmates. The emphasis on a language of friendship, reverence, and love in the elegantly written notes complements the subjects’ projection of a desired self-image that complies with the Westernized urban middle-class masculinities emergent in Turkish society in the 1920s and 1930s. This case study provides some clues regarding the ways in which vernacular photographs were circulated both as objects for memory-making and as tokens for self-promotion and self-representation (Hearn 2013: 25; Hudgins 2010), helping to reinforce the making of modern Turkish masculinities in the formative years of the Republic. The faded light-colored pattern embedded in the rim of these portraits, creating a vignette aesthetic, seems to suggest that Figures  6.2–6.8, 6.14–6.17, 6.20, and 6.21 were taken in the same studio. In these eleven photographs, the men sit in the exact same spot. Some of them (i.e., Figures 6.1, 6.13, 6.18, and 6.19) show a similar background with a leafy pattern. In Figures 6.13 and 6.19 the same trunk is used as an accessory, while in Figures 6.18 and 6.19 furniture items including a chair and a side table are added. Considering the close-set timestamps on the photographs, it is likely that both the vignettes and the full body portraits were taken in the same studio. Most of the inscriptions are dated between February 21 and March 7, 1927. The placing of the text on each print and the similarity of the phrases used suggest that this group of men might have been together when writing the inscriptions, aware of and influencing each other’s notes. It is likely that these portraits were given to Şükrü in person, rather than being sent to him through the post. However, it is not possible to sort the images chronologically, since the date written on each photograph likely refers to the day when it was dedicated and handed to Şükrü Bey rather than to the day on which it was taken. Looking at the studio portraits of Imperial Ottoman Bank employees recruited between the 1890s and 1920s, Eldem (2015: 240) explains that “employees posted in a same town generally had their picture taken at the same studio,” which seems to have been the case for the pictures in the Şükrü Bey series. Some studios

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Figure 6.1  A studio portrait: “My precious Şükrü Bey! I know that months and years erase memories very fast! In order to save myself from the danger of being forgotten, I present my picture to you. March 1, 1927.”1 13.8 × 8.7 cm.

Figure 6.2  A studio portrait: “To my respectable brother Şükrü Bey, the Balya deputy of Ziraat Bank. Remember me as you look at my shadow. Geyve muavin of Ziraat Bank, February 26, Sivrihisar.”2 13.8 × 8.7 cm.

Figure 6.3  A studio portrait: “To Şükrü Bey, sincerely, to remember the days we spent together. Burdur muavin, March 5, 1927.”3 13.8 × 8.7 cm.

Figure 6.4  A studio portrait: “To my brother Şükrü Bey, you will not forget me while remembering the sad and sweet days of our life as a student, right? Denizli Çal muavin, February 26, 1927.”4 13.8 × 8.8 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 6.5  A studio portrait: “To our respectful brother Şükrü Bey, an immortal memory of the prosperous days. Registrar at Yenişehir Banking School, Ankara. February 21, 1927.”5 14 × 9 cm.

Figure 6.6  A studio portrait: “My brother Şükrü Bey, when you remember the days we threw snowballs at each other, look at this picture. İçel muavin. Ankara, February 23, 1927.”6 13.8 × 8.7 cm.

Figure 6.7  A studio portrait: “To my brother Şükrü Bey, remember me as you look at my shadow! [. . .] Ankara: Şarköy muavin. Ankara, February 26, 1927.”7 13.8 × 8.8 cm.

Figure 6.8  A studio portrait: “To our brother Şükrü Bey, in order to remind you of the sincerity of our school friendship, look at my shadow and do not forget me! Bozkır muavin, February 27, 1927.”8 13.7 × 8.7 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figures 6.9 and 6.10  (recto and verso) A studio portrait: “To my brother Şükrü Bey, for keeping an immortal memory of a mortal life we spent together, Painting and Physical Training Teacher at the Erdek Numune Mektebi [High School]. Erdek,: 29 [. . .] 339 (1923/1924).”9 13.8 × 8.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figure 6.11  A studio portrait: “Şükrü Bey, my brother, here is a photograph of me as a souvenir, hoping it reminds you of your life and precious moments in school. Ereğli muavin, February 21, 1927.”10 14 × 9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figure 6.12  A studio portrait: “To our valuable friend Şükrü Bey, hoping this picture strengthens the feelings of love and sincerity developed in the cold climate of Ankara. Ankara, February 25, 1927. [. . .] from Fatsa.”11 14 × 8.9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 6.13  A studio portrait: “Hoping that you will not forget the [. . .] school life we had together. February 22, 1927.”12 13.8 × 9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figure 6.14  A studio portrait: “To my roommate and my dear brother Şükrü Bey. Garbi Karaağaç. Ankara, February 24, 1927”13 14 × 9 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figures 6.15 and 6.16  (recto and verso) A studio portrait: “Dear Şükrü Bey, hoping that it leads to the continuation of the deep fondness built together in a short time. Akçaabat muavin. March 7, 1927.”14 13.7 × 8.8 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 6.17  A studio portrait: “My dear brother Şükrü Bey! Here is a dark face, as opposed to your bright mind. I present this picture to you. Perhaps from time to time you can glance at my pale face and remember me. February 22, 1927. Ziraat Bank Erbaa muavin, 1927. Ihlamur [a street in Tokat]”15 14 × 9 cm.

Figure 6.18  A studio portrait: “To my brother Şükrü Bey, hoping that it reminds you of the valuable moments. Çorlu Ziraat Bank muavin, February 21, 1927”16 14 × 9 cm.

Figure 6.19  A studio portrait: “My dearest Şükrü! Hoping that it helps you remember our sincerity, Karacasu [Aydın] muavin, February 27, 1927”17 13.8 × 8.9 cm.

Figure 6.20  A studio portrait: “To my dear brother Şükrü Bey, Kangri (Çankırı) muavin, March 5, 1927.”18 13.8 × 8.8 cm.

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Figure 6.21  A studio portrait: “To my precious brother Şükrü Bey, may our love and sincerity that started in school years continue. Taşköprü muavin. 22/February 23, 1927.”19 13.7 × 8.8 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Figures 6.22 and 6.23  (recto and verso) A studio portrait: “To my brother Şükrü Bey, hoping that this reminds you of the stories I told in school. Your brother. İnegöl Registrar Zekeriya Bey”20 13.7 × 8.8 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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produced pictures of employees as part of a photography campaign, imposing the same pose on their sitters, such as Bogos Tarkulyan’s Studio Phébus in Istanbul (Eldem 2015: 240). This may explain the visual consistencies in the Şükrü Bey series. Indeed, a similar campaign might have been organized for Ziraat Bank, with employees photographed in nearly identical poses in the same studio. The photographs of Ottoman Bank personnel discussed by Eldem provide insight into the relationship between posture and social status, marking differences in terms of rank and seniority. The poses and postures of the high-ranking muavins in the Şükrü Bey series show, indeed, striking similarities to the sophisticated, elegant, and confident poses of the high-ranking employees from the Ottoman Bank. Ziraat Bank (Agricultural Bank), the first agricultural financial institution to be founded by the Ottoman state with a state guarantee, served as a leading bank for farmers in the early years of the Republic, with its number of branches rising to 300 by 1923.21 Indeed, the Ziraat branches whose names appear on the images in the Şükrü Bey series cover a wide spectrum of Turkish cities, particularly in the coastal areas, including the Aegean (Burdur in Figure 6.3; Denizli in Figures 6.4 and 6.14; and Aydın in Figure 6.19), the Marmara (Sakarya in Figure 6.2; Tekirdağ in Figure 6.18; and İnegöl in Figure 6.22), the Black Sea (Zonguldak in Figure 6.11; Trabzon in Figure 6.15; and Kastamonu in Figure 6.21), and the Mediterranean (İçel in Figure 6.6) regions. What were these Ziraat Bank muavins doing in Ankara in the winter of 1927? How were these men connected to Şükrü Bey? Figure  6.5, signed by a banking school clerk in Yenişehir (Ankara), may offer a clue regarding the story of these images. In September 1926, Ziraat Bank established an applied banking school, Ameli Bankacılık Mektebi, which was designed to train bank personnel in the field of cooperatives over a period of six months (Hızır 2020; Yıldırır Kocabaş 2011). The school admitted “young officials, who finished secondary education and were eager to learn and expand their knowledge” (Hızır 2020). The school operated until 1934, producing 379 graduates in eight years. The dates in the inscriptions correspond to the approximate graduation date of the 1926 class, suggesting that these young officials attended the school together over six months in the “cold climate of Ankara” (Figure 6.12). These images might thus have served as both professional and graduation portraits. Quite possibly, multiple prints were made of each portrait to be exchanged among classmates and school officials. The practice of exchanging pictures may even have been promoted by the school. Şükrü Bey appears to be one of those who attended the school and who, as the Balya muavin of Ziraat Bank, held the same rank as his classmates. It is likely, therefore, that he handed out a similar studio portrait to his classmates, with a similar inscription expressing feelings of love, friendship, and respect. While Şükrü Bey may not appear in the pictures, he was clearly fully part of the culture of exchanging studio portraits among colleagues and friends. As such, he was one of many to adopt photography as a way of making and sharing memories, while cementing his identity as a proper Turkish citizen and a well-respected and beloved government official, endorsed by his colleagues and classmates.

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The portraits in the Şükrü Bey series suggest that a wide range of people adopted the culture of gifting and exchanging photographs, also outside the immediate family circle. The young men in the Şükrü Bey series constitute an exemplary case of how well-educated, Westernized professionals embraced the practice of exchanging photographs, and its associated function of spreading a model image of Turkish citizenship, in the early years of the Republic. In these portraits, the men present their public selves in accordance with models of modern Turkish masculinity and use photography as tokens of self-promotion in the hope of carving out a place for themselves in the new professional networks established by the Kemalist regime.

Circulating Memory through Photographs In the Şükrü Bey series, what kind of memories are captions like “the days we spent together” (Figure  6.3), “the days we threw snowballs at each other” (Figure 6.6) or “the sad and sweet days of our student years” (Figure 6.4) meant to evoke and endorse? What is the purpose of the cementing of these memories that the inscriptions hint at? What broader purpose did the practice of gifting these portraits with their memory-focused inscriptions serve? In this section, taking the Şükrü series as a starting point, I will study what images “did” for middle-class Turkish citizens who used photographic exchanges not only for memory-building and memory-sharing but also for the promotion of a classed self-image (Rose 2010). Thinking of photographs as material objects, Edwards and Hart (2004: 1) suggest that [p]hotographs exist materially in the world, as chemical deposits on paper, as images mounted on a multitude of different sized, shaped, colored and decorated cards, as subject to additions to their surface or as drawing their meanings from presentational forms such as frames and albums. Photographs are both images and physical objects that exist in time and space.

As Batchen notes (2000: 60), vernacular photographs in particular “exploit the fact that the photograph is something that can also have volume, opacity, tactility, and a physical presence in the world.” Consequently, I use the Şükrü Bey series as an opportunity to think about some of the “affordances” of photographs (Edwards 2002), which Rose (2010: 18) defines as “the material qualities of an object that allow some things to be done with it and not others.” Rose (2010: 20) points out that “an image has a specific range of qualities as an object, but it is only when someone uses the image in some way that certain of those qualities become activated, as it were, and significant. When that use changes, the photograph also alters, as it is seen and done differently.” Therefore, the material qualities of photographs are never irrelevant to the ways in which they are used (Pinney 2005). For instance, enlarged and mounted prints such as Figures 1.1, 2.1, and 5.1 were probably framed to be hung on the wall or placed on

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a dresser, whereas studio portraits in the Şükrü Bey series were produced as carte postale prints, signed and inscribed to be gifted to others. They could have been kept in an album, but it is unlikely that they were ever framed by the receiver. We do not know how many prints were made of each portrait; however, it is probable that multiple copies of the same portrait circulated in multiple familial as well as collegial circles. The photographs in the Şükrü Bey series are connected to a larger historical framework with regard to the circulation of images as objects. As Ersoy (2016: 333) points out, “[b]y the end of the nineteenth century a rapidly increasing number of Ottoman subjects became objects of the camera, and were exposed to the growing discharge of circulating images,” which led to the creation of a market for photographs. Photographs that the Palace commissioned state officials or professional studios like Abdullah Frères to produce for various projects “soon turned into purchasable items in the market in the form of albumen prints or postcards, and were also widely circulated in the illustrated press.” On the other hand, many photographs in Sultan Abdülhamid’s collection were items already available in the market and later purchased by the Palace (Ersoy 2016: 339). Hearn (2013: 25) writes that the circulation of photographs as threedimensional objects of social practice started with the spread of cartes de visite, patented by Disdéri in France in 1854, across Europe and North America in the 1860s and 1870s: “Cartes de visite were small, inexpensive paper portrait photographs mounted on card stock that were exchanged and collected by all classes of people.”22 Particularly in France and England, cartes were popularized as accessible representations of notable figures from Napoleon III to Queen Victoria, sold in boxed sets in the tens of thousands (Darrah 1981). This phenomenon, referred to as cartomania, caused a craze not only for collecting the images of others but also for having one’s own portrait taken, “in styles and poses favored by the celebrated” (Hearn 2013: 28). Cartes, moreover, as essential components of social interactions among the wealthier classes, transformed “portraiture from a luxury to a necessity” (Volpe  1999: 54). These portraits would take part in gift circulation networks among family and friends (Darrah 1981; Wichard and Wichard 1999). Often collected in albums, cartes de visite helped “construct and solidify family narratives and extend networks of sociality” (Hearn 2013: 25). Hearn (2013: 25) explains that cartes de visite “worked to entrench and commercialize the profession of photography, democratize access to self-presentation, and introduce easily standardized visual codes and conventions for respectable selfhood.” Even after cartomania abated, “the trends inaugurated by their popularity only intensified” (Hearn 2013: 34). The culture of producing and exchanging cartes de visite permeated the Ottoman territories soon after it became a fad in Europe. Koloğlu (in Bölük 2014: 68) notes that Ottoman newspapers like Ruzname-i Ceride-i Havadis and Tasvir-i Efkar wrote about cartomania in the early 1860s as a popular trend in the West, where people made special albums in which they kept carte de visite size pictures of their loved ones, relatives, and European celebrities. The popularization of the cartes

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in the Ottoman Empire, which resulted in an increase in photography studios, suggests a rapid spread of photographic production at the turn of the twentieth century (Ak and Modiano 2004; Çizgen 1987). Concurrently, the popularization of the postcard provided a “sudden leap in the circulation of images” (Eldem 2015: 139). Postcards offered a wide range of visual content from urban panoramas and “Oriental beauties” to risqué scenes “representing couples in various degrees of intimacy and dress” (Eldem 2015: 139). The images used on postcards were usually produced by prominent photographers. Postcards were “bought, collected, exchanged, and mailed in prodigious quantities possibly sold for as low as “10 to 20 paras and sent to a friend or acquaintance for another 10 or 20” (Eldem 2015: 139). As Eldem (2015: 139) points out, “by and large, the market depended heavily on foreigners, tourists or residents, to whom the postcard was both a memento and a medium of succinct, cheap, and rapid correspondence, and of Ottomans who espoused Western practices and lifestyle.” Photo cards (cartes photo), which were personally selected photographs reproduced on preprinted photographic paper to be used like postcards, were also popular (Eldem 2015: 232). Illustrated journals also helped foster the emergence of a photographic community in the Ottoman Empire, encouraging active participation and discussions among amateurs from the 1890s onward, and encapsulating the impact of “the rising mobility of the image, and of its circulation within a modern, thickly layered and consumerized media environment” (Ersoy 2016: 356). Eldem notes that (2015: 149): In less than fifty years, on a bumpy path to modernity, photography in the Ottoman Empire evolved from the marginal status of a novelty for the elite few to an object of mass consumption. During the three decades of Abdülhamid’s modernist autocracy, its period of gestation, it was dominated by a growing tension between the natural propensity of the image to free itself from all constraints and the regime’s implacable desire to monitor and subdue it. The revolution of 1908 put an end to this tension by unleashing the full power of photography in the making of a new social and political order.

The fast rate at which domestic practices for the circulation and consumption of images emerged prompted several prominent authors of the time to advise their rapidly Westernizing Ottoman readers on the “appropriate” ways to keep, arrange, and exchange photographic prints. In European Etiquette or Alafranga from 1894, for instance, Ahmet Mithat (2001 [1894]: 256–60) talks about the rising popularity of photography, and claims that in larger Ottoman cities, people “from all economic backgrounds” have been rushing to studios to have their pictures taken. In his famously didactic tone, he writes that photographs should be kept in private rooms, on top of fireplaces or around mirrors, or in carefully arranged albums. He praises the custom of regularly looking at family albums since this helps evoke happy memories from the past. Stressing the value and significance attributed to photographs, he explains that people usually have only a few copies

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of their photographs made, which they exchange with friends and acquaintances on rare occasions. Outside family and friend circles, Ahmet Mithat stresses, photographs should only be handed out upon solicitation, since pictures exchanged without request would damage the dignity of both parties. To prove that a photograph was indeed given by its owner, the print should be signed with an inscription like “a cordial souvenir” (yadigâr-ı muhibbane). However, while an inscription on the back of a photograph indicates modesty, writing on the front of a photograph is interpreted as “arrogance” (teşhiri nefs). Also, a junior should first prove himself to his senior to be able to request his picture (Ahmet Mithat 2001 [1894]: 258). According to Ahmet Mithat (2001 [1894]: 259–60), a man should never hand his picture to a woman unless requested to do so, nor should he ask a woman for a picture. If asked by a woman for his picture, a man should feel humbled by this request, and express his gratitude. When handing his picture to a woman, the man should not include a personal note on the photograph unless the woman requests it. A personal note, furthermore, should not imply anything that would embarrass the woman in front of those who might see the photograph. Conversely, a young woman should not give her picture to any young man other than her fiancé and should not keep any pictures of men other than male relatives or older male friends in her room (Ahmet Mithat 2001 [1894]: 259–60). Three decades later, in 1927, Abdullah Cevdet (in Meriç 2007: 502) gave similar advice to young women: women may keep photographs in albums, use them in business cards and exchange them with friends, but should not hand out photographs of themselves as they please. The intriguing case of the Şükrü Bey series, which indicates that gifting or exchanging of photographs did not just happen in families, but also in a professional context, presents a good example of the use of photography in the early years of the Republic both as mementos offered in genuine gestures of affection and as a means of self-promotion and public appraisal. The fact that these men were trained and employed by Ziraat Bank gives some insight into these dynamics among a professional class that was being forged through the institutions established in the late Ottoman era, inherited by the Turkish Republic. Given their Westernized, higher class identities, it is likely that the men portrayed in the series were keen to follow the etiquette promoted by the likes of Ahmet Mithat and Abdullah Cevdet for exchanging photographs as a way to reinforce their social status and personal prestige. While some do write on the front of the portraits, contrary to what Ahmet Mithat advises, the language they use in their inscriptions, emphasizing admiration, appreciation, and respect, reveals their eagerness and effort to impress each other with their fidelity, humility, and kindness. Presumably provided upon solicitation, the inscriptions in the series repeatedly refer to the cementing of relationships. In an attempt to create an “old boys’ network,” a group of men seek to make their colleague Şükrü Bey remember them and, in some cases, to stand out among the group by activating personal memories of experiences they shared with him. Recollection is repeatedly anchored to shared activities in specific places, such as telling stories in school (Figure  6.22). By

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referencing shared membership of a community as alumni of the same course, the men who address Şükrü Bey in the portraits try to mobilize their status as friends and former classmates within the newly built professional network of Ziraat Bank employees. Looking at British photography, Nicole Hudgins (2010: 564) writes that the circulation of photographs in personal and professional networks served to cement a sense of community belonging as migration from villages to cities increased with the rise of educational institutions and office jobs in the nineteenth century. In the early years of the Turkish Republic, the Kemalist regime sought to establish a national infrastructure for administration, education, and healthcare, which meant appointing thousands of government employees, bankers, educators, and health personnel across the country. These servants of the Republic regularly sent studio portraits documenting the various phases of their personal and professional life to their families and friends. With more job opportunities in cities, Turkish youth increasingly moved from rural to urban areas, leaving their parents behind in their hometown. Meanwhile, newly married couples progressively moved out of their family homes to build a new nuclear family elsewhere. Photographs were sent to relatives who lived elsewhere; soldiers (see, for instance, Figures 2.3 and 2.5) and students especially habitually mailed pictures to their families back home (Duben and Behar 2014). In some cases, photographs were used in lieu of postcards or letters, featuring longer inscriptions with notes like “Since I could not write you a letter, I send you this card as a souvenir.” Apart from mailing photographs, family visits appear to have presented an opportune moment to exchange photographs, as suggested by common inscriptions like “I have come to see you.” As Rose (2010: 64) suggests, “sending a photograph to relatives is precisely a practice that performs family.” Through the act of gifting, the photographs travel as mobile objects “dense not only with the presence of the people they picture but also with the trace of that person doing the sending” (Rose 2010: 64). In Turkey, exchanged family photographs allowed the idea of the modern Republican family to spread across the country. Gifting and exchanging family pictures, often accompanied by news from the giver/sender, helped to “make the home” by safeguarding the cohesion and togetherness of the family (Rose 2010). Used to cement family ties and record family history, the family portrait simultaneously functioned as a medium of class and national identity through which citizens sought to construct their distinctness and respectability (Campt 2012: 47). Owing to practices of collection and exchange, vernacular photographs become objects with cumulative histories rather than static images that capture a singular moment (Berkin 2014: 50). What did Şükrü Bey’s colleagues share when they presented these studio portraits to him? What did they hope to share in the future? How might the photographs have facilitated this sharing? Beyond their common educational and professional history, the men in the Şükrü Bey series were all part of a turbulent historical moment during which they witnessed the transition from a 600-year-old empire to a nation-state following a decade of warfare. They helped the Kemalists build a new Turkish state by taking on various

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roles in the government sector, emerging as members of a Turkified bourgeoisie that the regime presumed would be loyal. The portraits in the series seem to fully align with the regime’s strategy of visual representation and to project an aspiration to national belonging and model citizenship. They adhere to the vision of a new modern secular educated Turkish self emerging from a Westernized Ottoman elite self. Through the exchange of these photographs in their professional circles, these men collectively perform the new nation state, cementing communal ties while seeking social acceptance and public appraisal. The circulation of their portraits might have served as a way for these men to make sense of a new Republican identity, which they conformed to in order to carve out a life and a career for themselves in a new political system and a new homeland.

Candid, Cordial, and Courteous: Captions for Lifeless Shadows In the construction of their desired self as an exemplary modern Turkish citizen, what role did the inscriptions play for the men in the Şükrü Bey series? What did they imply about photography’s role in generating memories? What was the purpose of marking oneself so insistently in others’ memories with a portrait and inscription? In this section, through the analysis of common patterns that emerge in inscriptions on photographs, some of which repeatedly appear in the Şükrü Bey series, I look at the ways in which such inscriptions were used to consolidate the image of the new urban middle-class citizen of the Republic. Furthermore, I will explore how these inscriptions contributed to making and circulating personal and collective memory, and what they tell us about the role of photography in everyday life in the 1920s and 1930s. To perform a comprehensive analysis of the significance of inscriptions, besides looking at the Şükrü Bey series, I will revisit some of the images studied in the previous chapters and also introduce a number of other examples from the Akkasah archive. Batchen (2004: 41) writes that [t]he addition of text to photographs was a common strategy used by those who wished to enhance the memorial power of the image. The inscription of signatures, for example, was a potent way to make a photograph more than a record of appearance; for a signature is the unique trace of a person’s hand, a proof of identity, an unequivocal statement that ‘I was there, and here is my mark.’

Similarly, inscriptions help personalize photography: Even when prosaic in content, handwritten inscriptions suggest the voice of the writer, adding sound to the senses of touch and sight already engaged. This is particularly so when the inscription is in verse and thus demands to be read aloud so that we can enjoy its rhythms. (Batchen 2004: 47)

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Inscriptions, then, serve as “performances through which photographs acquire meanings and are embedded in histories” (Pinney 2003: 148). In the photographs in the Şükrü Bey series, professional men write to other professional men in an elaborate language that uses intricate Ottoman phrases, disclosing emotions like love, affection, sincerity, gratitude, fidelity (hakikat), frankness, and loyalty (merbûtiyet). Because of the inscriptions’ dramatic tone, which relies heavily on clichés, it is hard to surmise the actual degree of the men’s friendship. Some of these men may have been closer to Şükrü than others, such as the Garbi Karaağaç muavin in Figure 6.14, who shared a room with him. Others may have known him only very briefly and superficially, but apparently still felt the need to address him in a sentimental style. While the Şükrü Bey series stands out as an example of the circulation of photographs outside family circles, the inscriptions on the prints feature the same linguistic patterns and clichés used on vernacular photographs in general. In Figure 6.8 from February 27, 1927, for instance, the Bozkır (Konya) muavin writes: “To our brother Şükrü Bey, in order to remind you of the sincerity of our friendship in school, look at my shadow and do not forget me!” This note is emblematic of the expressions and phrasing used on many vernacular photographs in the 1920s and 1930s. In elegant handwriting, the Bozkır muavin addresses Şükrü Bey as “brother,” as do most of the men whose pictures are included in this series. This form of address constitutes a gesture of fraternal affinity even though the two men may barely have known each other. In other images, Şükrü Bey is referred to as “my precious” (Figure 6.1), “our respectable” (Figures 6.2 and 6.5) or “dearest” (Figure 6.20) brother, signaling an attempt to build a familial bond within a professional setting. At the same time, calling him “Şükrü Bey” (Mister Şükrü), a common form of address among colleagues, family, and friends at the time, constitutes a gesture of respect. Expressions emphasizing love and respect are ubiquitous in personal notes on photographs of the time, implying a classed rather than a gendered trend. These patterns are consistent between late Ottoman era and early Republican pictures, showing the importance of moral values such as love, respect, candidness, devotion, reverence, and faithfulness in both eras. In virtually all inscriptions, the addressee is referred to with loving words like “my dear” (sevgili, canım, çok sevdiğim) (e.g., Figure 1.9 from 1929: “A souvenir for my dear uncle and Ms. Fahrünisa.”), “my beloved” (aziz, biricik), “esteemed” or “respected” (muhterem, hürmetli), “precious” (kıymetli, kıymettar) (e.g., Figure  1.7 from 1920: “A souvenir for our precious sisters and respectable brother in law.”), or “truehearted” (hakikatli) (e.g., Figure  2.12 from 1934: “To my truehearted mother-in-law and father-in-law, a souvenir from us.”), regardless of the gender of the addresser and addressee. Spouses, siblings, parents, children, uncles and aunts, friends and colleagues, teachers and students, as well as neighbors and acquaintances of different ages end their notes with “deep love and respect” (derin sevgi ve saygılar), “best regards” (ihtiramat-ı faika, üstün hürmetler), or “sincerity and love” (samimiyet ve muhabbet), expressed in a rather formal language, at times also wishing each other health and happiness (sıhhat ve saadet). In inscriptions among family members, it

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is common for younger ones to “kiss the hands” of the elderly as an expression of respect and for the elderly to “kiss the eyes” of the younger in a gesture of parental affection. In Figure 6.8, as in many other images of the time, remembrance, nostalgia, and reminiscence emerge as common themes for the man gifting his picture to Şükrü Bey. The muavin notably refers to his own image as a “shadow” (gölge, hayal). In photography notes of the early Republican era, the self ’s image is often referred to as a faint (sönük, silik) shadow or a “lifeless body” (cansız beden, ruhsuz beden; also ruhsuz benzer, or “lifeless duplicate”) in a self-deprecating fashion (Figures  6.2, 6.7, and 6.8), which served to emphasize one’s modesty and the transience of life on earth. In some notes, the self-deprecation is accentuated by dramatic phrases like “Here is a dark face as opposed to your bright mind” or “Perhaps from time to time you glance at my pale face and remember me” (Figure 6.17). In others, a more cynical tone manifests through references to a “worthless” (kıymetsiz, değersiz) or faded (silik) memory (hatıra), or to a photograph that is “not worthy of you” (size layık değil). The inscriptions are geared toward generating a sense of nostalgia on the part of Şükrü Bey, who was clearly meant to look at these images and reminisce about a common happy past. Accompanying the acknowledgment of the ephemerality of life, as suggested by the reference to “an immortal memory” (hatıra-yı ebedi, lâyemût hatıra) of “a mortal life” in Figure 6.9, there is often a bittersweet reference to good old days spent together, regardless of their length (Figures 6.3, 6.4, and 6.13). These references encourage the addressee to remember, but also suggest that, without the material support of the portraits, memories will fade with time and moments spent together may be forgotten. “Forgetting” is repeatedly mentioned as a sad reality of a transient life in inscriptions on photographs. However, the inscriptions also frequently invoke a glimmer of hope for the remembrance (hatırlamak, tahattur etmek, yad etmek) of “the sincerity” (samimiyet) of a friendship (Figures 6.3, 6.8, 6.12, 6.19, and 6.21); or a sense of “deep fondness” (muhabbet, mavaddat) between people (Figure 6.15) and “precious moments” spent together (Figures 6.11 and 6.18). Typically, the giver wishes for the photograph to remind the recipient of “happy” (mesut) or “unforgettable” times enjoyed together. The photograph thus serves to counter the evanescence of memories, saving one from “the danger of being forgotten” as indicated in Figure 6.1. For Batchen (2004: 47), the insistence on an exchange of memories, asking the recipient to remember the giver, just as the giver remembers the recipient of the photograph, suggests that the photographs “are not really about remembering; they are instead dedicated to the fear of forgetting, or of being forgotten.” In this light, it is relevant that the presented photograph is often referred to as a souvenir. For the photograph-as-a-souvenir, words like yadigâr (Figure 1.7), hatıra (Figure 1.9, Figure 2.9), hatıra-yı yadigâr, yadigâr-ı kıymettar (precious memory), armağan-ı ebedi or ebedi bir hatıra (eternal gift) are commonly used. Since the word yadigâr is typically used in relation to a family heirloom (aile yadigârı), its usage in relation to photographs suggests the eminence attributed to them as part of family heritage.

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Batchen (2004: 97) argues that “the act of remembering someone is surely also about the positioning of oneself, about the affirmation of one’s own place in time and space, about establishing oneself within a social and historical network of relationships.” In the series, the men urge Şükrü Bey to look at their picture as a memory-aid to help evoke “precious” and “valuable” (Figures 6.6, 6.11, 6.13, and 6.18) memories of the past. These men express their hope that Şükrü Bey will actively reach for their images in order to look at them, not only to be remembered as people who marked their presence in Şükrü’s life (Figures 6.2, 6.7, and 6.8) but also to evoke a joint past (Figures 6.6, 6.9, 6.13, and 6.22) and to facilitate a shared future. “Marking and making past experience visible,” these portraits are not simply linked to a “nostalgic ‘pastness’”, they are also about “the realization that the past will play a part in the future” (Edwards 2004: 35). By giving him their portraits, in the manner of a business card, these men hope to assure Şükrü Bey’s recognition and memory of them as competent, serious professionals of a certain milieu with a promising future. Simultaneously, the inscriptions addressing him allow Şükrü Bey to mark his importance in others’ lives and to assert his own status and identity within the elite social, cultural and political networks he was part of. Significantly, different, sometimes contradictory ideas about photography and memory appear in the inscriptions. Some endorse photography’s function as enshrining memory in an “attempt to transcend the hard fact of death with the sweet promise of resurrection” (Batchen 2004: 91), while others express a more cynical attitude by pointing to the ephemerality of the photographic prints. These attitudes about photography are bound up with attitudes about the bonds of collegiality or friendship, which, too, are seen by some as everlasting and by others as more fragile. Despite their seemingly conflicting takes on the relation between photography and memory, however, the inscriptions share a common desire for people to leave behind a legacy and to provide others with visual proof of their best selves. The poetic nature of some of the inscriptions illustrates how photographs served as a platform for exhibiting one’s intellectual sophistication. In Figure 6.25 from 1935, for instance, the inscriber addresses a woman named Nadiye, perhaps a sister, with the following dramatic words: “To lovely Nadiye, look at my selfconfident joyful eyes, which invite you to the past in order for you to remember me in the faraway cities of the country. Life is held captive by a cruel force called evil. What is happiness, other than its sweet consolation?”23 In Figure  6.24, a middle-class young woman with short hair, wearing a long dress reflective of 1930s fashion, poses for a studio portrait, hoping that her happy appearance will remind Nadiye, who seems to be living in or traveling to a faraway place in Turkey, of their shared joyful past. The dramatic tone of the inscription on the photograph’s back enhances the sense of longing that this young woman tries to convey and her rather pessimistic outlook toward life, which stands in stark contrast to her wide smile in the portrait. While Figure 6.25 presents a rare example of an idiosyncratic inscription, people generally resorted to clichéd expressions, including a popular verse that, with variations, recurrently appears on photographs from the 1920s to the 1960s: “If fate dissolves my body, keep this picture forever as a memory.”24

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Figures 6.24 and 6.25  A studio portrait of a woman, July 12, 1935. 9 × 14 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

Inscriptions, clichéd or otherwise, help us to identify some of the common functions and meanings ascribed to exchanging and gifting photographs. The salutations on the photographs reveal, for example, that the practice of exchanging photographs was most popular among the younger generation. Among family members, it was more common for the younger generation to gift their pictures to the older generation, including parents, parents-in-law, grandparents, uncles, and aunts. However, the inscriptions also indicate that exchanges did occur in multiple directions: mothers and fathers gifted their portraits to their children, and spouses also exchanged portraits. As the Şükrü Bey series shows, the exchanges did not only occur among family members; people also gifted their portraits to schoolmates, colleagues, and acquaintances for various reasons, including self-promotion and a desire for public appraisal. Figure 6.26 from April 11, 1934, signed in Balıkesir, suggests that photographic prints were also gifted as expressions of gratitude. Here, an engineer named Hamdi presents his image, in which he is reclining in what appears to be a sickbed, to an acquaintance by the name of Hacı Şeref Kemal Bey. The long inscription (Figure 6.27) suggests that Hacı Şeref Kemal Bey worked in the hotel where Hamdi was staying when he fell ill. Hacı Şeref Kemal Bey might have been the owner of the hotel, where Hamdi “found the warmth of a true family home.” Hamdi gifts this image to Hacı Şeref Kemal as a gesture of gratitude (hatıra-yı şükran) in the hope

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that the photograph “will forever carry the gratitude I have for the profound affinity and devotion as well as the infinite help and kindness” provided.25 The gifting of this dark, rather gloomy portrait constitutes an intriguing choice, as Hamdi presents a sick, tired self that is arguably far from his “best” appearance.

Figures 6.26 and 6.27  (recto and verso) A man in a sickbed, April 11, 1934, Balıkesir. 8.9 × 13.9 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

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Given that the photographs in the Şükrü Bey series were taken before the alphabet change from Arabic to Latin letters in 1928, the notes on them are all in the Ottoman script. Besides the stylish handwriting and sophisticated vocabulary used in the inscriptions, the ability to write in the Ottoman script itself was an indicator of class. In 1923, the year the Republic was founded, the literacy rate was only 6 percent and the total number of students, from primary to higher education, constituted 3 percent of the population (Aydoğan 2009). During the 1923–1924 school year, there were only 23 high schools in the country with 513 teachers and 1,241 students (Önsoy 1991).26 In 1927, when modern Turkey’s first census recorded the population as numbering 13,650,000, the literacy rate was measured at 8.16 percent (Yılmaz 2013: 147).27 In the same year, 4,280 students were enrolled in 12 institutions of higher education across the country (Demirtaş 2013). By 1935, the literacy rate of the school age population reached 20.4  percent (31  percent male, 10.5 percent female) and by 1945 it was at 30.2 percent (43.7 percent male and 16.8 percent female) (Yılmaz 2013). Consequently, the inscriptions on these studio photographs from the mid- to late-1920s hint at their circulation among an elite class that was educated in the institutions of the Ottoman Empire, which the Turkish Republic inherited and expanded. It is no coincidence that so many of the people I was able to track down on the basis of the handwritten notes on the photographs discussed in this study turned out to have been government administrators, military personnel or educators, whose number grew exponentially after 1923 with the establishment of hundreds of new educational institutions across the country. Following the alphabet change, the Kemalist government initiated a mass education campaign, teaching the new letters in all schools as well as in the newly launched Millet Mektepleri (the Nation’s Schools established for adult citizens of all backgrounds). The issue of language remained a key concern for the regime throughout the 1930s. Eager to promote Turkish as the unifying national language, the government implemented a series of strategies, including the formation of the Turkish Linguistic Society (TDK), the purification of Turkish, the Surname Law and the renaming of places.28 As Yılmaz (2013: 139) notes, by the early 1930s “the ability and willingness to speak Turkish” had become a prerequisite for being fully accepted as a Turkish citizen. The emphasis on learning Turkish intensified through government-funded initiatives like “Citizen, Speak Turkish!” (Vatandaş Türkçe Konuş!) campaigns, which led to harassment of, attacks on and even arrests of those who spoke another language (Bali 1999; Cagaptay 2006). The ornate language used in photographic inscriptions fades away following the Turkish Language Reform, which aimed to build a modern Turkish language by removing Arabic and Farsi words, standardizing Turkish grammar and spelling, and constructing a new vocabulary inspired by the Turkic languages from Central Asia (Lewis 1999). In the 1930s, consequently, texts on photographs become noticeably shorter. Complex Ottoman Turkish expressions are gradually abandoned as people opt for simpler diction. Increasingly, photographs only feature basic information such as a date, location, name(s) or address(es), and signature. Hence, the increase in both the circulation of photographs and literacy

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rates happened at a time when inscriptions became more spartan and studio backgrounds increasingly showed an unassuming character. As Schick (2014) points out, the Language Reform was designed not only to remove an old alphabet but also to replace a culture perceived as old-fashioned and undesirable with a new, modern one. This created a gap between the old generation, who grew up using the Arabic letters, and the new generation, who lost access to the written heritage produced in the Ottoman Turkish language. Some people who grew up in the Ottoman cultural environment never learned the new letters, “resulting in their functional or partial illiteracy for the rest of their lives” (Yılmaz 2013: 166). Conversely, banning Arabic letters in favor of Latin letters in all schools and Turkish publications meant that a written culture of over six centuries became oralized (Schick 2014: 28). This ideological shift helps us to understand the disappearance of ornate Ottoman phrases from photographs by the 1930s. People are likely to have avoided the old script in order not to be associated with the old regime. Also, the new generation may simply not have been familiar with the intricacies of the Ottoman language due to the abruptness of the Language Reform. As Yılmaz (2013: 178) notes, “adult citizens who needed literacy for pragmatic reasons, such as maintaining or finding employment, learned the new alphabet quickly.” In the case of the Ziraat Bank employees, it is highly likely that these young government employees would have been eager to learn the new alphabet and adopt a new modern language to prove and perform their loyalty to the regime, to maintain their professional and social status, and to cement their status as model citizens of the new Republic. Nonetheless, the old script continues to appear in some photographic inscriptions up until the late 1940s and early 1950s, implying a certain resistance to the government-backed alphabet change not only among the older generation but also among younger Turks educated in the pre-1928 period. Yılmaz (2013: 178) explains that “people frequently distinguished between the public and private spheres, and the Ottoman script persisted in the latter.” The persistence of the Ottoman script in inscriptions may thus suggest that vernacular photographs were seen as part of the private sphere, where the Ottoman language and culture could still be performed to a limited degree. However, Yılmaz (2013: 177) notes that the Ottoman script long coexisted with the new alphabet even in the public sphere, including in government bureaucracy throughout the 1930s. The government policy with regard to noncompliance was relatively accommodating since noncompliance was often understood as a personal struggle with changing habits and cultural identity rather than as a sign of ideological resistance or outright opposition to the regime (Yılmaz 2013: 163). Similarly, some citizens, “among them some nationalist intellectuals and politicians, saw no contradiction between their commitment to the Republic and their work to promote the principles, ideals and institutions of the Republic on the one hand, and their continuing use of the old letters on the other” (Yılmaz 2013: 173). Inscriptions were central to the circulation patterns of photographs, contributing to memory-creation and identity-building processes among the new Turkish middle classes. They reveal the diverse functions of photographs

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as effective modes of communication, at times used in lieu of letters, circulated among not only families and friends, but also colleagues and acquaintances. With the transition from the Arabic to Latin alphabet, elaborate Ottoman phrases were replaced by simpler diction, disclosing the effects of the language reform that resulted in the homogenization of Turkish as a modern national language. Inscriptions demonstrate the vernacularization and secularization patterns of the early Republican era that emerged in the 1930s and that would characterize the circulation of photographs until the digital era.

Conclusion The portraits in the Şükrü Bey series suggest that a wide range of people adopted the culture of gifting and exchanging photographs outside immediate family circles. The practice of exchanging photographs contributed to the making and circulation of a model image of Turkish citizenship in the early years of the Republic, reinforcing new classed and gendered normativities for modern Turkish men and women who used photography as an opportunity for self-expression. Rapid modernization also led to the rise of the nuclear family and the fragmentation of multi-generational family life, as the new regime worked hard to establish an administrative, educational, and industrial infrastructure for which thousands of employees were appointed to various government positions across Turkey. Photographs, sometimes in lieu of letters, were regularly sent to relatives who lived in faraway places. As Edwards (2004: 35) puts it, “as objects of familial and community communication, the act of owning and cherishing the photograph as a trace of its subject was arguably as important as the image content itself.” To this, I have added an emphasis on the inscriptions, which constitute a central element in my analysis of the functions and meanings of exchanged photographs. Commonly used linguistic patterns and clichéd phrases in handwritten notes from the 1920s and 1930s signal the etiquette that emerged around the circulation of photographs among urban middle-class citizens. Photographs were exchanged and inscribed to make citizens appear respectable in the eyes of their family, colleagues, and society at large. Through the inscriptions, they reinforce their desired selves, embracing cultural and social values like kindness, politeness, respect for the elderly, love for family, appreciation for friendships, and admiration for their seniors. Initially limited to an educated elite in the late Ottoman era, the circulation of photographs grew rapidly among the middle classes in the 1930s. At the same time, the language reform, which aimed to simplify the Turkish language, led to the disappearance of the intricate Ottoman expressions often used in photographic inscriptions by the mid-1930s, reflecting the regime’s effectiveness in implementing the policies that shaped the modern Turkish language. By the 1930s, the practice of inscribing photographs was no longer limited to the elite and became more widespread, making it less of a marker of proper citizenship than in the 1920s.

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Figure  7.1 from January 15, 1941, shows a young student of medicine named Nedim Akyüz working on a cadaver. The writing on the print reads “to my dear mother” (Canım anneciğime). Although, to the contemporary gaze, Figure 7.1 may appear as a curious choice of photograph to dedicate to one’s mother, medicine was considered to be one of the most prestigious and sought-after professions at the time, particularly for men, whom it would turn into highly eligible bachelors. Thus, Figure 7.1 speaks to some of the central concerns of the study, highlighting how the performances of certain familial, professional, and social roles in vernacular photographs cemented the making of the modern Turkish citizen. Vernacular photographs of the 1920s and 1930s point to the classed nature of the modern Turkish citizen image and reveal how Turkish citizens, especially those of the newly constituted urban middle classes, actively participated in the making of “the aesthetics of citizenship” through self-representations in portraiture (Buckley 2006). The image of the modern Turk was constructed and affirmed, in and through vernacular photography, as a Westernized, primarily urban, and middleclass citizen, explicitly gendered as either the new Turkish “Republican woman” or the new Turkish “Republican man.” Vernacular photography played a key role in producing, reinforcing, and circulating, but also, to some extent, renegotiating the desired, normative image propagated by the rulers of the newly established nation-state. The overwhelming number of urban middle-class representations in vernacular photographs is an indicator of the regime’s heavy investment in encouraging and implementing a modern, secular image of Turkishness. However, the desired image was not always faithfully reproduced but sometimes tweaked, by incorporating elements from Ottoman and Turkic traditions, by pushing the boundaries of gender norms or by introducing playfulness. Such tweaking was possible in vernacular photography to a greater extent than in non-vernacular photographs, the appearance and circulation of which were under the control of the Kemalist regime. This is precisely why it is important to study vernacular photography, notably in periods of rapid and radical social change like the early Republican period. As Jo Spence and Patricia Holland have suggested (1991: 13–14), family photography, and more broadly, vernacular photographs can operate at the “junction between personal memory and social history, between public myth

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Figure 7.1  A medical student behind an autopsy table, January 15, 1941. 8.4 × 13.3 cm. Courtesy of Akkasah, the photography archive at al Mawrid, NYUAD. Copyright al Mawrid

and personal unconscious.” In an era when visual culture was systematically organized and tightly controlled by the single-party Kemalist regime, vernacular photographs provide a somewhat less structured and regulated site able to illuminate how Turkey’s nation-building process, including the formation of middle-class citizenship and the construction of the new public life, unfolded at the level of the everyday lives of its citizens, as they visited photography studios or engaged in sports and leisure activities in public space. Vernacular photographs reveal that urban middle-class citizens largely endorsed and actively participated in the making of the new Turkish man and woman through their own photographic representations. At the same time, their efforts to build a secular middle-class life for themselves, of which photography was an important part, were not just informed by Kemalist policies, but also influenced by other, wider social, economic, and cultural developments of the 1920s and 1930s, from fashion trends and movies to the increasing availability of modern consumer items such as amateur cameras. By adopting the officially desired images propagated by the regime, Turkish citizens likely increased their chances of being recruited as teachers, doctors, engineers, or, as in the example of the Ziraat Bank employees in Chapter  6, administrators, all desperately needed to build the new Republic. Apart from professional objectives, however, the adoption and faithful performance of Republican ideals was tied to class aspirations; a Western appearance and etiquette was required among the emerging Turkish bourgeoisie to garner respect and

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recognition. In this context, vernacular photographs suggest that the Kemalist reforms catered to the social aspirations of the already modernizing middle classes. This study is strongly inspired by Elizabeth Edwards’ notion of “theaters of the self ” (2004) that I have taken, by relating it to Butler’s (2007 [1990]) notion of “gender performativity,” as referring to photographs as a performative space in which people can assert and negotiate their emerging positions as modern classed and gendered subjects. At the same time, my analysis draws upon Goodman’s notion of worldmaking (1978) as that part of photographic performativities through which people make worlds by enacting multiple selves, in response to the worlds that are created around them. As this research has shown, for urban middle-class Turkish citizens, making a world for their classed and gendered selves in the formative years of the Republic primarily entailed a replication of Kemalist models. In the 1920s and 1930s, the theatricality of vernacular photography, then, referred less to the enactment of an abstract world that was dreamt of than to a world that was aspired to and that could be attained by replicating the world that was being produced and promoted as desirable by the state. This means that the early Republican period can be seen as a context in which one world was heavily privileged and promoted over other worlds, so that photographic subjects were more or less forced to respond to the Kemalist worldview, with only limited room for maneuvering. While citizens were restricted by gender normativities that, in the case of the early Republican era, were explicitly presented and enforced as norms, there was still some room for subversion, either because the norms could not be fully realized by all photographic subjects or because people found ways of producing and keeping photographs that broke with the norms. Nebahat Hâmit’s portraits in Chapter 1 and Figure 2.17 in Chapter 2 suggest that multiple selves could be enacted, generating images that to some extent exceeded the homogenous modern classed and gendered Republican self that dominates vernacular photography of the time. Correspondingly, while modern Turkish man- and womanhood were quite tightly circumscribed by the Kemalist regime and its policies, certain more traditional elements could be incorporated within the ideal image of the new Turkish man and woman, making it easier for citizens to approximate this ideal image. As highlighted in Chapter 4, ancient traditions such as circumcision ceremonies and childbeds were incorporated into modern Turkish life across geography and class, creating distinct genres within family photography. Akin to sports, where both ancient Turkic traditions like oil wrestling and Western sports like tennis were amalgamated into the modern national Turkish identity, the inclusion of circumcisions and childbeds in modern photographic representations shows how the Turkish nation created a distinct, hybrid visual vocabulary. Enabled by the market and photography archives, pictures that were meant to be kept mostly private at the time are made public today, revealing this hybridity. Vernacular photographs, as in the case study of the Hamza Rüstem studio in Chapter  5, also unveil the affective nature of the nation-building process, embodied not only in the work of Hamza Rüstem’s studio but also in Rüstem’s own story as a member of an immigrant family from Crete. The stories behind

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many of the vernacular photographs I have studied reveal how these photographs contributed to the creation of collective memory that worked to reinforce a new national consciousness. A sense of belonging was cultivated in the emerging nation through a plethora of photographic exchanges among family members, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. From the portraits of Nebahat Hâmit Karaorman, an educator with a career spanning several decades (Chapter 1), to the work of photography studios such as the Kosovar Koro Brothers in Istanbul (Chapter 2), and Hamza Rüstem in Izmir (Chapter 5), vernacular photographs of the time point to a conscious effort on the part of the urban middle-class citizens to adapt to the new nation-state. For the newly built middle class, the desire to enact modernity and project a normatively classed and gendered identity was closely linked with the desire to grow roots in a novel territory, which citizens (whether longstanding or newly arrived) were urged to adopt as their new homeland. In this context, citizens seem to have complied with the Kemalist modernization project as part of a social and sentimental bonding process. As the case study of Izmir’s century-old Hamza Rüstem Studio illustrates, photography studios actively participated in the forging of a new urban middle-class Turkish identity and social memory for the cities and towns they operated in. Indeed, the 1920s and 1930s correspond to a period when studio photography had become an integral part of middle-class everyday life, producing an array of portraits that constitute the basis for what is associated with early Republican imagery today. The work of itinerant photographers was crucial in documenting and reproducing early Republican public life in both urban and rural settings, notably of the lower classes and underprivileged communities in remote areas where Kemalist policies on secularization and homogenization penetrated to a lesser degree. Alaminüt photographs disclose the discontinuous nature of Kemalist modernization which was adopted in stages and under different levels of public surveillance, suggesting that the Kemalist modernization project affected older and younger generations at a different pace in urban and rural settings, supporting the recent oral history and archival work by scholars like Hale Yılmaz (2013). The persistence of inscriptions, written in the Ottoman script throughout the 1940s, as Chapter 6 has traced, further points to the varying degrees of public surveillance as well as the lenience of the regime in certain areas, particularly when the habits of the older generation were not seen as a direct threat to the Kemalist revolution. The growing popularity of snapshot photography in the 1930s allowed citizens to negotiate the regime’s surveillance in a new way by introducing playfulness in more intimate settings. From portraying daydreaming girls in a field (Figure 3.9) to flower-gazing men in a park (Figure  3.10), snapshot photographs enriched the types of representations of the new Turkish society, while upholding the modern secular image that the urban middle classes aspired to. In the end, selfrepresentations of Turkish middle-class citizens in studio, itinerant and amateur pictures largely converge and complement each other in the 1920s and 1930s. This research aims to offer a nuanced view of how Kemalist modernization was perceived, tailored, and reinterpreted by citizens and photographers themselves

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in their everyday life and of how the visual language of Kemalist modernization, propagated through official media like newspapers and, as Enis Dinç (2020) has shown, on film, was replicated and disseminated across public and private space, and across urban and rural spaces. My focus has been the transition from the Ottoman Muslim to the Turkish Muslim identity, which constituted the core of the Kemalist nation-building project, despite its claim of being secular. Recognizing the limits of this focus, I hope that my exploration will serve as a starting point for other scholarly work comparing photographic cultures across different ethnic and religious communities in modern Turkey, particularly recognizing the complex position Greeks, Jews, Armenians, and Kurds occupied in the new Republic. Further exploration of Turkey’s photographic histories in a wide range of urban and rural settings could also contribute to a deeper understanding of the points of resistance with regard to the Kemalist revolution among citizens with different class aspirations, political tendencies, or religious views. Similarly, a systematic look at absences in photographic production and their potential meanings may help assess the regime’s effectiveness in its use of photography as a tool for modernization and the citizens’ responses to it, manifested in such absences. While studies focusing on vernacular photography, materiality, and archives have multiplied in the past two decades, there is still a dearth of scholarship with regard to vernacular photography from Turkey and the broader Eastern Mediterranean region. Further theoretically ground, collection-based, archival research can open up a path for more work in this area, which is vital for diversifying historical narratives across generations, classes, and geographies, particularly toward including those underrepresented in studio photographs of the time. My intent is to encourage more research on family photographs not only in the early years of the Republic but throughout the history of modern Turkey, and to inspire future research on popular photographic practices across regions before the digital era. The oral history work I have done for this research, including my interview with Hamza Rüstem’s grandson Mert Rüstem, has offered great insight into the studio practices and photographic cultures of the era. I have also conducted interviews with various vendors of photographs in Istanbul and Izmir, who shed light on the dynamics of the Turkish market. Additional oral history research into photographic practices and the photography market would be extremely useful for reaching a fuller understanding of the social, political, cultural, economic, and affective functions and meanings of photography. Furthermore, the personal accounts of researchers navigating the Turkish photography market may also spark a debate about the relationship between vernacular photographs and the cultural economy, which has rarely been discussed in the context of modern Turkey. The study of vernacular photographs is closely associated with scholarship on archives, memory, and cultural heritage, which has become popular in recent years and has led to an increased awareness of and expertise on digitization and photographic preservation. I have addressed some of the issues I encountered related to access and heritage in the Introduction of this book, reflecting on my dual role as collector and researcher of the Akkasah collection. The fact that I was involved in building and cataloguing the collection

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on which my corpus is based, as well as the public nature of the Akkasah archive, placed me in a privileged position with regard to access. However, the issues I encountered relating to the structure of the Turkish photography market, questions of the negotiation of ownership, and claims to cultural heritage deserve a more in-depth discussion, which is beyond the scope of this research. More generally, there is an urgent need for further scholarship on photographic heritage in a global cultural economy and long-term photographic preservation, as well as on issues related to open access, privacy, and ownership beyond narratives of “saving” photographs. Before the digital era and the introduction of social media, a vernacular photograph’s audience was much more intimate and relatively controlled. Today, the ever-evolving digital platforms allow for more accessibility but also greatly extend the intended audience beyond those to whom the photograph was originally intended. The viewers may now also include researchers like myself who reflect on vernacular photographs in order to understand, imagine, and reconstruct their broader social histories. This book has made a case for this type of reflection on vernacular photographs by subjecting a selected corpus to an in-depth analysis of their indexical, performative, and iconic properties as well as their material qualities. In this way, I hope not only to have contributed to a better understanding of the making of the modern Turkish citizen in the early Republic, but also to have elevated vernacular photographs to the level of rich, first-hand resources for academic research by placing them at the center of this cultural analysis.

NOTES Introduction 1

2

3

4

5

6

In Turkish: “May 1, 1941, gezim Hayatın en tatlı günleri . . . ” the word on the left that reads as Yaşam (life) was added by the vendor, who categorized this image under “lifestyle” pictures. The “3” on the top left refers to a previous price of the photograph, 3 TRY (Turkish lira), which the current vendor had already increased to 20 TRY by the time I purchased it. Consistency with regard to the use of Turkish names and surnames has proven to be challenging, given the 1934 Surname Law that required all citizens to adopt hereditary Turkish surnames (see Türköz 2017). Until the Surname Law, people were often referred to with titles such as Pasha (for high-ranking government and military officials), Hoca (teacher), Hanım (madam), Bey (sir), or Efendi (sir). Following the Surname Law, citizens at times took surnames that were “invented” and proposed by the regime. Mustafa Kemal himself was given the surname “Atatürk” (Father of the Turks) in 1934. Today, prominent figures of the late Ottoman years such as author Halide Edib Adıvar are often referred to with their first name, sometimes also including their social title (i.e., Halide Edib or Halide Edib Hanım) in books and the press, in line with how they were widely known at the time. In this study I have followed this convention, typically adding the surnames in brackets. In the case of the photographs I study, if there is no surname in the signature, I use the first name as it appears on the print. Some of the influential works that shaped the historiography of the early Republican era in the past few decades include: Ahmad 1993, 2003; Berkes 1998 [1964]; Bozdoğan and Kasaba 1997; Cagaptay 2006; Göçek 2011; İnalcık 1995; Karpat 2000; Kazancıgil and Özbudun 1981; Lewis 1968; Mardin 2006 [1962]; Üstel 2004; Yıldız 2001; and Zürcher 2004, 2010. Given the low literacy rates, the circulation of newspapers was limited. According to the 1927 census, the population of Turkey was 13,648,270. In 1935, this figure increased to 16,158,018 (Accessed June 30, 2021. tuik.gov.tr,). In comparison, in 1931, unofficial circulation numbers for some of the leading newspapers included: Cumhuriyet: 14,375, Hakimiyeti Milliye ­(later Ulus): 5,500, Akşam: 12,900, Vakit: 6,125, and Milliyet: 8,375. Newspapers critical of the government like Son Posta (circulation: 9,125) and Yarın (circulation: 6,000) were eventually forced to shut down (Yarın) or support the government (Son Posta) (Üstün 2008: 109). As Enis Dinç (2020) has shown, even though the Turkish cinema industry did not become a force until later, film was already used as an effective tool for the visualization of Kemalist modernity by Atatürk and the Kemalists in the 1920s and 1930s, serving a specific political agenda. Formerly the Akkasah Center for Photography, NYUAD. Since 2020, Akkasah has been a part of al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art at NYUAD. The Turkey Collection was renamed the Özge Calafato Collection in February 2020.

182 7 8

9

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11 12

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Notes The RPP initially declared itself as the People’s Party on September 9, 1923. On November 10, 1924, it was renamed the Republican People’s Party. See Yıldız (1998) for a detailed discussion of the complexities of defining Turkishness. As Yıldız (1998: 469) notes, “there has never been a one-to-one correspondence between Turkish citizenship and Turkish national identity.” A key argument considered all Anatolian peoples ethnically “Turk” at the cost of violating the Lausanne Treaty (1923), which guaranteed the rights of non-Muslims. The notion of “shared ancestry” was also used for the Turkification of non-Turkish Muslims (i.e. Arabs, Kurds, and Circassians) and non-Muslim communities in ethno-secular terms. For non-Muslims, however, the acquisition of citizenship rights was linked to their embrace of Turkishness, deemed possible since religion was “excluded from the definition of Turkishness” (Yıldız 1998: 469). The dramatic decrease in the non-Muslim population in the early twentieth century meant that the population of the Turkish Republic was predominantly Muslim by the 1930s. Some of the key reasons for this drastic demographic change include the mass killings of Armenians (1915), the Greco-Turkish War (1919–22), and the Greek-Turkish Population Exchange (1923) (see Akçam 2004; Göçek 2011; Hirschon 2003). The accounts regarding Atatürk’s adopted daughters vary. His daughters include Sabiha (Gökçen), Ülkü (Doğançay, later Adatepe), Ayşe Afet (İnan), Nebile (Bayyurt, later Nebile İrdelp), Zehra Aylin and Rukiye (Erkin). Some sources also list Afife and Fikriye. Atatürk also adopted a son, Mustafa (Demir), and had two children under his protection, Abdurrahim (Tuncak) and İhsan (Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www. ktb.gov.tr/EN-103908/biography-of-ataturk.html). People’s Houses offered free courses in literature, drama, music, fine arts, speaking and writing, as well as in handicrafts and tailoring. By the time they were closed by the Democrat Party in 1951, there were 478 People’s Houses across Turkey. The snapshot concept was largely introduced by Eastman Kodak through the Brownie box camera in 1900. In 1901 Kodak introduced the 120 medium film format, which remained very popular for both high-end and low-end cameras in the 1920s and 1930s, and was used by Brownie and folding cameras of various types and brands. These cameras were eventually replaced by the twin lens types, and later by the single lens reflex (SLR) cameras. Leica (Leitz camera) was the first company to develop a compact camera in 1913. The Leica I, the first commercially successful 35 mm camera was launched in 1925 and became hugely popular. Contax and Kodak followed suit with their 35mm models in the early 1930s although roll film remained the format of choice for mass-market cameras. This changed with the introduction of the Argus A in 1936 and the popular Argus C3 in 1939. A similar revolution in compact SLR cameras began in 1933 with the introduction of the Ihagee Exakta, which used 127 roll film. (Peres 2007; Stroebel and Zakia 1993). The oldest up-market Turkish daily newspaper Cumhuriyet was founded in 1924 in Istanbul by a group of journalists with close links to Atatürk and the RPP, and subscribed to a staunchly secular discourse. In the 1920s, it primarily circulated in Istanbul, selling 7,000 copies in a city of one million inhabitants. It was also mailed to other cities by subscription. Cumhuriyet started to publish images and advertisements in 1930. The circulation figures, which had plunged with the change of the alphabet from Arabic to Latin in 1928, increased again in the 1940s. The newspaper organized a yearly beauty contest from 1928. When its 1932 winner Keriman Halis was selected as Miss World in 1932, the paper’s popularity increased substantially. Cumhuriyet

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supported the RPP until the Second World War, after which it switched to the Democrat Party until the mid-1950s (Pektaş 2013). Ankara Commodity Exchange statistics show that, in 1930, one egg would cost 2.3 cents, a kilo of feta cheese 47.5 cents, a kilo of pasta 24 cents, and a kilo of sheep meat 50 cents (Taş 2003). The languages of the inscriptions on the photographs in the Akkasah collection include modern Turkish, Ottoman Turkish, Armenian, French, Greek, Ladino, and Italian. While Armenian is the most common language among the material relating to Turkey’s non-Muslim communities, there are hardly any photographs with Greek or Ladino text in the collection. Despite the alphabet change and the introduction of the modern Turkish script in November 1928, the use of the Ottoman script extends into the 1950s (see Chapter Six for a more detailed discussion of language politics of the time). For a discussion of the term “vernacular photography,” see Whalen (2009). Among the notable works discussing local vernacular practices in Asia, Africa, and the Americas are: Behrend 2013; Buckley 2006; Coronado 2018; Dewan and Zotova 2012; Edwards and Bhaumik 2008; Eldem 2018; Gartlan and Wue 2017; Hayes and Minkley 2019; Mahadevan 2013; Morris 2009; Nordström 1991; Pinney and Peterson 2003; Raby and Chauvin 2011; Sanchez Summerer and Zananiri 2021; Scheiwiller and Ritter 2018; Strassler 2010; Taan 2021b; Vokes 2012; Vokes and Newbury 2018; and Wright 2013. Some important works exploring the materiality of photographs include Edwards and Hart 2004; Hannoosh 2016; Poole 1997; and Sassoon 2004. For some of the most compelling discussions on family photographs, see Chambers 2003; Coe and Gates 1977; di Bello 2008, 2007, 2012; Hirsch 1981; Hirsch 1997, 1999; Holland 1991, 2015; Holland and Spence 1991; Hudgins 2010; Kuhn 2002, 1991; Kuhn and McAllister 2006; Langford 2001; Larsen 2005; Pink 2011; Rose 2000, 2010, 2003, 2004, 2005; Ryzova 2015a, 2015b; Shawn 1998; Slater 1995; Spence 1986, 1988; and Stokes 1992. See Alphen 2015; Azoulay 2010, 2015, 2017; Campt 2012; Caraffa and Serena 2014; Merewether 2006; Morton and Newbury 2015; Ryzova 2014b, 2014c, 2015c; and Schwartz and Cook 2002. For pertinent discussions of the relationship between photography, global cultural economies, and heritage, see Frosh 2003; Ryzova 2012, 2015c, 2015d; and Truyen and Waelde 2016. Armenian photographers including Abdullah Frères, Pascal Sébah, Aşil (Achille) Samancı, Gülmez Brothers, Bogos Tarkulyan, Papazian Brothers, Mihran Iranian, Antoine Zilpochyan, Garabed Krikorian, and the Dildilian Family played a particularly critical role in the development and spread of photography throughout the Ottoman Empire (see Galstyan 2018; Low 2015; Marsoobian 2017; Özendes 2004, 2006, 2013). There are strikingly fewer publications on the studios that followed the first generation of late Ottoman-era photographers. These studios, most of which opened in the first two decades of the twentieth century, include Resne Fotoğrafhanesi (Photo Resna (also Foto Resne), Bahaeddin (or Behaeddin) Rahmizade), Jules Kanzler, Foto Franse (Photo Français, J. Weinberg), Foto Ferit İbrahim (Ferit İbrahim Özgürar), Turan Fotoğrafhanesi, Yeraltı Fotoğrafhanesi (Arif Hikmet Koyunoğlu), Türk Hanımlar Fotoğrafhanesi (Naciye Hanım), and Foto S. Süreyya in Istanbul; Hamza Rüstem and Foto Resne in İzmir (see Chapter 5); Fazıl Berki in Ankara and Hayri T. Tolgay in Kayseri (see Ak 2001; Koçu 1971: 5824–5; Özendes 2013).

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23 See Aker 2002; Allen 1984; Atasoy 2007; Atay 1997; Beaulieu and Roberts 2002; Behdad 2016, 2017; Behdad and Gartlan 2013; Çelik and Eldem 2015; Çizgen 1987, 1989; Erdoğdu 1999, 2002; Ertem 2011; Gavin 1982; Golia 2010; Graham-Brown 1988; Henisch and Henisch 1984; Işın 1995; Jacobson 2007; Khatib 2003; Khatib and Searight 2013; Köşlü and Köşlü 2018; Micklewright 2000, 2003, 2011; Özendes 1999, 2004, 2006, 2013; Özendes and Şahin 2005; Öztuncay 1992, 2000, 2005, 2006, 2011; Öztuncay and Ertem 2018; Perez 1988; Pinguet 2018; Roberts 2007; Shaw 2003, 2009, 2018; Tamari 2013; Tekinalp 2010; and Woodward 2003. 24 Notable works on Iranian photography include Behdad 2001; Brusius 2015; Damandan 2004; Nameghi, Bonetti, and Prandi 2013; Nameghi and Pérez González 2013; Pérez González 2012; Scheiwiller 2013, 2016; Sheikh 2013; and Tahmasbpour 2013. For a discussion on the term “Ottoman photography,” see Shaw 2018. 25 Other works that focus on the Republican era vernacular photography include Aytemiz 2005, 2013; Bölük 2009; Evren 1999; Ulu 2013; Şen 2002a, Şen 2002b; and Tuncer 2018. See also Birikim’s issue #381 “Fotoğraf kimi gösterir?” published in January 2021. 26 Ironically, shopping and auction sites that sell old photographs such as gittigidiyor. com, nadirkitap.com, and fotokart.shop offer more material and metadata on vernacular photographs than a majority of the photographic archives in Turkey.

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All of these studios were based in Pera (modern day Beyoğlu). Photo Français was owned by the renowned Romanian Jewish photographer Jean Weinberg. Jules Kanzler (also Jul Kanzler, later İzzet Kaya Kanzler) was part of the White Russian community that fled to Istanbul in the wake of the Bolshevik Revolution (1917) and the Russian Civil War (1917–22). Russian immigration radically changed the social, cultural, and nightlife of Istanbul as a great wave of musicians, dancers and artists arrived in the city (Ak 2001: 101–4; Koçu 1971: 2624–5; Mahir 2005). There is little information about the Pera studio Iris. As for the famous Sébah & Joaillier studio, during the 1884–85 period, Sébah and Policarpe Joaillier became partners, and the name of Sébah’s studio on Grande Rue de Pera 439 was changed to Sébah & Joaillier in 1888. Policarpe Joaillier dissolved the partnership at the beginning of the twentieth century and Sébah sold his studio to Agop İskender and Perpanyani in 1908. Despite changing hands, the name of the studio remained the same until Agop İskender turned the studio over to his son and his new partner İsmail İnsel in 1934 (Çizgen 1987: 86). One of the most prominent photographers of the early Republican era, Süleyman Süreyya Bükey finished the Francophone Galatasaray high school in Beyoğlu. He studied Political Science and Law in Istanbul and Economics in Milan in 1919–20, and spoke French, Italian, and German. He established his studio in 1928 on Istiklal Street 509. In the 1930s, he published a number of photography books as well as photography, cinema, and sports magazines. He also organized amateur photography competitions, which he advertised in his magazines (Akçura 2020b; Bölük 2014). Between 1936 and 1938, he served as photographer to Atatürk (Ak 2001: 104–7). Foto Süreyya also photographed various foreign artists visiting Istanbul and the applicants for Cumhuriyet’s national beauty contests in the early 1930s.

Notes 3

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Retouching, to get rid of unwanted wrinkles or stains as well as to extend eyelashes, reduce waistlines, or lighten skin, was very popular among studio photographers and their customers. Most of the early photographers were also trained in painting, making them experts in retouching and hand coloring. Some studios employed artists specifically for retouching (Bölük 2014: 181). Here I use Surrey’s definition (1991: 53) of self “as a construct useful in describing the organization of a person’s experience and (the) construction of reality that illuminates the purpose and directionality of her or his behavior.” On works exploring the relationship between gender and language see, for instance, Cameron and Kulick 2003; Coates 1993; and Livia and Hall 1997. See Abadan-Unat 1981; Arat 1997; Arat 1998; Baydar 2002; Berktay 2001; Caporal 1982; Davaz 2014; Göle 1996; Kabasakal Arat 1998; Kadıoğlu 1996; Kandiyoti 1997a, b; Kurnaz 2015; Sancar 2017; Tekeli 1995; Toprak 2015; and Yaraman 2001. See also Toplum ve Bilim’s issue #118 “Eşraftan Burjuvaziye” on the early Republican countryside, edited by Tanıl Bora and Levent Cantek (2010). The solar-based Rumi calendar (Roman calendar) was officially used for civic matters by the Ottoman Empire after Tanzimat (1839) and by the Turkish Republic until 1926. It is based on the Julian calendar, but starts with the year of Prophet Muhammad’s emigration (Hijra) in 622 AD. The note in pencil in Turkish: “Kıymetli ablalarım muhterem eniştemize yadigarımızdır 17 ağustos 336 Zahiş (Zahide).” The Turkish note in blue: “Hamdiye ve Zahide teyzelerimle ben Napoli [?]”. Added by the vendor, the “25” on the top right refers to the price of the photograph, 25 TRY (Turkish lira). In the case of the Ottoman Empire, Orhan Koloğlu (1992) writes that an issue (#317) of Ceride-i Havadis from 1847 talks about a photographer named Loran (Laurent) Estras or Astras (in Öztuncay 2006) based in Cite de Pera in Beyoğlu. Estras is said to be working with his wife, who takes pictures of Muslim women. Together, they go to family mansions upon request (in Bölük 2014: 18). In addition, Hannoosh (2016) and Öztuncay (2006) mention Anna Guichard, who had a studio in Pera in the late 1860. Berberoğlu writes about Elisa Pante Zonaro (1863–1946), who worked as a photographer in Istanbul from the 1890s until 1910. The first Muslim woman photographer of Turkey is often considered to be Naciye Hanım (Suman), who opened a studio in the attic of her kiosk called Türk Hanımlar Fotoğrafhanesi (Turkish Women’s Photography Studio) in 1919. She continued working from her kiosk until she opened a professional photo studio in Beyazıt in 1921 (Ak 1985; Bölük 2014; Çakır 2016 [1994]; Toros 1990). Only a handful of images from her archive have survived (see Bölük 2013). In addition, Karakışla (2000) mentions a “mobile photographer” named Muzaffer Hanım, who would visit houses upon request in the 1920s. Toros (1990) mentions another woman photographer, Adviye Hanım, who was supposedly working at the same time as Naciye Hanım. After the general elections of February 8, 1935, seventeen women deputies entered the Turkish Parliament (TBMM), constituting 4.6 percent of the parliament. After the 1950 elections, the percentage of women in the parliament went down to 0.6 percent and remained under 5 percent until the 2005 elections (Sargın and Yıldız 2018). In Turkish: “18.10.1929 Sevgili amucam ve fahrünisa Hanıma bir hatıram. Bedriye.” The note “3 ₺” was added by the seller and refers to the price of the photograph, 3 TRY (Turkish lira). In Turkish: “Ağustos/Eylül 1335/1919. Darülfünun coğrafya darülmesaisi ilk mezunları ile muallimleri: Hamdi Efendi Şükûfe Nihal Hanım Huzni (?) Efendi

186

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Notes (mezunlardan Ali Efendi resim çekilirken bulunmamıştır) Müderris Faik Sabri Bey Müdür Mehmed Emin Bey Muallim Ali Macid Bey.” The “200 ₺” was added by the vendor and refers to the price of the photograph, 200 TRY (Turkish lira). Founded in 1912, Darülfünun was only open to male students until 1919, when female students petitioned to study there alongside men. Until then, the only option for women was the female-only İnas Darülfünunu. Şükûfe Nihal herself campaigned for women to be allowed to study at Darülfünun. Sancar (2017) and Zihnioğlu (2003) note that the early period (1868–1908) of the Ottoman feminist movement was marked by writers like Şair Nigâr (1862–1918), Fatma Aliye (1862–1936), Halide Edib (1882–1964), Nezihe Muhiddin (1889–1958), and Emine Semiye (1868–1944), who advocated for women’s freedom and civil rights, women’s and girls’ education and active participation in society and workforce as equal individuals, and demanded a ban on polygamy and talak (divorce initiated by men). In addition, various associations formed by women during this period contributed to the struggle for equality, increasing women’s visibility and power in economic production and politics (Çakır 2016 [1994]; Yaraman 2001). Notable works discussing the feminist movement and the work of leading feminist authors in the late Ottoman era include Argunşah 2011; Baykan and Ötüş-Baskett 1988; Çakır 2016 [1994]; Durakbaşa 2000; Kızıltan 1993; Alakom 1998; Kurnaz 2013; Toprak 1988b; and Zihnioğlu 2003. From the 1870s on, male writers such as Namık Kemal, Şemsettin Sami, Ahmet Mithat Efendi, and Celal Nuri also wrote about women’s issues and suggested a modern family model that would be suitable for Muslim-Ottoman subjects. The question of the “backwardness” of women and how they should be modernized became a major concern for “modern reformist men” of the Ottoman era (Sancar 2017). Despite their ideological differences, male and female Islamist, Ottomanist, Occidentalist and Turkish writers agreed on the importance of women’s education and the need to increase women’s participation in the public sphere (Kurtoğlu 2000). However, these reformist writers still assumed that the main value of women lay in their role as “good mothers, good spouses and good Muslims,” to be enhanced by a better education (Çakmak 2011). Other prominent women’s publications from the late Ottoman era include Şükûfezar (1886), Hanımlara Mahsus Gazete (1895), Demet (1908), Kadınlar Dünyası (1913), and Kadınlar Alemi (1914) (Yaraman 2001). Nezihe Muhiddin tried to establish Kadınlar Halk Fırkası (Women’s People Party) in July 1923 (before the foundation of the RPP), but her efforts were met with opposition by the state and the party was shut down. Muhiddin then founded Türk Kadınlar Birliği (Turkish Women’s Union), which pressed for political equality. Faced with corruption allegations, her attempts to enter the parliament were rejected and she was eventually expelled from the union in 1927. Having joined the Turkish War of Independence alongside Mustafa Kemal as “Corporal Halide,” iconic writer and political leader Halide Edib, too, was accused of treason in 1926, after which she lived in exile until 1939. She was excluded from the 1935 elections, when women entered the Turkish parliament for the first time (Durakbaşa 2000; Toprak 1988a). Sancar (2017) notes that after the Turkish Women’s Union was shut down in 1935 the women’s movement remained largely silent until the 1980s. Many prominent Republican writers of the time, including Halide Edib (Ateşten Gömlek, 1923), Peyami Safa (Sözde Kızlar, 1923; Fatih-Harbiye, 1931), Reşat Nuri Güntekin (Çalıkuşu, 1922), Ahmet Ağaoğlu, Hilmi Ziya Ülken, İsmail Hakkı

Notes

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26 27

28 29 30

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Baltacıoğlu, and Yakup Kadri Karaosmanoğlu (Ankara, 1934; Yaban, 1932) expressed similar views on the role of the new Turkish women, who should educate society while making their husbands happy at home as modern wives. In Turkish: “Ulviye Ablacığıma: 1931 senesi Türkiye güzellik kraliçesi Naşide Saffet Hanım.” The sharing of celebrity images as a popular form of entertainment was particularly prevalent among Turkish youth during the golden years of the Yeşilçam-era, which refers to the heyday of the Turkish film industry from the 1950s to the 1970s. Between the 1950s and 1970s, Yeşilçam produced 200 to 300 films annually, making it one of the biggest film producers in the world. Dubbed Turkey’s “little Hollywood,” with its own genres and star system, Yeşilçam and its stars soon became hugely popular across the country. The majority of Yeşilçam films were “melodramas revolving around heterosexual romance between characters from different social and economic classes” (Kaya Mutlu 2010: 417). Ayşe Hür writes that Turkey’s first beauty contest was in fact held by the Silk Film Company in the Melek movie theater in 1926. The winner was Araksi Çetinyan, a woman of Armenian descent, yet the press soon declared the competition invalid, saying that the event had been “badly organized.” Per the contest rules, Araksi Çetinyan was supposed to be sent to the United States to become an actress, but this never happened (Hür 2015). Ak (2001: 97) offers a similar studio list for the 1932 contest in which Keriman Halis was announced as Miss Turkey, including Foto Hamza Rüstem, Foto Weinberg, Sébah & Joaillier, Foto Febüs, Foto Femina, Foto Kanzler, Foto M. Oka, Foto Artistik, Foto Amerikan, Foto Namık, Ferit İbrahim, Foto Süreyya, Foto Turan, Foto Resne, and Foto Rekor. While the flapper look still appeared to be in vogue, the year 1931 corresponds to a time when, under the influence of the Great Depression, Western fashion again became more conservative. Skirts became longer and the waistline was heightened in an attempt to bring back a more traditionally feminine look. However, both cloche hats and short hair remained popular throughout the 1930s (Mears and Boyer 2014). The following year, Beauty of Queen of 1932 ­Keriman Halis appeared in similar poses in another Foto S. Süreyya photo shoot. Today, images of beauty queens from this era, including those of Naşide Saffet, circulate widely on the internet. One extreme example of this is the Sun Language Theory (Güneş Dil Teorisi), a Turkish nationalist pseudoscientific linguistic hypothesis developed in the 1930s with the backing of Atatürk. The theory proposed that all human languages descended from one proto-Turkic primal language (Lewis 1999). This early phase of beauty contests took place between 1929 and 1933. After a long pause, the beauty contests started to be organized again in 1950 (Akçura 2001: 261). In Turkish: “Biricik hocamıza son günlerin hatırası. Çapa 1934. Kızlarınız Fahamet Macide.” Founded in 1848 as Darülmuallimîn (Teachers’ Training School for Men), the school was converted into Çapa Öğretmen Okulu (Çapa Teachers’ School) after the foundation of the Republic and has been renamed a number of times since 1946. Founded in 1870, the Teachers’ Training School for Women (İstanbul Dârülmuallimâtı) moved to the building during the 1917–18 academic year (İnce and Sağdıç 2020). She was referred to as Nebahat Hâmit (or Hâmid) before the Surname Law of 1934, after which she published under the name Nebahat Karaorman. In some resources

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she is also referred to as Nebahat Hâmit Karaorman. Here, I primarily use Nebahat Hâmit as she was most widely known by this name in the 1930s. 32 Nebahat Hâmit Karaorman died in 1986. According to a Sabah newspaper article from January 6, 2011, she donated her 11 properties in Istanbul to the Turkish Education Association (TEV), a staunchly Kemalist organization, for the purpose of providing scholarships to children.

Chapter 1 1

Recent works in the field of Masculinity Studies include Arslan 2005; Bolak Boratav, Okman Fişek, and Eslen Ziya 2018; Gökarıksel and Secor 2017; Sancar 2008; Saraçgil 2005; Selek 2010; and Zeybekoğlu 2013. See also Toplum ve Bilim’s issue #101 on “Masculinity” (Erkeklik), edited by Semih Sökmen, 2004. ­2 Military service has been compulsory in Turkey since 1909. 3 The note that reads “5 TL,” meaning 5 Turkish Liras (TRY), refers to the price of the photograph and was added by the seller at a later date. 4 In Turkish: “13-II-1938 Cuma hatırası Haydar En büyük ödevim olsun. M. Temuçin.” The note “5” written with a pencil was added by the vendor and refers to the price of the photograph, 5 TRY (Turkish lira). 5 In Turkish: “Ablam F. olcay’a (?) sevdiğim mesleğe girdiğim ilk günler hatırası. F. Eltutar (?) 3-5-1935.” 6 We come across soldiers from various ranks sporting a mustache in military portraits from the 1920s and 1930s, suggesting that Turkish soldiers could grow a mustache during their military service at the time. Thus, the absence of a mustache in Figures 2.1, 2.3, and 2.5 may refer to a choice on the part of the soldiers (see Alimen 2018). 7 A Turkish soldier is often called Mehmetçik (Little Mehmet) in an affectionate way. Given that the most common Turkish male name is Mehmet (derived from the Prophet Muhammad’s name), the term Mehmetçik suggests that every ordinary Turkish man is raised to become a fighter. Saltık (2010: 441) notes that in most early Republican era poems the Anatolian man is called Mehmet. 8 When Gökçen became Turkey’s first woman military pilot at the age of 24 in 1937, she was also one of the first woman combat pilots in the world (for Gökçen’s controversial biography, see Altınay 2004). 9 Sabiha Gökçen resigned from her military post after Atatürk’s death in 1938. Women would not be admitted to military schools and academies until 1955 (Altınay 2004: 46). 10 Alaminüt (itinerant) photographers had makeshift studios set up in cities, towns, and villages across Turkey. See Chapter 5 for a detailed analysis of the work of alaminüt photographers in the 1920s and 1930s. 11 In Turkish: “24 Temmuz 929 Salı (Fikri or Fırka?) ile Suadiye parkında. Here, the Ottoman script is still used despite the official change of the alphabet on November 11, 1928.” 12 Ironically, the fez was a relatively recent Ottoman innovation, introduced by Sultan Mahmoud in the 1820s to create a common “Ottoman identity” by eroding ethnic, religious, and other class and rank-related differences. Despite Sultan Mahmoud’s

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16 17

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1829 decree mandating the fez for all men, however, its adoption remained limited to government officials, soldiers, and upper-class urban Ottoman men. In the 1920s, outlawing the fez similarly served to create a monolithic secular identity for the Turkish nation, free from any religious, ethnic, and cultural differences. The Western hat soon became a symbol of loyalty to the Republican regime and Atatürk’s Westernization reforms; those who refused to wear it faced prosecution (see Kırpık 2007; Koloğlu 1978; and Yılmaz 2013). As Yılmaz (2013) points out, the hat reform, which was intended to be a homogenizing measure, in fact deepened urban-rural and class distinctions. Peasants and workers wore the government-promoted cap (kasket), whereas government officials and educated urban men wore European hats. Some of the more famous novelists dealing with these issues include Ahmet Mithat Efendi (Felâtun Bey ve Râkım Efendi, 1875; Acaib-i Alem, 1882; Dürdane Hanım, 1882), Namık Kemal (Cezmi, 1880; İntibah, 1876), Recaizade Mahmut Ekrem (Araba Sevdası, 1898), Mehmet Rauf (Eylül, 1901), Nabizade Nazım (Zehra, 1894), Samipaşazade Sezai (Sergüzeşt, 1889), Halit Ziya Uşaklıgil (Mai ve Siyah, 1897; Aşk-ı Memnu, 1900), and Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpınar (Şık, 1889; Şıpsevdi, 1911; Mürebbiye, 1895). One of the terms used to refer to the dandy type is tatlı su frengi, or sweet water Frank, which was initially a pejorative term for the Levantines of the Ottoman Empire, since they were not seen as “real” or “salt-water” Franks. Koçu (1969: 97) also uses the word didon, from the French dis donc (well, wow, or goodness), which was apparently picked up from the conversations of French sailors visiting Turkish shores. He defines didons as “those who adapted their appearance to foreign fashions.” After 1909, during the Second Constitutional Era, the didon types were given different names, including monşerler (from French: les mon cheres), bobstiller (the Bob styles), and Çarlistonlar (the Charlestons). For studies on the alafranga züppe character in literature, see Gürbilek 2004; Moran 1991; Saraçgil 2005; and Somay 2001. The Janissaries were an elite infantry corps in the army of the Ottoman Empire from the late fourteenth century to 1826. They were highly respected and feared for their military prowess in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. The Janissary corps was originally chosen from among the ablest Christian youths from the Balkan provinces, who were converted to Islam to be trained for the Ottoman service. They were subject to strict rules, including celibacy, which were relaxed in the late sixteenth century. By the early eighteenth century, the original method of recruitment was abandoned. Having become a powerful political force within the state, the Janissaries came to be known for engineering a series of palace coups in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the early nineteenth century, they resisted army reforms. When the Janissaries rebelled against the formation of new, Westernized troops, Sultan Mahmud II declared war on them, abolishing the corps in June 1826 in the so-called “Auspicious Incident” (Vaka-i Hayriye), in which around 6,000 Janissaries were killed (Kinross 1977). Founded in 1481 as the Ottoman Imperial School, the prestigious Galatasaray High School is the oldest high school in modern Turkey. In 1868, influenced by the French Lycée model, the school was reestablished as the “Lycée Impérial Ottoman de Galata-Sérai” (Galatasaray Mekteb-i Sultanisi). French was the main language of instruction, and many teachers were European. The students came from a large

190

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22 23

24

25

26 27 28

29 30 31 32

Notes variety of religious and ethnic backgrounds. Today, education at the school consists of a blend of Turkish and French curricula and is provided in both languages (Accessed June 30, 2021. gsl.gsu.edu.tr). The note that reads “K17” on top refers to a pricing system created by the seller. “2562” refers to a cataloging number added by the studio/photographer. As Yılmaz (2013: 183) notes, while expanding “the repertoire of secular national celebrations,” the state did not attempt to discontinue these two major Islamic celebrations, which facilitated the reception of the new secular celebrations as replacements of the state celebrations of the old regime. In 1939, the Day of Arafah fell on 30 January and the first day of the Feast of the Sacrifice was 31 January. In reality, the nation faced massive problems with regard to the economic and health conditions of children and youth. Key challenges included “high rates of infant and child mortality, large numbers of orphans and abandoned children, poverty, malnutrition, homelessness, and begging” (Yılmaz 2013: 186). At the same time, the state promoted Bay (Mister, Sir) as a new male title of respect to be used regardless of class, education or family status after the abolition of titles such as Paşa (Pasha) and Bey (Mister, chieftain; traditionally used for Ottoman governors) (Yılmaz 2013: 61). While the dates on which these two portraits were taken are close to each other, the logo on the print is different. Indeed, based on other portraits from this studio, it appears that both logos were used in the 1930s. The signature, too, varies between R. Koro and R.C. Koro, depending on the print. Added by the vendor, the note “5 ₺” refers to the price of the photograph, 5 TRY (Turkish lira). In Turkish: “Hakikatli hanımannem ve beybabama Hatıramız.” Added by the vendor, the “25” on the top right refers to the price of the photograph, 25 TRY (Turkish lira). The name Photo Koro appears on an invoice from 1928, which is part of the Gigord Collection at the Getty Foundation. I was not able to find any photographs bearing the Photo Koro name or logo. The address of the original studio listed on the invoice was Grande Rue de Pera No. 265. According to Tayfun Serttaş (2011), in 1933, Maryam Şahinyan’s father took over his original studio (Foto Galatasaray) from these two Kosovar brothers who had a studio on the top floor of the Galatasaray Han, which was later demolished. The address on the Photo Koro invoice is consistent with the address on the Foto Galatasaray logo. Photo Koro is also listed in the Annuaire Oriental yearbook from 1930, registered to Raif Koro (Accessed June 30, 2021. archives.saltresearch.org/handle/123456789/2913). After Photo Koro stopped operating, Raif Koro appears to have operated briefly under the name Foto Alman in the early 1930s (Ak 2001: 99). In Turkish: “Evlendiğimiz gün.” The “K12” below the signatures refers to a pricing system created by the seller (see Figure 2.11). The Association for the Development of Early Childhood Education in Turkey was founded in 1967 (Accessed June 30, 2021. tooegd.org.tr). Accessed June 30, 2021. https://aeon.co/ideas/what-ottoman-erotica-teaches-usabout-sexual-pluralism. A common trend was to wear neckties with skirts. From the late 1920s onward, we encounter images that show women on horseback, wearing trousers and neckties (Baydar and Özkan 1999). Trousers progressively entered women’s wardrobes in the 1930s. In a story on April 9, 1933, Milliyet announced that Marlene Dietrich

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had introduced men’s fashion for women, but the newspaper also questioned the appropriateness of this trend. 33 Kodachrome, the first color film, was introduced as a 16 mm motion picture film in 1935 before it was released as a 35 mm still photography film by Eastman Kodak. This was followed by Agfa with Agfacolor Neu in 1936, Kodak’s Ektachrome in 1946, as well as other European and Asian brands like Ferrania, Fuji, and Konica (Lavédrine, Gandolfo and Frizot 2009: 86).

Chapter 2 1 2 3

4 5 6

For a discussion on the use of the term “indigenous,” see Scheiwiller and Ritter 2018; and Eldem 2018. Eldem (2018: 44–5) describes the el pençe divan pose as “a characteristic expression of deference and submission in the presence of a hierarchical superior” where arms are crossed over the belly with the right hand on top. Around 1890, Studio Phébus brought a rocking horse from France, which soon became hugely popular. This horse was later passed on to Foto Sel, which operated in the Eminönü district of Istanbul. Foto Sel placed the horse in the Eminönü square, attracting a large number of customers for many years. Rocking horses and bicycles were replaced with toy cars and planes by the 1960s (Bölük 2014: 124–39). In Turkish: “Temmuz 17/7/1931 ebedi bir hatırası asıma Bedia.” In Turkish: “5/8/1931 Evde . . . yemek yerken: M.A Feridun Mahmut.” Added by the vendor, the “5” written with a pencil on the top refers to the price of the photograph, 5 TRY (Turkish lira). I have not come across sufficient evidence to suggest that photo booths, which may have provided people with an outlet for playing with the pose, were popular in Turkey in the 1920s and 1930s. While the history of automated photography machines goes back to the 1880s, the modern concept of the photo booth originated with Anatol Josepho (born Josephewitz). Josepho invented and patented the first photo booth called Photomaton, which debuted on Broadway in New York City in 1925. For 25 cents, the booth took, developed, and printed a strip of eight photos in around eight minutes. In the first six months after the booth was erected, it was used by 280,000 people (Bloch 2012). Orhan Cem Çetin (2018) explains that photo booths did not enter the Turkish market until the 1980s, when a select number were placed in various spots around Istanbul. However, photo booths never became popular, perhaps because the machines worked with tokens rather than change, and the prices changed constantly due to high inflation. Token dispensers caused confusion among customers, and some dispensers were vandalized, requiring the importing company to hire staff to guard them, which was costly. With the introduction of the Polaroid camera in Turkey in the mid-1980s, photo booths rapidly went out of fashion (Çetin 2018). However, some images published in Koçboğan’s book (2014: 48) appear to have been taken in a photo booth-like machine exhibited at Rüstem’s stand during the annual Izmir International Fair in 1958 under the slogan “Six different poses in six minutes” (6 dakikada 6 muhtelif poz). Ak (2001) describes this booth as a well-lit cabin in which people would pose wearing different accessories like fezes, glasses, shisha, phones, and hats. The images would be developed and delivered within six minutes.

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Chapter 3 1

2 3

4 5

6

7

8

In Turkish: “30/4/1931 günü İzmirde Altınordu takımile balıkesir idmangücünün alsancak statyomunda yapılan atletizm müsabakasından sonra idmangücünün atlet takımı.” The Balıkesir İdmangücü Physical Training Club was established in 1925, and the Altınordu Sports Club in 1923. The note “K18” refers to a pricing system created by the seller (see Figures 2.8 and 2.14). The note “XXXIV” was possibly added at a later date. The note “6” may refer to the copies printed of the photograph, while it is unclear what the note “68” (?) might refer to. In the Turkish market, sports photographs are often referred to as sporcu fotoğrafları. Since Turkish does not use gender pronouns, sporcu could refer to sportsman or sportswoman. In Kemalist Authoritarianism and Fascist Trends in Turkey during the Inter-war Period, Fikret Adanır (2001) discusses the Fascist influence on Kemalism in Turkey in the 1920s and 1930s. The reasons behind this influence were multi-faceted, including the Kemalists’ disillusion with liberalism having seen “the instability in Western Europe” (Ahmad 1993) and the attractiveness of Fascist regimes that demonstrated effective strategies for rapid social and economic progress. See also Keyder 1987; and Tunçay 2010. Oil wrestling is considered Turkey’s national sport, with the Kırkpınar oil wrestling competition dating back to the fourteenth century recognized as the oldest continuously practiced sports tournament in the world (Hong 2014: 58). By 1938, 119,690 copies of La Turquie kémaliste had been distributed over five years, sent to embassies, consulates, and attachés, as well as foreign magazines, journalists, and authors. In Paris, the magazine was delivered to newspapers, student dormitories, university and public libraries, as well as to French politicians. Turks, including Turkish students living abroad, requested the magazine. By 1937, the number of copies printed of each issue had gone up to 6,500 from 1,000 in 1933. The countries that the magazine was distributed to included France, Germany, Britain, the United States, Romania, Yugoslavia, Greece, Egypt, Sweden, ­Switzerland, Iran and Denmark. From 1934, the People’s Houses across Turkey received the magazine regularly (Akçalı 2016). The first official Turkish women athletes emerged in the mid-1920s and included Nermin Tahsin, Emine Abdullah, and Mübeccel Hüsamettin (Argun). In the late 1920s, women started competing in rowing, tennis, and volleyball. Fencers Suat Fetgeri Aşeni (Tarı) and Halet Çambel became the first women to represent Turkey at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin. Turkey’s first official women’s soccer team was established in 1971 in Istanbul (Accessed June 30, 2021. http://kadineserleri.org). A precursor of this fest, the Physical Education Day (İdman Bayramı), was celebrated in 1916 and 1917 on May 12, with only men allowed to participate. The celebration was reintroduced on May 10, 1928, under a new name as Gymnastics Fest (Jimnastik Bayramı). The replacement of the word idman, which has Arabic roots, with the French-derived term jimnastik (a transliteration of gymnastique) symbolically reflects Turkey’s Westernization efforts (Sehlikoglu 2017). Simultaneously, in the 1920s, Mustafa Kemal’s landing in Samsun was celebrated locally as Gazi Day. 19 May was officially recognized as a national holiday and as the Youth and Sports Day (Gençlik ve Spor Bayramı) in 1938. Since the 1980 coup, 19 May has been celebrated as the Commemoration of Atatürk, Youth and Sports Day. Among several national holidays that were established during the RPP rule, four major celebrations stood out and continue to be celebrated today: Republic Day (29 October), Commemoration of Atatürk, Youth and Sports Day (19 May),

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National Sovereignty and Children’s Day (23 April) and Victory Day (30 August) (Öztürkmen 2001). These celebrations were closely tied to the school calendar, and “each anniversary celebration marked another stage in the successful evolution of the Republic into a consolidated regime” (Yılmaz 2013: 202). Teachers often played a key role in the planning and choreography of the performances. Lohusa (from the Ancient Greek word lechousa/lechona, derived from lechos, or bed) can be translated as puerpera. Lohusalık refers to puerperium, which Encyclopædia Britannica defines as “the period of adjustment after childbirth during which the mother’s reproductive system returns to its normal prepregnant state” (Accessed June 30, 2021. britannica.com/science/puerperium). According to ancient Sumerian, Central Asian, and Caucasian traditions, al (also known as alkarısı or albastı in Turkish) were believed to be demons of childbirth, attacking mothers and children after birth. To protect the mother and the child from al, various items would be added to the childbed decoration, including mirrors, onions, garlics, nazar amulets, and a copy of the Quran. Other traditions to guard against al include putting sharp items like knives and scissors under the pillow, keeping the lights on all night, not leaving the mother alone, and attaching a ribbon to the mother’s hair and the cradle of the baby (Accessed June 30, 2021. islamansiklopedisi.org.tr/alkarisi). Today, while circumcision is still universally performed in Turkey, secular families have largely abandoned the ceremony. However, it remains popular for the majority of modern Turkish society. For those who do prepare a ceremony, it is common practice to have the circumcision done in the hospital at a very young age (under 2) and to have the ceremony a few years later. In the early Republican-era pictures, it can be assumed that the boys would be circumcised during the ceremony. In this chapter, I focus on Turkey’s Muslim traditions regarding circumcision ceremonies. It is important to note that Turkey’s Sephardic communities also perform circumcision, or brit milah, on the eighth day of the infant’s life, as required in Judaism. Traditionally, Sephardic circumcisions would be carried out in maternity hospitals, and mothers would stay in the hospital until their sons had been circumcised (Forta 1995: 73). In recent years, circumcision outfits emulating Ottoman Sultans with ornate kaftans in beige or golden tones and crown-like hats with feathers and jewelry have become fashionable, particularly among the conservative segments of Turkish society. As noted earlier, photography was considered a predominantly male profession and women photographers are largely absent from the history of studio photography in Turkey. Only recently, a few exceptions such as Naciye Suman (Ak 1985), Muzaffer Hanım (Karakışla 2000), and Maryam Şahinyan (Serttaş 2011) have been brought into the limelight.

Chapter 4 1

The Balkan Wars include two wars that took place in the Balkan Peninsula in 1912 and 1913. During the first Balkan War, four Balkan states, Bulgaria, Montenegro, Greece, and Serbia, defeated the Ottoman Empire. In the second war, Bulgaria suffered defeat against its former allies Serbia, Greece, and Montenegro, as well as the Ottoman Empire and Romania. The Balkan Wars caused the Ottoman Empire to

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Notes lose most of its territory in Europe and set the stage for the First World War. By 1914, an estimate of around 2.5 million Balkan Muslims had fled to Anatolia (Hall 2000; Pekesen 2012). The term “muhacir” (muhajir) refers to millions of migrants from various ethnic backgrounds and their descendants who immigrated to present-day Turkey from the late eighteenth century until the end of the twentieth century, mainly to escape ongoing conflicts and persecution in their homelands. Today, “between a third and a quarter” of Turkey’s population of over 80 million have an ancestor from among these muhacirs (Bosma, Lucassen, and Oostindie 2012: 17). According to Rüstem’s grandson, Mert Rüstem (2018), Hamza Rüstem was born between 1871 and 1876. Written sources predominantly quote 1872 as Rüstem’s birth year (see Koçboğan 2014), although Ak (2004) quotes 1871. Today, the Hamza Rüstem studio serves its clients in its original arcade of the same name, at the address of Emirler Çarşısı 150, Kemeraltı, Izmir. Hamza Rüstem’s grandson Mert Rüstem (b.1968) manages it and keeps the legacy of his grandfather alive. He owns the archive of the studio as well as the family archive, including prints, negatives, and original glass plates from the 1920s and 1930s. He notes that his archive includes one of the biggest glass plate collections in Turkey. The quotes I include in this section are from the interview I conducted with Mert Rüstem in the Hamza Rüstem studio in Izmir in June 2018. As Mert Rüstem (2018) states, it is possible that the Ottoman stamp was still used in early 1929 until the stocks of printed material were finished. In Figure 5.2, the “20” on the bottom right corner refers to the price of the photograph, 20 Turkish Liras (TRY), and was added by the seller at a later date. Millar (2006: 119) defines social memory as “articulate memory: memory that is structured, framed, organized and used by and for the benefit of a community,” created through the transition of memory from the personal to the communal. This trend appears to be a continuation of the headdress fashion known as rusbaşı (Russian head), introduced by Russian refugee women arriving in Istanbul following the Bolshevik Revolution (1917). Mahir Metinsoy (2017) writes that rusbaşı became very popular among Ottoman Muslim women during the occupation years in Istanbul (1918–22). The top floor was chosen to maximize the amount of sunlight since electricity was still scarce in the studio at the time. The studio was moved downstairs with the arrival of electricity in the 1930s. Ak (2001) gives the year as 1938. A Cretan who immigrated to Turkey, Bahaeddin (or Behaeddin) Rahmizade (or Bahaettin Rahmi Bediz after the 1934 Surname Law) was born in 1875 in Istanbul. After finishing primary school in Chania, he moved to Istanbul and, with his father’s appointment, studied at the Galatasaray Lycée until 1895. Upon his father’s death, he returned to Crete in 1895 to open a stationery store with the money he had inherited. Following advice from the painter İsmail Hakkı, he had also bought a camera for 455 piastres from Diradur, the only shop to sell photographic equipment in Istanbul. Against his family’s wishes, he opened the stationary store in Heraklion, Crete, in 1895, placing the camera in the shop window (Ak 2004). The camera attracted the attention of the Italian occupation soldiers, who started to ask for their pictures to be taken (Evren 2004). Having gained popularity among the Italian soldiers, Bahaeddin Rahmizade opened a studio named Foto Baha Baritaki in 1897 in the courtyard of his store (Koçboğan 2014). As a politically active Young Turk, he moved back to Istanbul in 1909 after the Young Turk Revolution, which coincided with Crete’s decision to

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join Greece. He sold his studio to Hamza Rüstem and opened his renowned Resne Fotoğrafhanesi in Istanbul in 1910 (Özendes 2013). The studio was located in the old peninsula rather than in the non-Muslim dominated Pera. The address was Babıali Street 15. He later opened three more branches in Babıali 59, Bahçekapı, and Üsküdar. He closed down his Istanbul studios in 1926 due to financial difficulties (Ak 2004: 12). In 1927, he moved to Izmir, where he opened a studio with his son Rıza Bediz. This studio survived until 1936. In 1937, he joined the Turkish Historical Society. Bahaeddin Rahmizade died in 1951 soon after his retirement. Seyit Ali Ak and Burçak Evren write that Bediz was not the first Turkish Muslim photographer in the Ottoman Empire although he was the most prominent Turkish Muslim photographer of his time, paving the way for other studio photographers. Three other names are mentioned as preceding him. Bediz himself mentions Salih Zeki Salihzade from Chania and Üsküpzade Ali from Resmo in an article from 1945 published in Foto magazine (in Evren 2004; also in Ak 2004). Also, Ebüzziya Tevfik (1973) talks about a photographer named Raif Efendi working in a Çemberlitaş shop as photographer and watchmaker in 1854 (in Evren 2004: 48). His family moved to Uşak. He finished high school in Bursa (Rüstem 2018). Crete came under the dominance of the Ottoman Empire in 1669. After the Greek War of Independence, Crete witnessed a series of uprisings by Christians against Ottoman rule, culminating in the Great Cretan Revolt (1866–1869). While Ottomans retained control of the island for another two decades, tensions between Christian and Muslim communities remained high, with further insurgencies in the 1880s and 1890s. After the expulsion of the Ottoman forces, the autonomous Cretan State, headed by Prince George of Greece and Denmark, was founded under Ottoman suzerainty in 1898. By the last Ottoman census in 1881, Christians made up around 75 percent of the population, and around Muslims 25 percent (see Karpat 1985). Crete declared a union with Greece in 1908, which was formally recognized in 1913. The Muslim minority of Crete initially remained on the island but was relocated to Turkey during the 1923 Turkey-Greece population exchange (see Şenışık 2011, Peçe 2018). Mert Rüstem (2018) says that he was about to be exiled to Fezzan, Libya. See Ak 2001; Koçboğan 2014; and Özel Sağlamtimur and Cabadak 2016 for a different account mentioning Yemen. After Bahaeddin Rahmizade hired Hamza Rüstem, they traveled across Crete to prepare a series of postcards that became widely popular (Ak 2004: 79–83; Evren 2004; Rüstem 2018). Mert Rüstem (2018) says that Bediz and Rüstem corresponded over the years. Aware of Bediz’s declining business in Istanbul, Hamza Rüstem suggested that he come to Izmir so they could work as partners. According to Rüstem (2018), “given the scarcity of photographers after the population exchange, Hamza Rüstem could have established a monopoly in the market but chose to invite his master to Izmir.” The partnership did not work out and Bediz eventually opened a studio (the Izmir branch of Foto Resne) on 2. Beyler Street (Rüstem 2018). This studio was not successful and closed down in 1936. According to Mert Rüstem (2018), “if they had worked together, they would have been wealthier.” After 1913, when Crete officially joined Greece, all island residents including Muslims were considered Greek citizens and all men were enlisted in the army (see Peçe 2018). Yet Ak (2001) and Özel Sağlamtimur and Cabadak (2016) write that Rüstem moved to Izmir as part of the population exchange. Koçboğan (2014: 43) writes that, given

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his Italian nationality, Rüstem did not need to move to Turkey; however, following the population exchange it had become clear that only Muslims who had married Greeks or converted to Christianity would be able to stay on the island and that even for them, “the future was uncertain.” The Muslims that came as part of the exchange were predominantly Turkish Muslims, although other communities such as Muslim Roma, Albanians and Dönme (or Sabbateans, see Bali 2011 and Baer 2010) were also included. The “exchangees” were settled primarily along the coast, in the cities and villages abandoned after the disappearance of their former Christian residents. Those who came as exchangees had the right to claim property in exchange for the property they had owned in their homelands. However, the distribution of the available property came to be a major problem, involving a lot of corruption and chaos. In many cases, before the government could seize and assign them to exchangees, abandoned properties had already been occupied by others who had been displaced by war, by the local population who took advantage of the situation or by immigrants who had arrived before the population exchange (see Arı 2008; Clark 2006; Kamouzis 2021; Yıldırım 2006). 17 Here, I avoid the term “cosmopolitan,” which has been used too loosely to describe Ottoman port cities. As Eldem (2013: 216–17) argues, “if what we are studying can still be described and defined by resorting to less ‘loaded’ terms, such as pluralism, diversity, or even multiculturalism, then there probably is no justification to bring into the discussion a concept harking back to a number of philosophical and political issues exceeding by far the scope of an Ottoman convivenza of sorts”. For further discussions of “cosmopolitanism” in the Ottoman Empire, see Eldem 2013; also Freitag 2014. 18 The population statistics vary considerably. For the Ottoman census data, see Karpat 1985. For accounts of Izmir’s multi-ethnic and multi-religious makeup at the turn of the twentieth century, see Eldem, Goffman, and Masters 2001; Morgenthau 1918; and Smyrnelis 2008. 19 “Levantine” is an ambiguous term the definition of which has evolved over time. It was traditionally used for members of the Latin Catholic church in the Middle East, and more specifically for the descendants of Italian (especially Venetian and Genoese) or French merchants who had lived on the eastern Mediterranean coast of Lebanon, Syria, and Palestine since the middle Byzantine or the Ottoman era, as well as in Constantinople, Smyrna, and other port cities of Anatolia (Braudel 1996). As Eldem (2013: 222) notes, by the mid-nineteenth century, “the meaning attached to this term had greatly changed: from an initially neutral and inclusive term, it had gradually moved in the direction of a derogatory label used to describe the hybrid identities of half-Westernized local non-Muslims and of Westerners who had ‘gone native’ as a result of several generations of residence in the Ottoman lands.” This explains the Turkish term tatlı su Frengi (sweet-water Franks), used for the Levantine communities. Kaner (2008: 12) describes the Levantines of Izmir as Catholic or Protestant residents who came to the city mostly after the seventeenth century and “claim descent from European ancestors.” This definition potentially includes the merchant Dutch, German, and English communities that resided in Smyrna. The families featured on the Levantine Heritage Foundation website include a great diversity in terms of ethnicity and religion, including “Italians, French, British, many other Europeans and Americans” (Accessed June 30, 2021. levantineheritage.com/ about-us.html).

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20 The Levantine Heritage project includes an exhaustive list of pre-1922 Smyrna studios (Accessed June 30, 2021. levantineheritage.com/data9.htm). Jewish photographers were rather few. Unlike Greeks and Armenians, Jews were not able to develop into a large bourgeois class, with the community remaining impoverished in the nineteenth century (Nahum 2000). Jewish photographers became prominent only after the Republic, with Foto Gagin emerging as a leading Jewish studio in the 1930s in the neighborhood of Karataş, where the majority of the remaining Jewish population resided for many decades (Gagin 2018). 21 The exact location of Frank Street is hard to trace given that it was in the heart of the city, which burned down completely during the Great Fire of Smyrna. A bustling shopping area, it presumably stretched across the Punta, Bellavista, and Fassoula Districts (between Alsancak and Konak today) up to the Central Market/Bazar area (Kemeraltı today). 22 The Great Fire of Smyrna is referred to as “the Catastrophe of Smyrna” in Greek. The cause and origin of the Fire remain a major political controversy today among Turks, Armenians, and Greeks. The Muslim and Jewish quarters survived the fire. 23 Bilsel (2009: 14) writes that this classical Beaux-Arts plan remained in force throughout the 1930s, “shaping the morphology of an important portion of the central districts of Izmir.” In 1938, the Municipality took a different direction by asking Le Corbusier to construct a new plan for Izmir, which he was only able to propose ten years later due to the interruption of the Second World War. According to Bilsel (2009: 14), Le Corbusier’s plan was immediately rejected because of its radical functionalist approach. 24 Estimates of the death toll of the Fire for Greeks and Armenians have varied between 10,000 and 100,000. Up to 400,000 Greeks and Armenians are said to have been evacuated. For varying accounts on the war period and the impact of the Great Fire on the city, see Arı 1992, 2008; Berber 1997; Clark 2006; Clogg 1992; Dobkin 1971; and Kitromilides and Alexandris 1984. 25 In the 1920s and 1930s, Hamza Rüstem emerged as Izmir’s leading studio photographer. As such, he often accompanied leaders during their visits to Izmir, including Atatürk and the Shah of Iran. He was followed by other Balkan immigrants like Cemal Yalkış (Studio Foto Cemal, est. 1938–1981) and Ethem Ruhi Taga, both of whom were also based in the Kemeraltı bazaar area. Foto Cemal and Ethem Ruhi are more known for the postcards featuring iconic panoramas of Izmir they produced than for their studio portraits (Sezer 2018; Tatlıbal 2015). The 1930 Annuaire Oriental (Oriental Directory) lists four photography studios in Izmir: Çulu Zade Kemal Bey, Gagin, Halk, and Zind (Accessed June 30, 2021. https://archives.saltresearch.org/ handle/123456789/2913). The Karataş-based Jewish photographer Alejandro Gagin (Foto Gagin) was a prominent studio photographer, whose family portraits from the 1920s and 1930s survive until today. According to his great-grandson, Gagin opened his studio in 1902 and remained active until the 1950s (Gagin 2018). Foto Gagin was one of the few non-Muslim studios that survived the Great Fire. Mert Rüstem (2018) explains that photographers of other popular studios of the 1950s and 1960s, including Foto Işık, Foto Halit Gökberk, Ali Balım (Foto Balım), Mustafa Kapkın, Fikri Göksay (1909–1994), Naci Orcaner (Yafo Fotoğrafçılık), and Esat Suyolcu, all learned the craft at the Hamza Rüstem studio. 26 The Rüstem family was part of the Bektashi Order, a Sufi order named after the thirteenth-century Muslim saint Haji Bektash Veli from Khorasan. In Ottoman times,

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28

29

30

31 32

33

Notes the order was particularly strong in Albania, Bulgaria, and among Greek-speaking Muslims from regions including Crete and Macedonia (Accessed June 30, 2021. https://islamansiklopedisi.org.tr/bektasilik). Zehra Rüstem appears in some pictures from the 1920s and early 1930s in a bonnetstyle head cover (see Koçboğan 2014). It is possible that she accepted the bonnet both as a fashion accessory and as a way to emphasize her family’s Muslim identity, particularly because she and her family, as recently immigrated Cretans, might have been considered “foreigners” or more explicitly “Rum” (Greeks). Women photographers were especially needed to take photographs in women-only spaces for events like henna nights, weddings, or childbed pictures (Rüstem 2018). In an early example, İkbal İlkbahar, the daughter of Hamza Rüstem’s friend from Crete, joined the studio in 1938 (Özel Sağlamtimur and Cabadak 2016: 2606). Rüstem’s mentor Bediz had also employed women “helpers” in his studio from the early days (Koçboğan 2014: 35). Other names used for alaminütçü include alaminüt fotoğrafçı, seyyar fotoğrafçı, sokak fotoğrafçısı, and şipşakçı (see “Seyyar Fotoğrafçılar ve Müşterilerile Bir Saat,” Son Posta, August 22, 1936). According to Şen (2002a), alaminüt photographers mostly referred to themselves as alaminütçü. In India and Pakistan, too, the wooden camera boxes were known as minute cameras (Accessed June 30, 2021. afghanboxcamera. com). Similarly, in Spanish, the term fotografía minutera is used for ambulant photography. For a comprehensive study of the box camera see Birk et al. 2020; also Box Camera Now. Accessed October 29, 2021. www.boxcameranow.com. In Turkey, despite the rapid secularization and modernization of the public sphere, it would still be considered inappropriate for women to work on the streets in the 1920s and 1930s, catering to customers from different walks of life. Also, the heavy camera equipment was considered too cumbersome for women to handle. In this context, “seyyar fotoğrafçı” (ambulant photographer) Muzaffer Hanım emerges as an exceptional case. In a 1923 article published in the Süs magazine, Muzaffer Hanım is praised for the quality of her work as a photographer, who would visit the homes of her customers to take their portraits, as well as for the reasonable prices she charged (Karakışla 2000). Also, in the Milliyet newspaper from October 11, 1929, I came across a rare photograph of a woman alaminütçü, revealing how women were starting to take up male-dominated professions including photography. 120 film was a popular medium film format at the time, introduced by Kodak for their Brownie No. 2 in 1901. A roll of 120 film would typically have between 8 (6 × 9 cm) and 15 (6 × 4.5 cm) shots, depending on the size. Some alaminüt photographers offered higher quality pictures that were printed, colored, or retouched more carefully, and sometimes paper negatives were cut for a photomontage (Bölük 2014; Şen 2002a). Such specially prepared prints, which took a week to deliver, were called haftalık (weekly) (Şen 2002a). Customers would collect them from a studio in the vicinity that the photographer had an agreement with (Ak 2001: 145). While the end of alaminüt photography is often attributed to the introduction of the Polaroid in the 1980s, Ak (2001: 145) writes that it was, in fact, a government regulation from 1983/1984 requiring color photographs for all official documents that caused alaminüt photographers to lose their only reliable source of income: passport pictures. On the other hand, in countries like Cuba, Kenya (Behrend 2013), India, Bangladesh, and Afghanistan (kamra-e-faoree), the wooden box cameras were still used until recently. In Afghanistan, in the years after the

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36 37 38

39

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country’s invasion by the US army in 2001, “kamra-e-faoree photography actually flourished” due to a demand for personal and family portraits, particularly when the United Nations High Commission for Refugees began requiring identity photographs of Afghan refugees as part of a repatriation scheme in Pakistan (Accessed June 30, 2021. afghanboxcamera.com). Among alaminüt photographers, who largely remain anonymous, Parunag Topalyan, the self-proclaimed “King of the Itinerants” (Seyyarlar Kralı) per his logo, stands out for his distinct style of hand coloring. The production history of studio and alaminüt backdrops in Turkey is little known and deserves to be studied in more detail. In the 1980s, Seyit Ali Ak interviewed Kadri Akgülle, “the last master” to produce embroidered İstanbul Hatırası backdrops. In 1985, Ak also talked to Muharrem Sağır, the “last master” to make wooden boxes for alaminüt photography (2001: 141–6). Apart from the research by Ak (2001) and Şen (2002a, b) hardly any scholarly work was done on Turkish alaminüt photographers and their equipment. Şen (2002a, b) also mentions prisons as venues that alaminüt photographers worked in. Until the 1920s, alaminüt photographers used glass plate negatives (see Şen 2002a, 2019). It is unlikely that the negative prints that survived came from the archives of alaminüt photographers since it would have been a burden for them to keep the prints given their mobility. Figures 5.5 and 5.6 present an exception in that a negative and positive print of the same image made it onto the market together: the family must have kept both. Generally, either photographers or customers who were given both prints seem to have discarded the negative prints, perhaps even on the spot, presumably considering them worthless. Even today, Afro-Turks are at times called “Arabs” in Turkey. Afro-Turks are the descendants of those brought over to Ottoman territories as part of the slave trade as early as the fifteenth century (Accessed June 30, 2021. afroturc.org). Ahmet Yürür (in Karabat 2014: 174) explains that “for the Turks, Africa was only the northern part of the continent: from Egypt to Morocco. This part was of course under Arab influence. Turks were never really interested in the south of the continent. This is why this community has come to be called Arab.” Besides in photography, the East/West (alaturka/alafranga) dichotomies also appeared in music and cinema. Meltem Ahıska (2010: 81–2) writes that after alaturka music, “which was used as a synonym for the ambiguous category of Turkish music,” was banned from radio broadcasts in 1934, people turned to Arabic radio stations. This urged prominent writer Peyami Safa to ask radio directors to allow more space for Turkish folk songs on the radio, so that the Turkish people “do not take the Arabic voice of the Egyptian Radio as [their] own.” Indeed, the ban on alaturka was reversed in 1936 (Ahıska 2010: 82). Similarly, Egyptian films became hugely popular in the 1930s and 1940s (Cantek 2000; Özön 1962). During this time, the Turkish film industry was largely neglected by the regime, which arguably “considered American and European films very much in line with its Westernization policies, and did not feel the need for any other means of propaganda” (Gürata 2004: 77). Indigenized through dubbing and local soundtracks, Egyptian films worked as substitutes for Turkish films and were “marketed as local products” (Gürata 2004: 77). The popularity of Egyptian movies led to a change in the regime’s attitude toward the local film industry, finally bringing much-needed support.

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Chapter 5 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

10 11 12 13 14

15

In Turkish: “Azizim Şükrü Bey! Ayların yılların hatırat silmekte pek tiz-dest olduğunu bilirim! Bu hatardan kendimi kurtarmak için bu hürmetlerimi takdime bu tasvir-i teessür-mâlimi tavsit ediyorum 1 Mart 1927.” In Turkish: “Balya Ziraat bankası muavini muhterem kardeşim Şükrü Beye şu gölgeme baktıkça beni yad et ve hatırla Geyve Ziraat Bankası muavini 26 Şubat Sivrihisar.” In Turkish: “Şükrü Beye samimiyetle bir arada geçirdiğimiz günleri tahattur etmek üzere 5 Mart 927 Burdur muavini.” In Turkish: “Şükrü Bey kardeşimize, hayat-ı tahsiliyemizin acı ve tatlı bir çok hatırat ve safahatını yad ederken beni de unutmazsın değil mi? 26 Şubat 927 Denizli Çal muavini.” In Turkish: “21 Şubat 927 Muhterem Ağabimiz Şükrü Beye; feyzli günlerin lâ-yemût bir hatırası olmak üzere takdim olunur. Ankara Yenişehir’de bankacılık mektebinde pul evrak memuru.” In Turkish: “Kardeşim Şükrü Bey Ankara karları arasında top yapıp da oynadığımız günleri hatırladığın zaman işte bu resme bak Ankara: 23 Şubat 927 İçel muavini.” In Turkish: “Kardeşim Şükrü Beye gölgeme baktıkça beni hatırla! [. . .] Ankara: 26 Şubat 927 Şarköy muavini.” In Turkish: “Şükrü Bey kardaşımıza: mektep arkadaşlığımızın samimiyetine vesile olmak üzere işbu gölgeme bak da beni de unutma e mi 27 Şubat 927 Bozkır muavini.” In Turkish: “Erdek: 29 [. . .] 339 Aramızda güzerân eden bir hayat-ı muvakkatin ebedi hatırası olmak üzere kardeşim Şükrü Beye Erdek Numune Mektebi Resim ve Terbiyeyi Bedeniye muallimi.” The note “2” possibly refers to the number of copies printed of the portrait. In Turkish: “Kardeşim Şükrü Bey şu hatıra olarak takdim ettiğim fotoğrafım mektepteki hayatınızın ve kıymettar dakikalarınızın yadına vesile olur ümidiyle 21 Şubat 927 Ereğli muavini.” In Turkish: “Aziz dost Şükrü Beye! Ankara’nın bârid (soğuk) ikliminde teessüs eden meveddet ve samimiyeti teyide vesile olmak üzere takdim. 25 Şubat 927 Ankara Fatsalı [. . .].” In Turkish: “Şükrü Bey biraderimize! Birlikte geçirdiğimiz [. . .] mektep hayatını unutmamanı temin için 22/2/927.” In Turkish: “Oda arkadaşım ve çok sevgili kardeşim Şükrü Beye: Ankara 24 Şubat 927 Garbi Karaağaç.” In Turkish (recto): “Sevgili Şükrü Bey kısa bir müddet beraberliğin bıraktığı derin muhabbetin bekasına medar olur ümidiyle 7 Mart 927 Akçaabad muavini.” The Arabic script on the back of the print includes a poem written in Pontic Greek (Romeika). The same poem is written twice on the print. The poem in Turkish reads: “Oraları Romeika [Rumca] gezdim / Türkçe konuşarak / Bir kız sevdim / Keleşoğullarından.” The poem talks about a man who “traveled there,” perhaps referring to the Black Sea coast of Turkey, as a Pontic Greek who spoke Turkish, and loved a girl from the Keleşoğulları family. The note “2” possibly refers to the number of copies printed of the portrait. In Turkish: “Şükrü Bey kardeşim! İşte size karanlık bir sima sizin şaşalı zekanız bu simanın aksidir. Takdim ediyorum. Belki ara sıra şu solgun çehreme bir nim-nigâh atf ederek hatırlarsınız. 22 Şubat 927 [. . .] Ziraat bank Erbaa muavini Ihlamur.”

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16 In Turkish: “Kardeşim Şükrü Beye: kıymetli dakikaları hatırlatmak üzere takdim eylerim kardeşim Çorlu Ziraat Bank muavini 21 Şubat 1927.” ­17 In Turkish: “Şükrücüğüm! Samimiyetimizi yâda vesile olur ümidiyle takdim 27/2/1927 Karacasu muavini.” 18 In Turkish: “Sevgili kardeşim Şükrü Beye takdim 5 Mart 1927 Kangri muavini.” 19 In Turkish: “Aziz kardeşim Şükrü Beye; mektep sıralarında başlayan meveddet ve samimiyetimizin devamı mümkün olursa ne mutlu bana [. . .] emanetim vardır sana [. . .] 22/23 Şubat 1927 Taşköprü muavini.” 20 In Turkish: (verso) “Şükrü Bey kardeşime; Mektep sıralarında nakl ettiğim hikayeleri tahattura vesile olur ümidiyle kardeşin.” (recto): “İnegöl mukayyidi Zekeriya Bey.” 21 Accessed June 30, 2021. ziraatbank.com.tr/tr/bankamiz/hakkimizda/bankamiztarihcesi. 22 In 1854, Disdéri invented a method of producing multiple images on one glass plate with a multi-lens camera by one exposure (Darrah 1981: 12). Photographic portraiture soon became a mass product with three to four hundred million cartes sold each year between 1861 and 1867 across Europe and North America (Berkin 2014; Darrah 1981: 4). 23 In Turkish: “Canayakın Nadiyeye, Ülkenin uzak illerinde (ellerinde) beni hatırlamak için seni maziye davet eden, benim kendinden emin neşeli gözlerime bak. Hayat kötülük denilen zalim kuvvetin esiri. Saadet dediğimiz de onun tatlı tesellisinden başka nedir? 12–7–35.” 24 In Turkish: “Eğer mahfederse felek cismimi o zaman yadigâr olsun ebediyen sakla resmimi.” In other variations: “Dünya bir değirmendir, döner, insanlar bir fenerdir, gün olur söner eğer fani felek yok ederse ismimi bir hatıra olarak saklayınız resmimi,” “Dünya bir gemidir, yoktur yelkeni, eğer felek yok ederse cismimi bir hatıra olarak sakla resmimi,” and “Devr-i felek mahvederse cismimi/ yadigâr kalmak üzere takdim ediyorum resmimi.” 25 In Turkish: “Hakiki bir aile ocağı samimiyetini bulduğum otelinde misafir iken hasta yattığım müddetçe hakkımda gösterdiği çok derin alaka ve fedakarlığın ve esirgemediği çok kıymetli muavenet ve şefkatin ilelebet minnetini taşıyacak olan şu resmimi [. . .] otelinin muhterem Hacı Şeref Kemal Beyefendiye bir hatıra-yı şükran olmak üzere hediye ediyorum. Balıkesir 11 Nisan 934. Mühendis Hamdi Beye aittir.” 26 Ten years later, in 1933–1934, the number of high schools had increased to 72 with around 9,560 students (Önsoy 1991). 27 In some Eastern provinces like Van the literacy rate was as low as 1.3 percent, almost as low as the overall literacy rate of the Ottoman Empire in 1800 (Yılmaz 2013: 160). 28 The adoption of a new (Latin) alphabet for the inscription of Turkish was declared on November 1, 1928. After December 1, 1928, all press, advertisements, street names, signs, and subtitles for foreign films had to be in the new alphabet. As of January 1, 1929, all government offices, banks, associations, and institutions were required to use the new letters. The public was allowed to use the old letters in their dealings with institutions until June 1, 1929. The law set June 1930 as the absolute deadline for all public and private transactions, including laws, to be written in the new letters (Yılmaz 2013: 145–6). The Turkish Language Association (TDK) was established in 1932 with the aim of conducting research on modern Turkish, marking the beginning of a language reform that intensified throughout the 1930s, under “Head Teacher” Atatürk’s direct influence.

­REFERENCES Archives Akkasah. the photography archive at al Mawrid, the Arab Center for the Study of Art, New York University Abu Dhabi. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://akkasah.org. Istanbul University Library. Digital Archive of Newspapers: Gazeteden Tarihe Bakış Projesi. Accessed June 30, 2021. nek.istanbul.edu.tr:4444/ekos/GAZETE. SALT Research Collections. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://archives.saltresearch.org.

Online Sources Afghan Camera Box Project. Accessed June 30, 2021. www.afghanboxcamera.com. Afro Türkler Dayanışma Derneği. Accessed June 30, 2021. www.afroturc.org. Akçura, Gökhan. “Alaminüt Fotoğrafçılar.” Manifold (blog), May 19, 2020b. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://manifold.press/alaminut-fotografcilar. Akçura, Gökhan. “Bir Hatıra Olarak Fotoğraf.” Istanbul: Açık Radyo, 2003. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://acikradyo.com.tr/arsiv-icerigi/bir-hatira-olarak-fotograf. Akçura, Gökhan. “Hatıralar Hayal Oldu.” Manifold (blog), April 20, 2020a. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://manifold.press/hatiralar-hayal-oldu. Bali, Rıfat. “The Slow Disappearance of Turkey’s Jewish Community.” Jerusalem Center for Public Affairs 63, January 6, 2011. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://jcpa.org/article/theslow-disappearance-of-turkeys-jewish-community/. Bloch, Mark. “Behind the Curtain: A History of the Photobooth.” Panmodern (blog), 2012. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www.panmodern.com/photobooth.htm. Bölük, Gülderen. “İlk Kadın Fotoğrafçımız Naciye Hanım.” Kolektomani (blog), 2013. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www.kolektomani.com/ilk-profesyonel-kadinfotografcimiz-naciye-suman. Box Camera Now. Accessed October 29, 2021. www.boxcameranow.com. Demirtaş, Bahattin. “Cumhuriyet ve Eğitim.” Eğitim Tercihi, October 28, 2013. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.sozcu.com.tr/egitim/cumhuriyet-ve-egitim.html. Encyclopædia Britannica. “Auspicious Incident.” Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www. britannica.com/topic/Auspicious-Incident. Encyclopædia Britannica. “Puerperium.” Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.britannica. com/science/puerperium. Fotokart. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.fotokart.shop. Gagin, Sebastian. “Crónica Sobre Izmir Por Sebastian Gagin.” Esefarad, 2018. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://esefarad.com/?p=86317. Galatasaray Lisesi. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www.gsl.gsu.edu.tr. Gitti Gidiyor. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.gittigidiyor.com. ­Hızır, Şadan. “Ziraat Bankası Müzesi.” Şadan Hızır (blog), April 12, 2020. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://sadanhizir.blogspot.com/2020/04/ziraat-bankas-muzesi.html.

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Hür, Ayşe. “Araksi Çetinyan’dan Keriman Halis’e Türkiye’nin İlk Güzelleri.” Radikal Gazetesi, 2015. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www.radikal.com.tr/yazarlar/ayse-hur/ araksi-cetinyandan-keriman-halise-turkiyenin-ilk-guzelleri–1308460. İslam Ansiklopedisi. “Alkarısı.” Accessed June 30, 2021. https://islamansiklopedisi.org.tr/ alkarisi. İslam Ansiklopedisi. “Bektaşîlik.” Accessed June 30, 2021. https://islamansiklopedisi.org.tr/ bektasilik. Kadın Eserleri Kütüphanesi ve Bilgi Merkezi Vakfı. Accessed June 30, 2021. http:// kadineserleri.org. Levantine Heritage Foundation. Accessed June 30, 2021. levantineheritage.com. Mahadevan, Sudhir. “Archives and Origins: The Material and Vernacular Cultures of Photography in India.” Trans-Asia Photography Review 4, no. 1 (2013). Accessed June 30, 2021. http://hdl.handle.net/2027/spo.7977573.0004.103. Ministry of Culture and Tourism. “Biography of Atatürk.” Accessed June 30, 2021. https:// www.ktb.gov.tr/EN-103908/biography-of-ataturk.html. Nadir Kitap. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://nadirkitap.com. Pekesen, Berna. “Expulsion and Emigration of Muslims from the Balkans.” European History Online (EGO), March 7, 2012. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www.ieg-ego.eu/ pekesenb-2011-en. Pera Mezat. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.peramezat.com. Schick, Irvin Cemil. “What Ottoman Erotica Teaches Us about Sexual Pluralism.” Aeon, March 23, 2018. Accessed June 30, 2021. https://aeon.co/ideas/what-ottoman-eroticateaches-us-about-sexual-pluralism. Tatlıbal, Engin. “Kemeraltı’nın Fotoğrafhane Kültürü.” Ege Meclisi. 2015. Accessed June 30, 2021. www.egemeclisi.com/haber/22900/kemeraltinin-fotograf-hane-kulturu.html. Türkiye İstatistik Kurumu (Turkish Statistical Institute). Accessed June 30, 2021. http:// tuik.gov.tr. Türkiye Okul Öncesi Eğitimini Geliştirme Derneği. Accessed June 30, 2021. http://www. tooegd.org.tr. Ziraat Bank. “Bankamızın Kuruluşu (History of the Bank).” Accessed June 30, 2021. https://www.ziraatbank.com.tr/tr/bankamiz/hakkimizda/bankamiz-tarihcesi.

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Berk, Nurullah. “Fotoğrafçılara Dair Müspet Düşünceler.” Cumhuriyet, June 15, 1939, 5420 edition, sec. San’at ve Hayat. Cumhuriyet Kadını, March 22, 1934. Ebcioğlu, Hikmet Münir. “Bir Fotoğrafçı Mikrofon Başında.” Radyo, December 15, 1942. Evren, Burçak. “Rahmizade Bahaeddin, ’Unutul(May)Anlar.” Geniş Açı Fotoğraf Sanatı Dergisi, 2004. H.F. “‘Ev idaresinde erkekler pek fazla müsriftirler,’ ‘İyi bir zevce şarap gibidir, eskidikçe iyileşir.’” Akşam, June 15, 1935, 5982 edition, sec. Bayanlar diyorlar ki. M. Salâhaddin. “Nebahat Hâmit Hf.nin cevabı: Elbette yeni tarz! Çok şükür şark aleminin hala muztarip olduğu ‘çocuk izdivacı’ndan kurtulduk.” Milliyet, March 26, 1930, 1481 edition. Kandemir, Feridun. “Febüs Anlatıyor.” Aydabir, March 1936. Orhon Targaç, Zeynep. “Dünden Bugüne Stüdyolar: Hamza Rüstem.” Fotoğraf Dergisi 25, 1999. Safa, Peyami. “Dünya karşısında Türk kızı.” Cumhuriyet, August 3, 1932. Şen, Yusuf Murat. “Alaminüt Fotoğrafçılık.” Fotoğraf Dergisi, 2002a. Şen, Yusuf Murat. “Son Alaminütçüler 2.” Fotoğraf Dergisi, 2002b. Toros, Taha. “İlk Türk Fotoğrafhanesi ve Ferit İbrahim.” Refo Fotoğraf Sanatı Dergisi, 1990.

Interviews Interview with Orhan Cem Çetin. Email, September 2018. Interview with Orhan Cem Çetin. Email, November 2019. Interview with Mert Rüstem. Izmir, June 2018. Interview with Yusuf Murat Şen. Email, November 2019.

Books and Journal Articles Abadan-Unat, Nermin. “Social Change and Turkish Women.” In Women in Turkish Society: A Reader, edited by Nermin Abadan-Unat, Deniz Kandiyoti, and Mübeccel Kıray, 5–31. Leiden: Brill, 1981. Abdullah Cevdet. Mükemmel ve Resimli Adab-ı Muaşeret Rehberi. Istanbul: Yeni Matbaa, 1927. About, Ilsen. “Les Photographes Ambulants: Conditions et Pratiques Professionnelles d’un Métier Itinérant, Des Années 1880 Aux Années.” Techniques & Culture 64, no. 2 (2015): 240–3. Adanır, Fikret. “Kemalist Authoritarianism and Fascist Trends in Turkey during the Inter-War Period.” In Fascism outside Europe: The European Impulse against Domestic Conditions in the Diffusion of Global Fascism, edited by Stein Ugelvik Larsen, 313–61. New York: Columbia University Press, 2001. Adıvar, Halide Edib. Ateşten Gömlek. Istanbul: Can Yayınları, 2007. Ahıska, Meltem. Occidentalism in Turkey: Questions of Modernity and National Identity in Turkish Radio Broadcasting. London: I.B. Tauris, 2010. Ahmad, Feroz. The Making of Modern Turkey. London and New York: Routledge, 1993. ­Ahmad, Feroz. Turkey: The Quest for Identity. Oxford: Oneworld, 2003. Ahmet Mithat, Efendi. Acaib-i Alem. Ankara: Bordo Siyah, 2012 [1882].

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INDEX Abdülhamid, Sultan 10, 38, 73, 134, 161 Acun, Niyazi 10, 102 Adalet ve Kalkınma Partisi (AKP). See Justice and Development Party Adanır, Fikret, In Kemalist Authoritarianism and Fascist Trends in Turkey during the Inter-war Period 192 n.3 advertisements for Bioks toothpaste (to win Kodak camera) 12 for Exakta cameras 13 for Kodak camera 11–12, 139–41 photography competition 14 Adviye Hanım 185 n.11 Afghanistan 198–9 n.33 Africa 199 n.39 Afro-Turks 199 n.39 agency 21, 26, 32, 46, 53, 89, 93–4, 99, 101–3, 110–12, 142, 145 Ahmad, Feroz 7 Ahmet Hamdi Başar (Bey) 42–3 Akkasah collection 6, 18, 179–80, 181 n.6, 183 n.15 Akşam newspaper 5 “Men’s Clothes! What a girl did in Izmir” 92 winners of photography contest 14–15 Ak, Seyit Ali 187 n.24, 191 n.6, 194–5 nn.8–9, 195 n.16, 199 n.35 Erken Cumhuriyet Dönemi Türk Fotoğrafı 23 Akyüz, Nedim 175–6 alaminüt photography/photographers 16, 72, 122, 139–47, 188 n.10, 198 n.29, 198 nn.32–3, 199 nn.35–6 ­Ali Efendi 42 Ali Macid Arda (Bey) 42–3 Aliye, Fatma 43, 186 n.15 Altınay, Ayşe Gül 64, 67, 71

amateur photography/photographers 6, 10–11, 13, 15–16, 100, 162, 178 competitions 184 n.2 contest 13–14 snapshots 6, 16, 23 ambulant photography/photographers (seyyar fotoğrafçı) 198 nn.29–30. See also alaminüt photography/ photographers Anatolia 9, 71, 85, 91, 132, 136, 188 n.7, 196 n.19 Anatolian women (Anadolu Kadını) 49 Andriomenos, Nicholas 23 Andromeneos 135 Ankara 14, 16–17, 136, 159 Ankara Commodity Exchange statistics 183 n.14 Annuaire Oriental (Oriental Directory) 197 n.25 Apollon (Aşil Samancı) 23 Arab Center for the Study of Art, NYUAD 181 n.6 Arab Image Foundation 24 Arabs (Black Africans) 144, 199 n.39 Arap (Arab), negative print 144 Arat, Yeşim 40, 48 Armenian 135, 179, 187 n.23, 197 n.24 Armenian Photography Foundation Lusadaran 24 language of inscription 183 n.15 mass killings of 182 n.9 photographers 183 n.22 Association for the Development of Early Childhood Education 190 n.30 Atatürk Boulevard 136 Atatürk Library (İBB Atatürk Kitaplığı) 24 Atatürk, Mustafa Kemal 3, 6, 39, 71, 86, 94, 121, 136, 181 n.2, 181 n.5, 189 n.12, 192 n.7, 197 n.25 adopted children of 182 n.10 on bodies of Turkish people 116

228

Index

care for daughters 86 dancing with daughter Nebile (Bayyurt) 3–4 encouragement for women’s sports 118 and Keriman Halis 55 promoting beauty contests 53, 55 speech in Izmir 49 Athanassiades 135 Auspicious Incident (Vaka-i Hayriye) 74, 189 n.17 Bahaeddin Rahmizade Bediz 134, 135, 137, 183 n.22, 194–5 n.9, 195 n.13 Balkan populations in Turkey (Bayındır Goularas) 84 Balkan Wars (1912–1913) 93, 131, 193 n.1 ballroom dancing 3, 41, 49, 55 Barrada, Yto, Albums Marocains 1900–1960 24 Barthes, Roland 19, 23, 124–5, 131 ­Batchen, Geoffrey 19, 23, 160 Each Wild Idea: Writing: Photography: History 18 on exchange of memories 167 on photographic inscriptions 165 Beato, Antonio 23 beauty contests 51, 56, 187 n.28. See also Halis, Keriman; Naşide Saffet Hanım by Cumhuriyet 14, 51–3 promotion of 54 of 1930s 55 Beaux-Arts plan 197 n.23 Bedia 103–5 Bedriye 39–42, 46, 49, 53 Bektashi Order 137, 197–8 n.26 Berger, John 23 Berggren, Guillaume 23 Berki, Fazıl 183 n.22 Berk, Nurullah 14–15 best selves 60–1, 88, 137, 168 Bey (sir) 181 n.2 Beyoğlu studios 51, 53, 86–7 black and white photograph 92 body, photography and. See human body, photography and Boğaziçi University Archives and Documentation Center 18, 24

Bogos Tarkulyan/Boghos Tarkoulian 11, 23, 183 n.22 Bolshevik Revolution (1917) 184 n.1, 194 n.7 Bölük, Gülderen 11, 24, 142 Fotoğrafın Serüveni 23 Bonfils, Félix 23 bonnet-style hat 134, 198 n.27 bourgeoisie class. See middle class Britain 48, 142 British photography 164 Bukmedjian, Carlo 135 bureaucrats/bureaucracy 8–9, 73, 172 Butler, Judith 21, 25, 33, 58, 93–4, 113, 177 gender performativity 21, 32 Büyük Macmua magazine 47 Caliphate, abolition of 7, 39. See also Sultanate, abolition of Çambel, Halet 192 n.6 camera(s) 21, 194 n.9. See also specific cameras ads (see advertisements) amateur 13, 141, 176 compact 182 n.12 consumer cameras 11, 19 mass-market 181 n.12 medium-format 106 minute 198 n.29 mobile camera set-up 141 Polaroid 191 n.6, 198 n.33 ­promotion of 13 SLR 182 n.12 snapshot 103, 110, 112, 140 Voigtländer 141 wooden camera boxes 198 n.29, 198 n.33 Çapa Öğretmen Okulu (Çapa Teachers’ School) 56–7, 187 n.30 Caracachian, Rober 23 çarşaf 37–9, 41, 46, 60, 133–4 cartes de visite 22, 99, 161 cartomania 161 Ceride-i Havadis 185 n.10 Çetin, Orhan Cem 191 n.6 Çetinyan, Araksi 187 n.23 Cevdet, Abdullah 76–7 advice to young women 163 Chalfen, Richard 21

Index chastity (iffet) 48–50, 56, 76 childbed (lohusa yatağı) pictures 16, 18, 26, 114, 121–2, 124, 126, 177 childbirth 114, 121–2, 124–5, 193 n.10 al (demons of childbirth) 193 n.11 Christians/Christianity 8, 115, 123, 136. See also Islam conversion to Islam 189 n.17 Coptic Christianity 123 Muslims converted to 196 n.16 Orthodox 136 against Ottoman rule 195 n.11 cinema industry, Turkish 181 n.5, 199 n.40 circumcision (sünnet) ceremonies 6, 16, 26, 114, 122–4, 126, 177, 193 nn.12–13 outfits 193 n.14 sephardic 193 n.13 citizen/citizenship, modern Turkish 5, 27, 35, 41, 49–50, 60, 64, 72, 100, 104, 111–12, 119, 132, 138, 145–6, 151, 160, 165, 175–6, 178–80, 182 n.8 Citizen, Speak Turkish! (Vatandaş Türkçe Konuş!) campaign 171 Civil Code, Turkish 7, 20, 39, 63, 85 collective amnesia 7 communications 27, 173 Complex Ottoman Turkish 171 conformity 26, 60, 89, 94, 111 conservative modernization 7 conservative society 36, 46, 51, 60, 85 consumer cameras 11, 19 Contax 182 n.12 contemporary gaze 60, 89, 97, 175 contest. See beauty contests; photography contests corporeal aesthetics 113–18, 125–6 corpus selection 16–18, 20 couple portraits 16, 78–83, 86–7 engagement portrait 87 intimacy 86, 89 ­Crete/Cretan 131, 134–5, 137, 177, 194 n.9, 195 n.11, 195 n.15, 198 n.27 cross-dressing 32, 89, 91–2 cultural identity 48, 75, 172 culturalization 67 Cumhuriyet Halk Partisi (CHP). See Republican People’s Party (RPP)

229

Cumhuriyet Kadını. See Republican Woman Cumhuriyet newspaper 5, 13, 182–3 n.13 beauty contest by 14, 51–3 Foto Süreyya Studio 184 n.2 promotion of 54 photo campaigns 55–6 Dabrowska, Ania, A Lebanese Archive: From the Collection of Diab Alkarssifi 24 Darülmuallimîn (Teachers’ Training School for Men) 187 n.30 Demet 186 n.18 democratization of photography 98, 145 Derrida, Jacques 23 devrim (revolution) 8 Dietrich, Marlene 190–1 n.32 digital era 6, 173, 179–80 Dildilian Family 183 n.22 Dinç, Enis 63, 179, 181 n.5 disruptive technology 139 diversity 6, 16, 106 domestication of photography 27, 132, 139, 146 Doumainian, Garabed 135 Dumas, Tancrède 23 Durakbaşa, Ayşe 64 early modernization period 7 early Republican era 3, 5–7, 9–10, 16, 22–3, 25, 27, 33, 47, 58, 60, 63–4, 71, 75, 94, 104–6, 111, 121, 133, 136, 142, 167, 173, 175, 177, 181 n.3, 184 n.2, 188 n.7, 193 n.12 East/West (alaturka/alafranga) dichotomies 199 n.40 education 8, 72, 119, 135, 164, 171, 190 n.18 of children 86 coeducation 39 literacy rates 171, 181 n.4, 201 n.27 modern 3, 41 photography 11 physical 55 sex 57 Western 41 for women 39, 42–3, 47, 186 n.15, 186 n.17

230 Edwards, Elizabeth 19–20, 22–3, 26, 56, 173, 177 Raw Histories: Photographs, Anthropology and Museums 32 Efendi (sir) 181 n.2 effeminate dandy (alafranga züppe), comical character 74 Egypt 16, 91, 121, 199 n.39 Egyptian films 199 n.40 El-Beder and Cie 135 Eldem, Edhem (with Çelik, Zeynep) 23, 191 n.2, 196 n.17, 196 n.19 ­Camera Ottomana: Photography and Modernity in the Ottoman Empire 1840–1914 10 electricity in studio 194 n.8 elite(s) 11, 25, 38, 42, 47, 171 Kemalist 8–9, 35, 41 military 69 Ottoman 38, 42, 73, 91, 165 ruling 5, 10, 39, 73 statist 145 Turkish 73 Emine Abdullah 192 n.6 England 161 enlarged prints 88, 138, 160 Erdoğan, Recep Tayyip 6 Ersoy, Ahmet 23, 161 Estras, Loran (Laurent) 185 n.10 Ethiopian Orthodox Church 123 ethno-nationalism 116 ethno-secularism 9, 182 n.8 Europe/Europeans 3, 9, 11, 23, 70–1, 92, 100, 116–17, 121, 161, 194 n.1 European films 199 n.40 Europeanization 114 European-style furniture 38, 55, 73 European-style hat (brim hat) 6, 73–4, 110, 189 n.13 fashion 38–9, 73 Evren, Burçak 100 Exakta camera 11, 182 n.12 advertisement for 13 face veil 37, 39, 41–2 Fahrünissa Hanım 53 Faik Sabri Duran (Bey) 42–3 faint (sönük, silik) shadow 167 family-centered modernity 85

Index family photographs/portraits 7, 17, 20, 23, 26, 42, 64, 72, 78, 84–5, 89, 114, 132, 138, 175, 177, 179, 183 n.19, 198 n.33 with children 78, 86 exclusion of women 38 gifting and exchanging 164, 178 of Hamdiye and Zahide 36–9, 46 holidays and recreational spots 143–4 intimacy 85 multigenerational 129–31 occasions for having 77, 88 pose and posture in 99–100 social transformation of 38 urban middle-class 84 at wedding ceremony 88 Fascism/Fascist 48–9, 55, 61, 113, 117, 121, 192 n.3 ­fashion/fashion trends 3, 37–8, 46, 48–9, 92, 97, 115, 126, 131, 134, 137, 167–8, 176, 190–1 n.32 boyish look 49 European 38–9, 73 hairstyles 31, 39, 77 headgear 73–4, 194 n.7 men’s 46–7, 73, 75, 77 mustache 25, 45–7, 70–1, 73–4, 97, 117, 134 Ottoman 46 rusbaşı (Russian head) 194 n.7 Western 41, 53, 55–6, 74, 117, 187 n.25 Febüs Efendi 11, 23 feminine/femininities, Turkish 20, 25–6, 32–3, 35, 41, 46, 53, 56, 58–9, 60, 77, 89, 91, 103, 108, 111–12, 119. See also masculine/ masculinities; women feminine self 33, 38, 49–50 unresolved 50–6 (see also Naşide Saffet Hanım) feminism/feminist 43, 47–8, 57–8 movement 35, 42, 186 nn.15–16 state feminism 26, 36, 47–8, 50, 55, 60, 64, 94, 114 ferace (overcoat) 38 Ferit İbrahim Studio 187 n.24 Ferrania 1, 191 n.33 fez (ban of) 73–4, 188–9 n.12

Index First Constitutional Era 11 First World War 48, 69, 93–4, 194 n.1 formal portraits 45–6, 60 Foto Alman 52, 190 n.28 Foto Amerikan 187 n.24 Foto Artistik 187 n.24 Foto Baha Baritaki 194 n.9 Foto Febüs (Photo Phébus) 11, 187 n.24 Foto Femina 187 n.24 Foto Ferit İbrahim (Ferit İbrahim Özgürar) 183 n.22 Foto Franse (Photo Français, J. Weinberg) 183 n.22 Foto Gagin 197 n.20, 197 n.25 Foto Galatasaray 190 n.28 fotografía minutera 198 n.29 Foto Kanzler 187 n.24 fotokart.shop 184 n.26 Foto M. Oka 187 n.24 Foto Namık 187 n.24 Foto Refik 77–8 Foto Rekor 82, 87, 102, 187 n.24 Foto Sabah 100 Foto Sel 191 n.3 Foto S. Süreyya 31–2, 53, 100, 184 n.2, 187 n.24, 187 n.26. See also Süreyya Bükey, Süleyman Foto Turan 187 n.24 Foto Weinberg 187 n.24 ­France 43, 48, 161 Frères, Abdullah 10, 23, 161, 183 n.22 frightening bastinado (falaka) 74 Fuji 191 n.33 Gable, Clark 77 Gagin, Alejandro 197 n.25 Galatasaray High School 189 n.18 Gazi Day 192 n.7 gender 5, 25, 32–3, 35–6, 38, 44, 56–60, 64, 87, 106, 177 ambiguity 50, 58–9, 90, 92–3 fluidity 21, 91 gender-bending 89, 93 hegemonic masculinities 26, 35, 64, 74, 94 identity 9, 20, 25, 32, 91 and language 185 n.5 mixed gender socialization 3, 86 modern forms of 89–93

231

normativities 36, 58–9, 92–3, 106, 111 performativity 21, 32, 36, 64, 113, 125, 177 genre-specific photographs 5, 17–18, 25–6 Germany 48, 58 Gigord Collection 190 n.28 gittigidiyor.com 18, 184 n.26 Gökçen, Sabiha 71–2, 188 n.9 cross-dressing 92 first woman military pilot 188 n.8 Göle, Nilüfer 49 The Forbidden Modern 35 women in public sphere 40 González, Pérez 100 Goodman, Nelson 21, 26, 104, 177 Great Depression 187 n.25 Great Fire of Smyrna (Catastrophe of Smyrna) 135–7, 197 n.25, 197 nn.21–2 Greco-Turkish War (1919–1922) 135, 182 n.9 Greece/Greeks 17, 84, 111, 134–7, 183 n.15, 195–6 nn.15–16, 195 n.9, 195 n.11, 196 n.16, 197 n.24 Greek-Turkish Population Exchange (1923) 182 n.9 Greek War of Independence 195 n.11 group portraits 6, 16, 143, 151 of Darülfünun Geography Department 42–4 formal 45–6 government employees/teachers 45 negative/positive print of 144–5 social/professional (around 1930s) 45–6 sportsmen 114–16 women in (gesture of respect) 44–6 Guichard, Anna 185 n.10 Gülmez Brothers 23, 183 n.22 Gürpınar, Hüseyin Rahmi 76 ­Gürsel, Zeynep Devrim 21, 24 Gymnastics Fest (Jimnastik Bayramı). See Youth and Sports Day Hacı Şeref Kemal Bey 169 haftalık (weekly) 198 n.32 Halide Edib (Adıvar) Hanım 43, 47, 58, 71, 181 n.2, 186 n.15, 186 n.19 portrait of 59

232

Index

Halid, Hamdi Paşazade M., Detailed Account of the Practice and Theory of Photography (Ameli ve Nazari Mufassal Fotografya) 99–100 Halis, Keriman (Turkey’s first Miss Universe) 55, 118, 182 n.13, 187 n.24, 187 n.26 Hamdi Efendi 42, 169–70 Hamza Rüstem Studio 27, 131–9, 146, 177–8, 183 n.22, 187 n.24, 194 n.4, 195 n.9, 197 n.25 hand-colored (individual) portrait 89–90, 92–3, 185 n.3 handwritten notes on photographs 151–2, 166, 171, 173 Hanım (madam) 181 n.2 Hanioğlu, Şükrü 7 Hanımlara Mahsus Gazete 186 n.18 Hariman, Robert, No Caption Needed: Iconic photographs, Public Culture, and Liberal Democracy 20 Hat Law (1925) 63, 74, 110 Henning, Michelle 124 The Subject as Object 113 heteronormalization 91 heterosexuality 25, 33, 35, 187 n.22 heterosocialization 91 Hitler, Adolf 48, 71 Hoca (teacher) 181 n.2 Hollows, Joanne 32 homoeroticism 89, 91, 113 homogenization 137, 173, 178 homosexuality 90–1 human body, photography and 5, 25, 113, 125 display of female bodies 36 educating bodies 118–21 modern Turkish female body 113–14, 126 muscular body 113, 115 Turkish Republican image 113 Hür, Ayşe 187 n.23 Hüsamettin, Mübeccel (Argun) 192 n.6 Huzni (?) Efendi 42 iconicity of vernacular photography 19–20, 22 ideological confusion 49, 51

Ihagee camera 141, 182 n.12 immigration/immigrant 131–2, 134–5, 146, 177, 196 n.16 Balkan 197 n.25 Russian 184 n.1 İnâs Darülfünunu (Women’s University) 39, 42, 186 n.14 group portrait of Geography Department 42–4 indexicality of vernacular photography 19, 22 ­Indian Memory Project, Yadav’s 24 individual portraits 16, 90, 93 inkılâp (reform and (nonviolent) revolution) 8 İnönü, İsmet 3, 10 inscriptions, photographic 17, 22, 27, 56, 64, 67, 72, 87, 94, 106, 151–2, 159, 163–9, 171–3, 178, 183 n.15, 201 n.28. See also language; memory/memories among family members 166–7 Batchen on 165 expressions (moral values) 166–9 gesture of gratitude (hatıra-yı şükran) 163, 166, 169–70 linguistic patterns 27 memory-focused 160 ornate language in 171 of poetic nature 168, 200 n.14 İnsel, İsmail 184 n.1 Iranian, Mihran 183 n.22 Iranian photography 184 n.24 İskender, Agop 184 n.1 İskender, Bedros 87 Islam 9, 38, 126. See also Christians/ Christianity; Muslims; non-Muslim Islamic celebrations 190 n.21 Islamization 132, 136 İsmail Hakkı 194 n.9 Istanbul 16–17, 23, 25, 57–8, 84, 86, 131, 135, 142–4, 146, 178–9, 182 n.13, 194 n.7, 194 n.9 amateur photographers in 11 Beyoğlu 13, 74, 87, 184 n.1, 185 n.10 birth rates in 84 Grande Rue de Pera 10, 74, 135 and Russian immigration 184 n.1 Taksim Cihangir 31, 142 Western brands in 13

Index İstanbul Dârülmuallimâtı (Teachers’ Training School for Women) 187 n.30 Istanbul Research Institute (İstanbul Araştırmaları Enstitüsü) 24 Istanbul University Central Library 24 Italy 38, 48, 117 itinerant (alaminüt) photography/ photographers 16, 19, 27, 72, 117, 124–5, 132, 139, 141–2, 146–7, 178, 188 n.10 Izmir 16–17, 23, 27, 84, 92, 131–2, 134–8, 178–9 Atatürk’s speech in 49 Frank Street 10, 135, 197 n.21 Turkish Muslim photography studio in 136 Janissaries/Janissary corps 68, 74, 189 n.17 Jewish photographers 184 n.1, 197 n.20, 197 n.25 Joaillier, Policarpe 184 n.1 Josepho, Anatol 191 n.6 Justice and Development Party 6 Kadınlar Halk Fırkası (Women’s People Party) 186 n.19 Kadınlar Alemi 186 n.18 ­Kadınlar Dünyası 186 n.18 Kahraman, Cengiz 24 kamra-e-faoree photography 198–9 n.33 Kandiyoti, Deniz 60, 64 Kanzler, Jules (Kanzler, Jul/ Izzet Kaya Kanzler) 183 n.22, 184 n.1 Karaağaç, Garbi 166 Karaosmanoğlu, Yakup Kadri 76 The Rented Mansion (Kiralık Konak) 75 Kargapoulo, Vasilaki (Basile) 23 Karpat, Kemal H. 8 Kemalism/Kemalist ideology 6–7, 10, 13, 17, 22, 25–7, 36, 39, 41, 46–7, 49, 51, 55, 58–60, 64, 71, 74, 84, 89, 91, 93–4, 104, 111, 113–14, 116–17, 132, 134, 136, 138, 145–6, 151, 160, 164, 171, 175–8, 192 n.3 achieving modernity project 91 definition of Turkishness 9, 17 emancipation of women 3

233

ethnicist approach 7 ethno-secularism 9 heteronormalization 91 Kemalist elites 8–9, 35, 41 Kemalist revolution 3, 8, 25, 35, 178–9 Kemalist state 5, 8, 71, 104, 133 national holidays 119 physical fitness, promotion of 116 reforms 3, 25, 35, 41, 63, 114, 121, 134, 145, 177 single-party regime 7, 145, 176 Kemal, Namık 186 n.17 King of the Itinerants (Seyyarlar Kralı) 199 n.34 Kisitu, Arthur C., The Kaddu Wasswa Archive: A Visual Biography 24 köçek 91 Koch, Reagan 27, 132 Koç University Suna & İnan Kıraç Research Center for Mediterranean Civilizations (AKMED) 24 Koçu, Reşat Ekrem didon 189 n.15 Encyclopaedia of Istanbul 91 Kodachrome (first color film) 191 n.33 Kodak camera 103, 139, 182 n.12, 191 n.33 advertisement for 11–12, 14, 139–41 Ektachrome 191 n.33 Kodak Box Brownie 139, 182 n.12, 198 n.31 photography contest for amateurs by 13 Köksal, Duygu 64 Koloğlu, Orhan 185 n.10 Konica 191 n.33 Konya 84 Kordon. See Atatürk Boulevard Kosovar Koro Brothers studios 178 Krikorian, Garabed 183 n.22 ­Kutsal, Vahit 87, 102 Kızlarağası Han Bazaar, Izmir 1, 151 Langello 135 language 5, 25, 27, 32, 77, 137, 163, 171–3, 183 n.15, 187 n.27 alphabet change 106, 131, 151, 171–2 Armenian 183 n.15

234

Index

French 189–90 n.18 and gender 32, 185 n.5 inscription, Akkasah collection 183 n.15 (see also inscriptions, photographic) modern Turkish 17, 27, 77, 172–3, 201 n.28 Ottoman Turkish 17, 166, 171–2 reform 27, 151, 171–3, 201 n.28 Latham, Alan 27 La Turquie kémaliste magazine 117–19, 125, 192 n.5 Lausanne Treaty (1923), violation of 182 n.8 Le Corbusier 197 n.23 Leica (Leitz camera) 182 n.12 Lest We Forget: Emirati Family Photographs 24 Levantine 135, 189 n.15, 196 n.19 Levantine Heritage Foundation 24, 196–7 nn.19–20 lifeless body (cansız beden, ruhsuz beden) 167 lifeless duplicate (ruhsuz benzer) 167 local photographers/photography 23, 137 lohusa (lechousa/lechona) 121–2, 124, 193 n.10 lohusalık (puerperium) 121, 193 n.10 lower-class 47, 86, 132, 142–3, 178. See also middle class; upper class Lucaites, John Louis, No Caption Needed: Iconic photographs, Public Culture, and Liberal Democracy 20 Lycée Impérial Ottoman de Galata-Sérai (Galatasaray Mekteb-i Sultanisi) 189 n.18. See also Galatasaray High School el Madani, Hashem 24 Mahmoud, Sultan 188–9 n.12, 189 n.17 Mahmut, Feridun 106 male photographers 38, 46 manto (overcoat) 133 Mardin, Şerif 8–9 masculine/masculinities 20, 25–6, 32–3, 46, 48, 59, 63, 67, 71–2, 74, 89, 91, 97, 111–12, 116–17, 152. See also feminine/femininities; women

domineering identity of man (couple portrait) 97–8 fashion of 46–7, 73, 75, 77 gentleman (beyefendi) 72–7, 89 hegemonic 26, 35, 64, 74, 94 ideal man 35, 63, 76, 93 manhood 26, 114, 121–6 modern father/husband 77–89 modern Turkish man 63–4, 73–5, 77, 86, 160, 175, 177 and nationalism 67 Ottoman 47, 63, 70, 74–5, 115 personality traits for men 75 ­of soldiers 64–72 temiz yüzlü (clean-shaven face) 76 materiality of photographs 6, 22–3, 25, 27, 160, 179, 183 n.18 medical student behind cadaver photography 176 Mehmed Emin Erişirgil (Bey) 42, 44 Mehmetçik (Little Mehmet) 188 n.7 Meiselas, Susan, Kurdistan 24 memory/memories 21, 167–8, 175. See also inscriptions, photographic articulate 194 n.6 Batchen on exchange of 167 collective 7, 165, 178 cultural 33 immortal (hatıra-yı ebedi, lâ-yemût hatıra) 167 private 3 social 5, 27, 132, 194 n.6 surrogate 138 through photographs 160–5 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 26 mesire yeri (public garden/picnic ground) photograph 143–4, 146 Metinsoy, Mahir 194 n.7 middle class 5–6, 8, 10–11, 15, 27, 39, 47, 75, 98, 101, 104, 106, 111–12, 131, 133, 137–8, 146, 160, 165, 176–8. See also lower-class; upper class educated 85 family portraits 84 government bureaucrats 9 modern 15, 86, 133, 177 Muslim families of Istanbul 86 new Turkish 41, 131, 137, 172

Index upper 41 urban 3–4, 22, 39, 47, 58, 60, 64, 94, 104, 111, 125, 139, 143, 151–2, 165, 175–6, 178 women 25–6, 33, 35, 40, 58 The Middle East 24, 58, 196 n.19 cross-dressing in 91 military-nation, Turkish 67, 72, 94 women in 71–2 military portraits (askerlik fotoğrafı), 16, 64–72, 94, 125 aviation officer 70 mustache in 188 n.6 of soldier 68–9 young man in military uniform 65–7 Millet Mektepleri (Nation’s Schools for adult citizens) 171 Milliyet newspaper 5, 190 n.32, 198 n.30 Minasoğlu, Osep 25 minute camera 198 n.29 Mithat, Ahmet 163, 186 n.17 etiquette to keep/exchange 162–3 European Etiquette or Alafranga 162 Felâtun Bey ve Râkım Efendi 74 mixed gender socialization 3, 86 ­mobile photographers 10, 185 n.10. See also itinerant (alaminüt) photography/photographers modernity/modernists 3–7, 9–10, 20, 26, 38–9, 41, 44, 48–51, 55, 70, 73, 85, 91, 100–1, 116, 136, 178 modernization 5, 8, 32–3, 35, 38, 41, 75, 86, 143, 173, 179, 198 n.29 conservative 7 of female bodies 114 Kemalist 71, 178–9, 181 n.5 modern selves 26, 33, 35, 38, 42, 46, 73, 146 Turkish 35, 48, 71, 85, 124 of young bodies 116 modern Turkish 17, 20, 22–4, 35, 41, 55, 88, 91, 98–101, 138, 143, 147, 151, 160, 171, 179. See also Ottoman Turkish language 17, 27, 77, 172–3, 201 n.28 modern Turkish women (creating) 36–42, 56–7, 86 monopoly 195 n.14 mounted prints 138, 160

235

muavin (corresponding to deputy director) 167 Bozkır (Konya) muavin 166 at Ziraat Bank 152–3, 157, 159, 166 mübadele 135 muhacir (muhajir) 194 n.2 Muhiddin, Nezihe 47, 186 n.15, 186 n.19 Münir, Hikmet (Ebcioğlu) 101 music 41, 199 n.40 Muslims 9–10, 75, 116, 135–6, 195 n.11, 196 n.16. See also Christians/ Christianity; Islam; non-Muslim Balkan 194 n.1 first woman photographer 185 n.10 immigrants 131 non-Turkish 182 n.8 Ottoman 38, 41, 74, 179, 194 n.7 photographers 32, 52, 134, 195 n.9 Turkish 118, 131, 135, 179, 196 n.16 women for photography 46 Mussolini, Benito 48 Muzaffer Hanım 185 n.10, 193 n.15, 198 n.30 Naciye Hanım 185 n.10 nadirkitap.com 184 n.26 Naşide Saffet Hanım (Turkish beauty queen, 1931) 50–1, 56, 59. See also beauty contests in Cumhuriyet’s beauty contest 52–3 fashion 53 Nassar, Issam 24 national holidays 16, 26, 114, 118–19, 126, 192–3 n.7–8. See also religious holidays national identity, Turkish 7, 13, 55, 64, 67, 91, 100, 164, 182 n.8 nationalism 9–10, 48, 72, 121 ethno-nationalism 116 and masculinity 67 ­nation-building process 5, 7, 21, 25, 39, 48, 64, 67, 71–2, 86, 111, 114, 116, 125–6, 176–7, 179 nation-state 8, 35, 39, 41, 49, 67, 99, 111, 131–2, 146, 164–5, 175, 178 Nazi Germany 117 Nebahat Hamıt Karaorman 58–9, 93, 177–8, 187–8 nn.31–2 Cinsi Terbiye (Sex Education) 57 interview with Akşam 58

236

Index

negative prints 144, 199 n.38. See also positive prints Nepal Picture Library in Kathmandu 24 new clothes (bayramlık) 77, 84 Neyzi, Nezih 8 Nigâr, Şair 186 n.15 non-Muslim 10, 31, 57, 74, 101, 116, 135, 182 n.8, 195 n.9, 196 n.19, 197 n.25. See also Islam; Muslims decrease in population 182 n.9 photographers 52 women for Orientalist photographs 38 Nori camera 11 nostalgia 121, 167 nuclear family 84, 88–9, 91, 111, 138, 143, 164, 173 Nuri, Celal 186 n.17 objecthood of photographs 22–3, 101, 103 Occidentalism 146 oil wrestling (Turkey’s national sport) 192 n.4 Ömer Koç Collection 24 Orientalist/Orientalism 9–10, 23, 38, 63, 91 Oriental Other 91 Ottoman Empire 6–10, 15, 17, 23–7, 38–9, 41, 50, 60, 90–1, 101, 113, 115, 136, 162, 166, 185 n.10, 193 n.1, 195 n.11 backwardness of 74 Balıkesir 84, 152, 169 census data 196 n.18 cosmopolitan/cosmopolitanism 196 n.17 feminist movement 186 n.15 photographers in 99–100, 134, 183 n.22 poses in 101 studio photography in 101 visual vocabulary 100 women’s publications of 186 n.18 Ottoman Imperial School 189 n.18 Ottoman Turkish 17, 37, 42, 51, 72, 152. See also modern Turkish language 17, 166, 171–2 script/inscription 106, 171–2, 178, 183 n.15, 188 n.11

outdoor photography 56, 103–5, 108–9, 116, 143–4 Özendes, Engin 17 Photography in The Ottoman Empire 1839–1923 38 Özge Calafato Collection 6, 181 n.6 Öztuncay, Bahattin 17 Papazian Brothers 183 n.22 ­ asha (high-ranking officials) 181 n.2 P passport photos 140–1 patriotism 13, 51, 71, 76, 118 peçe (face veil) 41 Peirce, C. S., iconic signs 19 People’s Houses (Halkevleri) 11, 13–14, 182 n.11, 192 n.5 Pera Mezat 18 Pera studio 184 n.1 Perpanyani 184 n.1 Peyami Safa 55 Pferschy, Othmar 117 Phébus/Phebüs, Atelier 23 photo booths 191 n.6 photo cards (cartes photo) 162 Photo Français 31, 184 n.1 photograph/photography 5, 10, 98–9 amateur (see amateur photography/ photographers) candid 56, 76, 103, 166 circulation of 18, 20, 23, 27, 38, 55–6, 84, 92, 151, 160–6, 171–3, 175 (see also Şükrü Bey series of photographs) coloring/hand-coloring 90, 92, 185 n.3, 199 n.34 cordial souvenir (yadigâr-ı muhibbane) 163 couple posing in a hall (my trip) 1–3 education 11 etiquette to keep/exchange 162–3 gifting and exchanging 164, 169, 173 negative print 144, 199 n.38 personal note on 163, 166–7, 185 n.9 photographic mask 125 photographic prints 22, 27, 151, 162–3, 168–9 photographic subjects 111, 177 photography market 5, 15–18, 42, 139, 161–2, 177, 179–80, 192 n.2

Index positive print 144–5, 199 n.38 price/pricing system of 5, 16, 141, 185–6 nn.12–13, 188 n.3, 192 n.1 props 18, 26, 89, 97, 99, 101–3, 111, 125 retouched/retouching 31–2, 40, 46, 58, 89–90, 92–3, 102, 123, 129, 133, 142, 185 n.3, 198 n.32 signed by muavin 152 as souvenirs 10, 23, 37, 56, 67–8, 87, 103, 138, 142–3, 163–4, 166–7 and space (see space, photography and) studio (see studio portraits/ photography/photographers) types of 16 (see also specific types) women photographers 124, 137, 185 n.10, 193 n.15, 198 n.28 photography contests 11 for amateurs 13–14 winners (organized by Akşam) 15 Photo Iris 30–1 Photo Koro 87, 190 n.28 Photomaton photo booth 191 n.6 ­photomontage 198 n.32 Photo Phébus (Foto Febüs) 11 Physical Education Day (İdman Bayramı) 192 n.7 playfulness, poses 98–9, 106–12, 178 eating at home 106–8 flower-gazing pose 109–10, 178 teenage girls lying outdoor 108–9 Polaroid camera 191 n.6, 198 n.33 polygamy, ban of 39, 47–8, 63, 186 n.15 Pontic Greek (Romeika) 200 n.14 popular photography 19, 133, 179 Population Exchange (1923) 136 populism 8 portraiture 21, 26, 64, 106, 161, 201 n.22 types of 16 (see also specific types) Western 16, 101 pose and posture 125 in family photographs 99–100 imperfect 108, 110 modern 111 non-Western 101 playing with (see playfulness, poses) seated 99 types of studio poses 99–100

237

positive prints 144–5, 199 n.38. See also negative prints postcards 1, 10, 51, 55, 92, 132, 146, 161–2, 164, 195 n.13, 197 n.25 pregnancy and childbirth, rituals. See childbed (lohusa yatağı) pictures Project SAVE Armenian Photograph Archives 24 Prophet Muhammad 185 n.8, 188 n.7 Qajar, Naser al-Din Shah 23 Raad, Khalil 23 Raif Efendi 195 n.9 Râkım Efendi (fictional character) 74–5 religious holidays (bayram) 77, 84, 94, 111, 125, 129, 138. See also national holidays Republican Man 63, 93, 111, 126, 175 Republican People’s Party (RPP) 3, 7, 9, 11, 39, 41, 47, 71, 84–5, 91, 138, 182 n.7, 183 n.13, 192 n.8 Republican period 5–6, 16, 22, 27, 33, 58, 60, 64, 71, 75, 94, 99, 101, 104, 113, 121, 133, 136, 142, 167, 173, 177, 184 n.2 writers of 186–7 n.20 Republican Woman (Cumhuriyet Kadını) 25, 40–1, 51, 56, 58–60, 71, 93, 175 Republic Squares 136 Reşat Nuri Güntekin 71, 75 Resne Fotoğrafhanesi (Photo Resna/Foto Resne) 183 n.22, 187 n.24 R. Koro’s Türk Foto Evi. See Türk Foto Evi (Türk Fotoğrafevi) Roaring Twenties 49 Robertson, James 23 robust child (gürbüz çocuk) 85 Rumi calendar (Roman calendar) 37, 42, 185 n.8 ­rural areas 9, 16 Russian Civil War (1917–22) 184 n.1 Rüstem, Hamza 132, 135, 137–9, 146, 194 n.4, 195 n.13, 197 n.25 Rüstem, Mert 132, 135, 137–9, 179, 194 nn.3–5, 195 n.12, 195 n.14, 197 n.25 Rüstem, Zehra 198 n.27

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Ruzname-i Ceride-i Havadis newspaper 161 Ryzova, Lucie 21, 24, 33 The Image sans Orientalism 19 properties of vernacular photographs 19–20 Sabiha Zekeriya (Sabiha Sertel) 47 Saboungi, Georges (Jurji Saboungi) 23 Safa, Peyami 75 Şahinyan, Maryam 24–5, 193 n.15 SALT Research 18, 24–5 Samancı, Aşil (Achille) 183 n.22 same-sex intimacy 91, 93 Sami, Şemsettin 186 n.17 Sancar, Serpil 7, 48–9, 64, 85–6, 186 n.15 scholarship 6, 18, 23, 32, 64, 99, 179–80 school portraits 16, 118 Sébah & Joaillier Studio 31, 184 n.1, 187 n.24 Sebah Joaye 83. See also Sébah & Joaillier Studio Sébah, Pascal 183 n.22. See also Sébah & Joaillier Studio Second World War 3, 7, 71, 183 n.13, 197 n.23. See also First World War secularization 8–9, 36, 143, 173, 178, 198 n.30 secular/secularism 3, 7, 10, 22, 25–7, 35, 39–41, 48, 56, 60, 88, 100, 104, 111, 118, 121, 131–2, 137, 146, 175–6, 178–9 ethno-secularism 9, 182 n.8 Sekula, Allan 23 self-deprecation 167 self-expression 21, 90, 103, 173 self-image 27, 92, 152, 160, 167 self-promotion 152, 160, 163, 169 self-representation 4, 20, 25, 35, 38, 93–4, 103, 111, 152, 161, 175, 178 Semiye, Emine 186 n.15 Serttaş, Tayfun 190 n.28 Foto Galatasaray project 24 Servet-i Fünun magazine 11 Seyfettin, Ömer, Kesik Bıyık (Trimmed Mustache) 70 shadow (gölge, hayal) 167 Sharia law 39 Sheehi, Stephen 24

sickbed photography 169–70 Silk Film Company 187 n.23 single lens reflex (SLR) cameras 182 n.12 Sirman, Nükhet 64, 85 slave trade 199 n.39 snapshots/snapshot photography 6, 16, 23, 103, 106, 110–12, 139, 142, 178, 182 n.12 social changes 6, 39, 41, 58, 89, 134, 175 ­socialization heterosocialization 91 mixed gender 3, 86 social life 3, 21, 47, 60, 74, 76, 86 social media 6, 180 social objects 20, 22 social status (status symbol) 3, 85, 88, 94, 101, 106, 111, 121, 124, 139, 141, 159, 163, 172 soldier portraits. See military portraits (askerlik fotoğrafı) Son Posta newspaper 5, 53 character analysis 14 Sontag, Susan 19, 23 space, photography and 5, 16, 25, 77, 94, 110–12, 133, 142 democratizing 139–46 domesticated 138 and gender 44 performative 20, 22–3, 26, 177 private 114, 124, 179 public 42, 50, 76, 91, 114, 126, 132, 142–3, 145, 176 Republican 27 semipublic/semiprivate 42, 132 space-making 27, 131–2 sports 126 theater-space 103–4 and time 20, 22, 168 urban 132, 135, 145 women-only 198 n.28 sports/sportsman photographs (sporcu fotoğrafları) 16, 26, 113, 115–17, 126, 192 n.2 athletes 114–17 Balıkesir İdmangücü Physical Training Club 114–15 corporeal aesthetic 114–18, 126 physical activity/fitness 116–17 schoolgirls in sports clothes 118–19

Index schoolgirls performing at 19 May Celebrations 120–1 Western 113 women’s participation in 118, 192 n.6 state feminism 26, 36, 47–8, 50, 55, 60, 64, 94, 114 Strassler, Karen 103, 133 Studio Jules Kanzler 30–2 Studio Phébus 159, 191 n.3 studio portraits/photography/ photographers 10, 11, 13, 15–16, 16, 23, 30–1, 36–8, 53, 58, 67, 77, 86–9, 100, 103–4, 106, 110, 125, 129, 133, 135, 137, 139, 141, 143, 146, 151–2, 168, 178 of Bedriye 39–40 couple in (domineering nature of man) 97–8 of Imperial Ottoman Bank employees 152, 159 of Naşide Saffet Hanım (Turkish beauty queen, 1931) 50–1 of Nebahat Hâmit 58 props of 101 Republican-era 101 ­retouching 31, 89, 93, 102, 129, 142, 185 n.3 studio setting 2, 6, 10, 22, 25, 35, 38, 42, 56, 60, 103, 112, 124, 126, 131, 136 (see also space, photography and) Şükrü Bey series (see Şükrü Bey series of photographs) types of poses 99–100 of Ziraat Bank employees 152–3, 157, 159 Studio Shehrazade 24 Stultiens, Andrea, The Kaddu Wasswa Archive: A Visual Biography 24 Şükrü Bey series of photographs, case study 16, 27, 151–60, 163–4, 166–9, 171, 173 of Imperial Ottoman Bank employees 152, 159 muavin (see muavin) of Ziraat Bank employees 152–3, 157, 159 Şükûfe Nihal Hanım 42–4, 46–7, 186 n.14

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Sultanate, abolition of 8, 39. See also Caliphate, abolition of Suman, Naciye 193 n.15 Sun Language Theory (Güneş Dil Teorisi) 187 n.27 Süreyya Bükey, Süleyman 32, 53, 184 n.2 Surname Law (1934) 55, 58, 171, 181 n.2, 187 n.31, 194 n.9 Surrey, Janet L., self 185 n.4 Tagg, John 19 Tahir, Kemal 91 Tahsin, Nermin 192 n.6 Tanzimat reforms/reformers 39, 74, 100 Tarkulyan, Bogos 23 Tasvir-i Efkar newspaper 161 tatlı su frengi (sweet water) 189 n.15, 196 n.19 Tem, Etem (Foto Etem) 101–3 Terakki-i Muhadderat women’s magazine 47 Tevfik, Ebüzziya 195 n.9 Tolgay, Hayri T. 183 n.22 Toplum ve Bilim 185 n.7 trade secret 100 transgender 91 Tunç, Ayfer 67, 84, 88, 122 Bir Maniniz Yoksa Annemler Size Gelecek 65 Turan Fotoğrafhanesi 183 n.22 The Turkey Collection. See Özge Calafato Collection Türk Foto Evi (Türk Fotoğrafevi) 79, 82, 87 Türk Hanımlar Fotoğrafhanesi (Turkish Women’s Photography Studio) 183 n.22, 185 n.10 Turkification 136, 182 n.8 Turkish Civil Code. See Civil Code, Turkish Turkish Constitution of 1924 47 Turkish Education Association (TEV) 188 n.32 Turkish film industry 181 n.5, 199 n.40 See also Yeşilçam Turkish Language Association (TDK) 201 n.28 Turkish Linguistic Society 171

240

Index

Turkish national identity. See national identity, Turkish Turkish Republic 5–6, 8, 21, 25, 32–3, 35–6, 39–40, 50–1, 53, 60, 93, 104, 126, 136, 164, 171, 182 n.9, 185 n.8 ­Turkish-style hat (kasket) 110, 189 n.13 Turkish War of Independence (1918–23) 39, 43, 47, 49, 69, 84, 94, 118, 135, 186 n.19 Türkiye İdman Cemiyetleri İttifâkı (Turkey Training Associations Alliance) 116 Türk Kadınlar Birliği (Turkish Women’s Union) 186 n.19 Ulviye 51, 56 United Nations High Commission for Refugees 199 n.33 The United States 48 upper class 47, 143. See also lower class; middle class Vafiadis, Theodor(e) 23 Valentino, Rudolph 77 Van Leo 24 vernacular photography 4–5, 7, 9–10, 15–19, 21–7, 32, 35, 56, 63–4, 67, 89, 93, 99, 111–13, 115–16, 118, 125, 138, 152, 160, 164, 166, 172, 175, 177–80, 183 n.17, 184 nn.25–6 Batchen on 18 cultural analysis of 5–6 performativity of 19–22 properties of (Ryzova’s) 19 (see also specific properties) worldmaking 21–2 vignette aesthetic 151–2 Village Institutes (Köy Enstitüleri) 9, 13 visual culture 5, 87, 100, 176 Voigtländer camera 141 Wasswa, Kaddu, The Kaddu Wasswa Archive: A Visual Biography 24 wedding portrait 82, 88–9, 133, 137 Weinberg, Jean 184 n.1 Western fashion and lifestyle 41, 53, 55–6, 74, 117, 187 n.25

photographers 23 portraiture 97–8, 114 sports 113, 116, 118, 177 Westernization 3–5, 8, 10, 35, 39, 49, 73–6, 86, 114, 133, 189 n.12, 192 n.7 Westernized professionals 160, 163 women 26. See also feminine/femininities; masculine/masculinities athletes 192 n.6 dress code regulation 41 education for 39, 42–3, 47, 186 n.15, 186 n.17 emancipation of 3, 35, 48, 60 first military pilot 188 n.8 in group portraits (gesture of respect) 44–6 ideal woman 35, 47–8, 63 and Kemalist reforms 35 middle class 25–6, 33, 35, 40, 58 in military 71–2 modern Turkish (creating) 36–42, 49 morality of 48–50 motherhood 48, 84–5, 121–2, 124 new Turkish woman 25, 40, 48–9, 59–60, 63, 103, 175 non-veiled secular 22 Ottoman Muslim elite vs. modern Republican Turkish 41–2 ­in parliament 185 n.11 photographers 124, 137, 185 n.10, 193 n.15, 198 n.28 in political context 48 in private sphere 9–10, 26, 35, 41, 91, 94 proper wife (mazbut aile kadını) 48 in public sphere 3, 10, 22, 25–6, 35, 40, 42–50, 61, 94, 126 revolution of 47–8 rights of 39, 47–8 schizophrenic identity for 50 in sports 118 schoolgirls in sports clothes 118–19 schoolgirls performing at 19 May Celebrations 120–1 working class identity 139, 142–3 worldmaking, Goodman’s 6, 21–2, 26, 104–5, 111, 177

Index Yadav, Anusha 24 Yahya Kemal (Beyatlı) 74 Yarımay magazine 10 yaşmak (transparent white scarf) 38 Yenicioğlu (Cavit and Sabahat) 88 Yeraltı Fotoğrafhanesi (Arif Hikmet Koyunoğlu) 183 n.22 Yeşilçam (Turkish cinema industry) 5, 187 n.22 Yıldız, Ahmet 7, 9, 115 Turkishness 182 n.8 Yılmaz, Hale 8, 38, 86, 116, 119, 121, 171–2, 178, 189 n.13, 190 n.21 Becoming Turkish: Nationalist Reforms and Cultural Negotiations in Early Republican Turkey 7 Yıldız Palace Archive 24 Young Turks 8–10, 38–9, 135, 172, 194 n.9

241

Youth and Sports Day (Gençlik ve Spor Bayramı) 113–14, 118–19, 126, 192 n.7 Zaatari, Akram 24 Zeiss camera 141 Zeiss Ikon 11 Zihnioğlu 47, 186 n.15 Zilpoche, Antoine 135 Zilpochyan, Antoine 183 n.22 Ziraat Bank (Agricultural Bank) 159, 163–4, 176 Ameli Bankacılık Mektebi 159 muavin (see muavin) Zonaro, Elisa Pante 185 n.10 Zürcher, Erik-Jan 7 The Ottoman Legacy of the Turkish Republic: An Attempt at a New Periodization 8

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