Kineo | Ezgi Bakçay

Aydın Teker: Story of a Stream

Aydın Teker: Story of a Stream

Some lives are remembered with names and cities, while others are recalled with adjectives and exclamations. However, a life like Aydın Teker’s can only be expressed through verbs: running, reading, listening, touching, asking, pulling, pushing, stretching, falling, getting up, searching, opening, flowing, insisting, persevering, and dancing in any circumstance.

As I listen to Aydın Teker recount her life, I contemplate what choreography means not only in modern dance but in art in general, not just in education but in every moment of the day, and not only in movement but also in thought, feeling, and temperament. Despite immense challenges in life and on stage, I immerse myself in the flow of the mind and body, which gracefully and energetically improvises, anchored in time and space with uncompromising technique.

In Turkish, the interviews which cover a long period in a person's life are defined by the word “river”. However I would prefer to distance ourselves from this world. Because the narrator of this interview, which we completed over nearly two years, reminds me more of a stream. The anarchist geographer Elissée Reclus explains why a stream, flowing comfortably in the bed of “the story of a stream,” is more exciting, passionate, and inspiring than a river. In its unpredictability and the present moment of its flow, the stream carves its own path. It bends, stretches, leaps, glides, and froths. Through the rocks it cracks, the passages it seeps through, the beds it opens, the seeds it nurtures, and the lands it greens, it writes its story. Our conversation is about this lively flow and the topography it creates.

Ezgi Bakçay: When I researched about you, I came across various sources, but I found very few things recorded directly in your own words. I wanted to bring to light your significant experience, which is crucial to the history of modern dance in Turkey and the world—an experience that is, in fact, inscribed in the body and should be articulated in words. I wanted the ideas, emotions, and dreams accumulated along the way to be documented. All of this is immensely valuable to us in every detail. If it won’t be tiring for you, let’s start from the very beginning. We will take great pleasure in listening to you.

Aydın Teker: No, not at all. I’m someone who exists outside of time. I wasn’t born in Ankara, but I grew up there because my father was a bureaucrat. We lived in Yenimahalle. Both my mother and father worked. My older brother, who is a year and a half older than me, and I attended daycare for a while until my grandmother came to take care of us. Back then, we only had a radio—no television. Instead of a refrigerator, we used a mesh pantry in the kitchen. In Yenimahalle, the houses were two-story buildings with gardens. We were always tenants and had to live on the ground floor because my father was a book enthusiast. Books kept piling up in our house, and for safety reasons, we preferred the sturdier, ground-level first floors.

My grandmother was a very popular woman; she knew everyone. One of our neighbors had a son, and another had two daughters who were studying in the Ballet Department at the Ankara State Conservatory. One day, she took me to their recital, and I couldn’t believe such a thing existed! Fairies were gliding, dancing on their toes… I wanted to be part of it too. We didn’t have much exposure to such things, but we had serendipity.

I was ten years old when I entered the ballet department of the conservatory, which was both free and residential. Since my family was in Ankara, I could go home on weekends. I adapted quickly. It was very disciplined, but never boring.

I realized at a very young age that I had a deep interest in the body and technique. For example, I remember that after finishing my own exercises, I would step aside to observe others. I’d look at my friends’ challenges with curiosity and think, “How can this be solved?” I even started coaching them on the side. Of course, my approach at the time was very much shaped by the era and my age. Looking back now, I see that those weren’t necessarily the right methods, but I was curious and dedicated. 

As I grew older, I began to feel, “I don’t think I want to be a fairy for the rest of my life.” At school, we occasionally watched Royal Ballet or Bolshoi Ballet films, and we never missed State Opera and Ballet performances. But after a while, I felt another problem emerging: in my education system, after primary school, there was no physics, chemistry, mathematics, or science. Aside from ballet, we only had classes like solfège, rhythmics, ballet history, and music history. I started to worry. If I continued here, I would be obligated to fulfill the compulsory service required of students attending a free residential school, which meant inevitably joining the State Ballet. But was that what I really wanted? I wondered if I could complete those academic subjects externally and attend a different university instead. 

While I was grappling with these thoughts, a miracle happened. A dance company from Germany came to Ankara, and for the first time, I saw a dance performance that wasn’t classical ballet. The performance was called “The Green Table”, choreographed by Kurt Jooss. I remember standing in ovation at the end, tears streaming down my face, and saying, “I want to create works like this!”

E.B.: What happened at “The Green Table”? What was on stage?

A.T.: It was an anti-war piece. Around a long table, a group of politicians were arguing, and their discussions turned into fights… Then the war began, bringing death, hunger, and misery. Seeing an anti-war theme conveyed through dance on stage, especially after witnessing gliding fairies, deeply moved me. Of course, the rapidly escalating political events in Turkey at the time, particularly the actions of opposing youth organizations at universities, also had an undeniable influence. That day, I said, "Alright, I want to create works like this too." But I had no idea where or how I could make that happen. It was my final year at school—my ninth year—so I was about to graduate with my classmates. But then, out of nowhere, a two-year advanced program was introduced. Suddenly, my friends graduated and went on tour in Africa, while I found myself staying at school for two more years. I thought completing the advanced program might increase my chances of earning a scholarship. During the first year, I didn’t feel bad. I was taking all the courses, including cultural subjects, on my own. Halfway through the second year, my instructors, Molly Lake and Travis Kemp, called me in and said, "We want to establish a company in Turkey, and having you in the company is very important to us." I was completely taken aback. When I came to my senses, I replied, "I have dreams of my own, and I want to go abroad."

E.B.: How old were you then?

A.T.: I entered at the age of ten and graduated at twenty-one. Every day, Molly, who put so much effort into me, turned into a monster. She was so terrifying that it felt like torture. I didn’t always wear pointe shoes in class. During those times, I would do my technique class in an old pair of pointe shoes with the soles worn out. One day, when I was in a shoe with no sole, she asked me to go on point. When I told her that I couldn't because the inside of my shoe was hollow, she grabbed my throat and yelled, "You're as strong as a horse; you can do it!" My days after that turned into a nightmare. Molly was treating me so poorly that I left class crying every day, thinking, "They won’t let me graduate." But they graduated me with very high marks. That's how my school adventure came to an end. The most negative aspect of my education was working with the same instructors for a large part of those eleven years! Repeating the same few classical pieces for eleven years! I participated in every part of the ballet “Giselle”, except for the queen and male roles, including the title role. 

On the positive side, we were taken to opera, ballet, theater, and concerts in a small bus belonging to our school every evening, provided we signed our names. Our school had a small stage as well. We had performances almost every week, and we got to meet the stage often. Although we didn’t go abroad, we could tour frequently. Compared to our current conditions, we were in a better situation in this regard. Then I graduated and was automatically accepted as an intern artist at the State Opera and Ballet.

E.B.: What was the habitus of that period and field like? Where would you hang out? What was the rhythm of daily life?

A.T.: There was no time to hang out. The whole day was filled with rehearsals, and there were performances on certain days. During those years, Turkey was experiencing very tense political moments. In the midst of that, I unexpectedly married a political man! When he introduced me to his friends and they heard that I was a ballerina, they were so surprised! They asked, "Where did you find this?" as if I were just a bag! I will never forget it! I found that question very interesting. 

But my husband was very open-minded; he didn’t impose pressure on me but rather provided support. He contributed significantly to my development. One day, while I was washing my ballet clothes in the bathroom, he asked me, "You had dreams; what happened to them? Do you want to pursue them or not?" At that moment, I felt both gratitude and excitement. Indeed, after that conversation, I started to chase my dreams.

During that time, there was an important development in the State Ballet. Duygu Aykal and Geyvan McMillen came to Turkey from England. They were from the generation before mine. They immediately started working with the choreography team at the State Ballet. I took my first modern dance classes with Geyvan. I became familiar with techniques like Graham and Cunningham there. The classes were usually attended by younger dancers, while the other dancers referred to us as the “Moderners.” 

I had a different kind of relationship with Duygu. I don't know exactly how it happened, but I declared myself her assistant while she was choreographing. This was because I knew a little bit about Benesh dance notation. During this process, I reached a point where, when a dancer was injured, I could teach their role to another dancer by referring to my notes and help them go on stage.

E.B.: What is Benesh dance notation?

A.T.: Benesh dance notation is a notation system that graphically represents dance movements and positions. I only knew the first level of this technique, but I was trying to write solos. The instructor of this class followed my efforts with interest. Later, while learning the Laban technique at NYU, I also learned a different notation system developed by Laban, but I felt much closer to the Benesh technique in many ways. In the meantime, with the rapid development of technology and the introduction of new recording devices, both Benesh and Laban techniques lost their functionality. Interestingly, I continued to take notes using Benesh notation while preparing my technical classes for a long time.

When it came to working with Duygu, I learned a lot about what choreography means and how it is done, but these were valid for Duygu. I had many questions in my mind, such as, "What would I do? How would I work?" These questions persisted during the classes at the State Ballet as well. Interestingly, I was developing mostly thanks to teachers who were not very good, as I was constantly thinking about alternatives.

Finally, I won the same state scholarship that Duygu and Geyvan received. My husband quit his job and came to England with me. We went with such little money that we could only afford to rent a room with a small bed placed in the middle of a tiny kitchen. We had very difficult days there. On the first day, while trying to warm up by lighting the stove, the gas ran out, and that’s when we realized we needed to pay to heat the place. The Home Office often pressured us, saying, "It’s impossible to live on this money; you must be working illegally." However, we weren't working illegally; we couldn't find jobs! After a while, it became clear that the two-year higher education I had completed at the conservatory was actually at a higher level than the diplomas offered by dance schools in England, which opened a new door for me. At the beginning of summer, I attended a summer school at The Place, which offered contemporary dance training, and I met Kazuko Hirabayashi, who taught at some of the most important dance schools in America. Towards the end of the course, I explained my problem to her. She wrote a reference letter for me, and she told me to send this letter to both The Juilliard School and SUNY College at Purchase. I had heard of Juilliard, but I didn't know the other school. Based on Kazuko's reference, SUNY College at Purchase accepted me as an Upper Division Special Student, even though the semester had already started.

E.B.: How did the transition from London to America take place?

A.T.: The transition from London to America happened so fast. Because classes had already started at the school I would be attending. When we landed at the airport, we locked our suitcases in a locker and came to Manhattan, struggling to find the consulate building. The officials greeted us so warmly that I almost wanted to hug all of them! Those dealing with student affairs in London were so stern! In the first half of the 70’ s there was no two–year higher diploma yet. Therefore, they had never faced a similar problem, and their faces changed whenever they saw me. When I told the officials that we had locked our suitcases in a locker at the airport and that we had no place to stay that night, a young woman kindly offered to host us in her home. The next morning, another consulate worker drove us to the airport. Fortunately, we didn’t have to search much to retrieve our suitcases. It took nearly an hour to get from the airport to my school in Purchase. The student registration office was aware of my arrival. I was immediately registered as an Upper Division Special Student. We could stay in the college dormitory until we found a place to live in Purchase. The apartment we found through advertisements in the cafeteria belonged to a dance student named Lynn, who I later realized was in the same class as me. I remember being pointed out as “The Girl Kazuko Brought” during my first days at the college. Since I had a strong ballet technique, they made me take classes in the three most valid modern dance techniques at that time: Martha Graham, Merce Cunningham, and José Limón. Regular students took ballet and modern dance techniques along with improvisation in their first year. In the second year, in addition to dance techniques, dance composition was added. I was responsible for both improvisation and composition classes. Since the techniques at that time were still ballet-based, I didn’t have many problems in technical classes. However, creativity... I experienced the most desperate times in my life regarding creativity. Joining ballet at the age of ten was such a ruthless thing. Because no one evaluated me as an individual. My creative aspects were limited due to the ballet’s service-oriented approach to development. I was always asked to imitate a movement shown instead of moving freely. At that time, there was also a lot of knowledge deficiency, and I had no knowledge of anatomy! I thought that if I worked like crazy, my muscles would strengthen, and I would succeed! After I got to know the Feldenkrais technique (awareness through movement), I apologized to my body so much... It was very difficult...

In improvisations, my energy was very high; in the beginning, I was squeezing my friends into corners and controlling them. My teacher constantly shouted, “Aydın, don’t do arabesque, don’t do arabesque!” I was thinking, confused, “What do you mean? Why would doing arabesque be forbidden in improvisation?!” I had come to America to become a choreographer despite all the difficult circumstances; I really wanted it. I was working like crazy, but I was also aware that something wasn’t working. Kazuko would say that every assignment I showed her just wasn’t good enough. Every week, a new topic was covered, and Kazuko would ask me to bring both the new and the old to the end of class. All the students in my class were very ambitious. As they attempted to present their assignments from where they sat, their attitudes and walks would turn into a performance. Almost everyone from that class became a choreographer.

E.B.: You must be under huge pressure!

A.T.: Yes. I understood that something wasn’t working, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I was working for hours in huge rooms with ten-meter ceilings. While my classmates were having fun at picnics on the weekends, I would go to school alone to complete my assignments. One day, I felt very bad and desperate. I remember that moment vividly. While I was secretly crying in the bathroom, I thought to myself that I would probably never become a choreographer. The next day, I decided to talk to Kazuko. Kazuko was a very strict teacher. I approached her hesitantly and said, “Kazuko, can I talk to you?” She looked at me sternly and said, “About what?!” When I replied, “About composition,” she stared into my eyes for a moment. Then she said, “I don’t have time,” turned her head, and walked away. This is one of the most significant stories of my life. That week, I solved the source of my problem. After a student presented their assignment, I jumped up and said, “I’ve understood my problem!” They replied, “Good, go ahead and do it.” I started moving very quickly. Suddenly, everyone began to laugh and said, “You don’t know the English meaning of the word dynamic.” My assignments were unsuccessful because I still couldn’t step outside the systematic patterns of classical ballet while generating movement. Instead of spending hours in the studio, I needed to change my perspective. After that, everything flowed smoothly. Kazuko made me complete all my assignments without exception.

When it became clear that I wouldn’t receive a degree at the end of the year at this school, I started to look for master's programs I could pursue. Finally, Kazuko drove me to NYU Tisch School in New York and watched my audition. All the instructors were very respectful towards her. My audition went very well, but I encountered a bureaucratic problem there as well. Stuart Hodes, the head of the dance department, threatened to resign because they weren’t accepting me. As a result, I was accepted to NYU in a rather eventful manner.

Renting an apartment close to my school in New York was not easy at all. We came to New York on the recommendation of a friend living in West Village and spent the night in front of the local newspaper, Village Voice. When the newspapers arrived, we marked the apartment listings closest to the school and went to the real estate office, renting an apartment for $200 without seeing it. The location was between 2nd and 3rd Avenue on 13th Street, and my school was just a few blocks away on 2nd Avenue. With great excitement, we went to see the apartment we had rented. As we entered the street, what do we see? Three ambulances and three bodies! I started crying, thinking, "How are we going to live on this street?" Later, we learned that we had rented an apartment on the street where the movie Taxi Driver was filmed. Moreover, the building where the filming took place was the vacant building directly across from ours.

E.B.: It’s very educational and exciting. It’s so enjoyable to listen to. One can really feel that emotion inside. It’s an incredible struggle: being away from home, economic difficulties, political concerns... Above all, creativity... How can all of these come together in one individual?

A.T.: I think this is normal! I never thought otherwise. I always received support from my husband. We had to get married because no one would rent us an apartment! It was 1972-1973... Those were very tough times.

E.B.: Did you ever have a period where you were active in political organizations?

A.T.: My ballet instructors would sometimes express concern and warn me because I read so many books. However, I wanted to fight with art, not with weapons. During those years in Turkey, when at least 20 to 30 people were killed each day, we could only maintain communication with Turkey through the letters we received. Of course, when we received news of friends who had died or been arrested, we experienced indescribable pain, while a piece of good news would send us soaring with happiness. Our classmate Lynn, with whom we shared an apartment, must have been affected by our moods and human relationships after receiving the letters, as she invited us to her family’s home for Thanksgiving. Lynn’s mother must have been a political woman. I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard that she had been jailed for sitting in the middle of the road in protest against nuclear energy, blocking traffic. So, “the Land of the Free” was only as free as the system allowed! When we arrived home and got out of the car, her sister and husband were, if I remember correctly, cleaning the chimney in the yard. Our friend Lynn was persistently calling out, “Hello, we’ve arrived,” but nobody was paying attention to us. After a while, her mother came, and Lynn ran up to her, saying, “Mommy, I missed you so much.” Her mother took a step back and replied, “You don’t have to miss me; I never missed my mother.” After two difficult days for all of us, when we returned home, Lynn said, “I think I won’t be able to live in the same house as you because I realized in shock when I met my family that your family and friendship relationships are different from ours. Now I’ve started to question my relationships with myself and my family.” As a result, we had to move into a tiny attic apartment where we had to use the bathroom sink because there was no sink in the kitchen.

E.B.: Let's continue from where we left off, regarding dance. What happened when you went there?

A.T.: I started my education at NYU Tisch School. Kazuko had her own studio in New York and a company called Kazuko Hirabayashi Dance Theatre. They accepted me into this company. I was very hardworking and excited. I was going to school, rehearsing with Kazuko, and watching performances in the evenings. However, I believe that as much as the lessons I took at NYU, even more, my life in New York contributed to my artistic development. In my opinion, the second half of the 1970s was the golden age of art in New York. I was witnessing such incredible works! I didn’t miss a single performance. Initially, Merce Cunningham’s approach meant nothing to me, but I attended all of his performances. I wasn’t just watching the show; I was also observing my surroundings. For instance, half of the audience was in awe, while the other half hated it and left the theater! But no matter what, I went every time. A Cunningham performance led to a significant awakening for me… How perfect each of the five fingers on a hand was in itself. Every movement of the human body was already perfect. There was no need to impose any meaning on it. On the other hand, I always criticized Meredith Monk, whose performances I attended. However, I realized how much I was influenced by her only after returning to Turkey.

E.B.: What was the atmosphere of the dance scene and cultural production in New York during the 1970s like in terms of its vibrancy and activity? Could you elaborate a bit more on that?

A.T.: Since I started living in New York towards the end of the 1970s, everything I saw, whether positive or negative, had a profound impact on me. In the early 1960s, a group of dancers, composers, and visual artists began to gather collectively at the Judson Church in the Greenwich Village area of New York. It was said that they held various workshops both inside and outside of this church. As a result of these gatherings and productions, the boundaries of modern dance began to dissolve, and the principles of postmodern dance emerged, marking a significant transformation in performance art. However, I was still struggling under the heavy pressure that ballet exerted on me, and I found it difficult to understand because Kazuko and the other company I danced with were still creating works within the confines of modern dance. It probably took me three years to start noticing what this change meant in the works of Merce Cunningham.

In the 1970s, the Bread and Puppet Theater, which operated in the Lower East Side where I lived, was a political collective. They drew attention on the streets with their large puppets created by performers walking on long poles. Sometimes, while heading to school, I would notice that one of the performers had their arm in a cast. The works of this collective, which I saw several times, would end with the delightful smell of freshly baked bread wafting through the auditorium, and this delicious bread would be shared with us. I later learned that Bread and Puppet Theater was also an important part of the protests against the Vietnam War.

E.B.: What was a typical day like for you? What kind of rhythm did you have in your daily life?

A.T.: At the beginning of each semester, I would panic when I saw the list of classes I had to take, but somehow I managed to handle all the courses, and I even went to crazy parties in big lofts where live musicians were playing. In fact, I felt very lucky to have been accepted to NYU.

During registration, I learned that I could take classes from both the dance and education departments. I chose a balanced mix of courses from both fields. I was particularly excited about a class focused on developing creativity in young children. Preliminary research conducted in the United States had shown that children who received this type of education tended to have their individual talents emerge at an early age, and when they were given an education suited to their abilities, children were both happier and more successful. I thought that if I could return to Turkey with a method to enhance the creativity of children studying ballet, I could prevent them from suffering like I did. The classes were incredibly fun. I quickly realized that the bricks that had covered me like armor were crumbling, and from within the armor, Little Aydın emerged. My energy changed. I felt free; I could do anything! I remember that the nun noticed this transformation in me as well.

E.B.: I realized that the sentence about going back to Turkey is very important! It was a trip made with the aim of returning.

A.T.: I had a compulsory service of twenty-two years because I studied at the conservatory on a scholarship and the rule was two-to-one. Adding the overseas period to that, I could never imagine putting my relatives who acted as guarantors for me in a difficult situation. However, when I returned to Turkey, my father paid off my twenty-two years of compulsory service in advance, freeing me from a great burden. If I’m not mistaken, I taught wholeheartedly for over thirty years.

One of the other courses I took at NYU was very challenging, but it played an important role in increasing my awareness. It was called constructive rest, developed by professional actor and instructor André Bernard.

E.B.: What kind of work was this?

A.T.: While lying on our back with our knees bent towards the ceiling, we imagined various images to relax the tension in our bodies. If you search “Andre Bernard, constructive rest” on the internet, you’ll find videos. When I took that class in the first year, I realized that I couldn't breathe. I didn’t know how to breathe! I couldn’t relax any of my muscles! I couldn’t even imagine it; I was holding all the negativity inside my body. Then I made a deal with André Bernard: I’m on a scholarship, don’t drop me, just let me pass, but accept me into the same class again next year. “Sure,” he said. In the second year, even though I worked alone every day during the first semester, I didn’t make any progress. In the second half of the year, I started to breathe a little. My interest in anatomy began after taking André Bernard’s classes.

The improvisation class I struggled with at Purchase greatly developed me at NYU. The instructor for the class was Janet Stoner, a former dancer from the Alvin Nikolais Dance Company. When she entered the studio on the first day, I was very impressed by her interesting physique. Her extraordinarily long arms, legs, torso, neck, and face reminded me of Giacometti's sculptures. Her approach to the class was very different from the lessons I had at Purchase. While working on topics, the class was generally split into two groups: one group worked on the assignment in the center while the others sat on the sidelines watching their peers. At the end of the session, the workers first shared their experiences, and then the observers expressed what they had seen, and the groups would switch places. The assignments were mostly done with eyes closed, turning inward into the body, requiring serious focus for both the performers and the observers. Another point that caught my attention about this class was that our ability to express physical and emotional formations and changes verbally showed significant progress by the end of the semester. Later, I always benefited from Janet’s classes, especially after returning to Turkey, as we became close friends.

When it came to the composition class, which was the nightmare of my life, I was still struggling. The instructor, Linda Torney, was much gentler than Kazuko. Since the assignments I prepared were not satisfying to me, I told Linda, “Give me an incomplete.” Her eyes widened! I said “I do not feel ready for the graduation project. If I get an incomplete, I will have a reason to work during the summer.”. This time, I was thinking of preparing the assignment not by myself but with another dancer. I worked with my friend Grazia. For the first time since leaving Turkey, I was working with a dancer other than myself. I put a paper bag over Grazia's head and tried to transform her into a creature. Many of the movements I had in mind didn’t resonate with the dancer’s body. After a while, I realized that when I utilized the dancer's own body and physical characteristics, the movements became more organic and interesting, which excited me a lot. This discovery was very valuable for me. Perhaps the first seeds of my passion for choreography were planted in this work, which I can't even remember the name of now.

When I went to talk to the responsible instructors about my graduation project, I boldly said, “I’m going to do a very special, experimental piece. That’s why I want a solo performance.” They were surprised because three students typically made up one night’s show. “What are you going to do?” they asked. I said something, and they seemed convinced. They reserved February 14th for me. I started working. Oh my God, it was so difficult! I did my classes every day and didn’t miss a single one. I chose a beautiful group because I had a concept in mind. I didn’t want Barbie dolls; the bodies wouldn’t be standard. There would be all kinds of people. For that reason, I selected five dancers who were very different from each other. A friend from the film department and a musician friend agreed to be part of the project. We met very early in the morning before classes began. Then I did my classes. Of course, when you live in a country like the USA, you start to see very different things. For me, the alienation in human relationships was at an incredible level! I had to create a piece about that. Meanwhile, I was taking an electronic music class. We could use reel-to-reel tape recorders and make recordings. I decided to make part of the music myself. However, I was constantly fighting with the instructor because I wanted to work there too! Eventually, he threw me out of the room! I got so angry once that I said, “Sergio, I hope you will have a nightmare tonight.” He looked at me in surprise and asked, “What do you mean?!” I was cursing him in my own way! But later, when he realized that I would use this in my graduation project, he opened more doors for me. So I worked a bit on the music. Thanks to a sewing machine I found, I designed and sewed some of my costumes myself. I firmly believed that I needed to have control over everything, which made things very difficult.

After all, this was my first serious work. When I asked myself how alienation occurs, Lynn and her family came to mind. Their inability to connect with each other and their loneliness. At the beginning the dancers must be in harmony. The five dancers I carefully selected moved in whites, and each movement had to influence the others. At night, I envisioned the movements of two people in my mind, then three... No sleep! I cried and went to the ceramics class I smartly chose. The workshop was on the top floor of a building. It received sunlight from above. On certain days, there were classes for students in the art department. No one was disturbed by my presence. I did the assignments they were given. I poured my worries and panic into the clay.

I found wooden boxes in the school’s storage to create a raised platform on stage. I painted them orange because the performance would start with an orange standing alone under the stage lights. However, when the orange-colored platform stole the show, I had to paint it gray two days before the performance. I was working so hard. The process was developing through trial and error. The performance started with the dancers slowly gathering around the orange. Then one of them took the orange, peeled it, and they all ate it together. I hadn’t consciously planned this. Then a history professor, from Turkey, in the audience said, “This sharing is unique to us Turks.” After they ate the orange, they danced in harmony with the music I made. Meanwhile, two “bad” guys in black clothes were watching the dancers from a gray hill. Then one of the men threw a bright, noisy ball onto the stage. Everyone stopped. One person picked up the ball and claimed it. A tall, slender female dancer became the beauty queen. The glitter I placed on the narrow, long red carpet rose into the air as the carpet rolled on the ground. The beauty queen walked on the glittering carpet, striking various poses. One dancer meditated, while another constantly consumed. The fourth dancer jogged – jogging was very fashionable – while the other turned into punk. The musician created rhythmic sounds and nonsensical words suitable for their roles. I also choreographed according to these roles. Thus, a beautiful orchestra emerged. The orchestra conductor was, of course, my musician friend. As a result, everyone was very colorful, but no one could be together; they couldn’t connect with each other, and the performance ended. After the show, a man came up to me and said, “Let the teachers be afraid of you!”

E.B.: I watched the performance without taking a breath!

A.T.: However, there was something wrong that didn’t sit right with me. I had genuinely expressed myself in this graduation project, titled “More,” but that wasn’t what I wanted. Choreography should be something beyond that. I started working on a solo. Building on the Laban movement analysis course I chose from the education department, I analyzed the words of four lines from T.S. Eliot and transformed them into movement, creating a solo titled “Cage.” My dancer, Mary Tooley, who was a bit chubby and resembled a doll with her round, porcelain-like smooth face and deep blue eyes, performed the meditation section in “More.” I didn’t use any music. Laban movement analysis greatly helped me understand different dynamics and connect them with the body. I didn’t know that I could collaborate with the stage design department at NYU while working on “More,” so I did everything myself. This time, I had the chance to work with two students from the Stage and Design Department for my costume and lighting. I’ll never forget when Mary missed a section completely during the lighting rehearsal. When I went inside at the end of the rehearsal, she was crying her eyes out. She said to me, “For several evenings now, I’ve been dreaming that I skipped this section we worked so hard on, and today it happened at the most important lighting rehearsal.” I told her, “I’m glad this happened today. Tomorrow you will dance beautifully in front of the audience.” In my opinion, she did. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be there on the day my play was critiqued because I was bedridden with a fever. I later heard that they criticized the costume designer for making the dancer look fat! However, I had a defense regarding that issue. “Cage” was not selected for the end-of-year performances, but Sergio came to me and said, “I’m starting to understand what you want to do. You’re on the right track, keep going like this.”

E.B.: By the way, Çağrı is about to be born.

A.T.: While doing my master's degree, I became pregnant with my daughter, Çağrı. When my doctor told me I could do anything, I choreographed a piece in the seventh month of my pregnancy. In Lower Manhattan, it was common to encounter unexpected behaviors from people on both the East and West sides of New York. Shops selling lifeless pet stones and people walking around with wire dog collars without dogs found their place in the piece. In addition to these, there were moving props, implied dialogues between dancers, and I must have been influenced by the pioneer of Neo-classical ballet, George Balanchine, founder of the New York City Ballet and the American Ballet School, because among the dancers I chose, there was a real ballerina who danced in pointe shoes. Ballerinas living in New York would convince everyone they were ballet dancers with their behavior, clothing, hairstyles, and walk. After the performance of "City Interaction," I thought to myself, "I’ve fallen into the same trap again!" It seemed that I was so affected by the unusual behaviors I had seen that I wanted to shove them into the audience's view as well.

On August 20, 1981, my daughter was born. I kept taking classes until the very last day. I only stopped jumping during the last week. My birth wasn’t anything like the ones we see in movies. While the doctors tried to rush me to the delivery room on a stretcher, they were also saying, "Please hold on." But I was shouting, "It's coming, I can’t hold it!" We barely made it to the delivery room. They told me, "Push!" and then I heard my husband's screams. "Aydın, it's a girl! Aydın, it's a girl!" And then Çağrı's cries! At that time, ultrasounds had started determining the baby's gender, but we wanted to have a surprise instead of finding out. My belly was so small that when the women I met in the natural birth class saw me in the newborn unit, they thought I had had a miscarriage.

Çağrı was much smaller than the other babies, but she wasn’t premature. I was staying in a crowded ward at the hospital. The babies were not kept near us. Therefore, the moment when the mothers met their babies was truly remarkable. I don’t remember encountering a dancer with a baby in the New York dance world back then. Perhaps because of that, friends would pour in during visiting hours, and visitor cards were being passed around. Bellevue Hospital, where I gave birth, was a hospital primarily serving low-income people, so the security guards, curious, would ask my friends, "Who is the patient upstairs?" Before being discharged, mothers were taught how to bathe their babies. When Halit and I went, the nurses told Halit that they only taught mothers how to do it and asked him to leave the room. Halit calmly asked, "How do you know who will bathe the baby at home?" Perhaps for the first time in that hospital, a father bathed his baby and earned full marks from the nurses! When leaving the hospital, I was told to breastfeed my baby every four hours. At home, at least four of our friends waited by the baby’s side and at the exact hour, they would shout "Wake up! Wake up!" to force Çağrı to wake up. The honeymoon was much shorter than I had expected. Since we didn’t have an experienced person around to guide us, I didn’t experience any of the post-birth period and quickly lost weight, dropping to 48 kilograms, which led me to stop breastfeeding. How much I had dreamed of breastfeeding my baby!

Right after the performance, I received a job offer from NYU. I was asked to create a repertoire piece for first-year students. This was a fantastic opportunity for me. While continuing our settled life in New York until my daughter Çağrı grew up a little bit, I would gain more experience in creating works. Under normal circumstances, scholarship students were given the opportunity to work in a job related to their profession for a year after completing their education. However, the conditions were far from normal. A year earlier, the 1980 coup d’etat had taken place in Turkey, and scholarship students were already being called back. When we couldn't obtain the necessary permits from the Ministry, we were forced to return to Turkey as a family.

E.B.: At the end of 1981, when you returned to Turkey with a newborn baby, you were only 30 years old. Were you anxious about the future? What did you foresee?

A.T.: While studying modern dance in the U.S., I had no concerns about the future. This was because Duygu Aykal and Geyvan McMillen had started working as choreographers at the Ankara State Opera and Ballet as soon as they returned to Turkey. I naturally thought I would follow in the footsteps of my predecessors and fulfill my mandatory service. When I began my classes at NYU, I received a letter. Şebnem Aksan, who had a crucial role in the development of classical ballet and modern dance in İstanbul, was in New York and wanted to meet me. We met near my school. She was very knowledgeable and cultured. We had a long discussion on the relationship between modern dance and other art forms in the streets of New York. I remember how much this encounter influenced me, so as soon as I returned to Turkey, I wanted to meet Şebnem again and get her opinion. She kindly told me, "Dear Aydın, the most important thing is what you want. If you desire to work at the State Opera and Ballet, apply there first. If that doesn't work out, our doors are always open to you." Despite my mandatory service, when I received negative responses from Ankara and later the Istanbul State Opera and Ballet, I started working at the Istanbul State Conservatory, Ballet Department, with Şebnem Aksan's support. She had managed to get modern dance and creativity courses added to the ballet program with great effort, and she handed these over to me. She greatly valued the students being introduced to fresh ideas and opening up to innovations. As for me, was I ready to take on such a large responsibility? I didn’t even have a chance to ask myself that question. I began teaching modern dance, improvisation, dance composition, and repertory classes.

In Istanbul, as a young instructor, I felt more confident in creativity-related classes compared to my experiences in the U.S. The efforts I had made to break my own molds were now paying off; I was able to come up with constructive solutions to the difficulties my students encountered, and I was gently pushing their boundaries. However, in technical classes, I often found myself unclear about the purpose of the exercises, the methods I would apply, and the overall cohesion between the exercises, requiring me to spend hours preparing. I especially faced more challenges than I expected in repertory classes. In New York, I had produced three pieces, including two graduation projects, but the dancers I worked with there had already gone through various filters of knowledge, experience, and exposure by the time they reached the university level. My students in Istanbul, on the other hand, were not even at a high school level yet. Despite their good intentions and efforts, they struggled to control their bodies and minds and couldn’t break out of the classical ballet molds. The only way to change this was to not give up and persistently push forward. This approach applied not only to my students but also to me. However, my students found it difficult to keep up with my energy, tempo, and discipline and started complaining about me to Şebnem Aksan. Fortunately, I was able to counter every complaint with an enthusiastic, determined, and hopeful conversation. Eventually, after a few years, I began to see the fruits of my labor. The communication between my students and me was improving in a positive direction. They were now more excited, curious, and open to experimentation. As for me, having to teach at the Istanbul State Conservatory’s Ballet Department had ensured that my learning and development continued without interruption.

E.B.: Between 1983 and 1989, you created six choreographies as part of your repertory class: "Where" in 1983, "1/2=2/1" in 1984, "Dedicated to Young People" in 1985, "Endless" in 1986, "Tangomania" in 1987, and "Diary" in 1989. I would love to hear the stories behind these works from you.

A.T.: In my piece "Where", I used the music of Meredith Monk, a versatile artist whom I both criticized the most and was deeply influenced by while living in New York. The piece was set to be performed at the Atatürk Cultural Center (AKM) as part of the Ballet Department’s year-end show in 1983. A week before the performance, I went to AKM to discuss the technical rehearsals, where I found out that we wouldn’t be able to get on stage before 9:00 AM on the day of the show. This was impossible. Our show at AKM was going to be in two parts. The first part would feature ballet pieces, and the second part would showcase “Where”. Our school, located next to Yıldız University, had very difficult working conditions. The only studio available for the Ballet Department was used for ballet classes, and modern technique, improvisation, and repertory classes were held at other times. The studio was so small that during rehearsals, I sometimes had to stand by the window just to be able to see the entire piece. In these conditions, how would the students be able to enter the massive stage at AKM after 9:00 AM, adjust the lights, place the pieces on stage, and then perform in the evening? Moreover, no one was allowed on stage while the lights were being set up due to safety reasons. I couldn’t sleep for days. Two days before the show, I decided to make a lighting plan and give it to the lighting technician. However, I didn’t have enough knowledge to make the plan. When I joined the State Ballet after graduating from Ankara State Conservatory, lighting rehearsals were the most tedious process for me. What happened in the lighting room didn’t naturally reflect on the dancers. Our job was mostly to wait motionless at the indicated spots. When I first went to America, although I had the opportunity to take a lighting course at SUNY College at Purchase, I didn’t choose it because it wasn’t a priority for me. After all, I would be joining the State Opera and Ballet when I returned, and the lighting technicians there would handle my lights. At the end, I pushed my frustration and helplessness aside and went to meet the lighting technician. The lighting for the first part wasn’t a problem. For "Where", I conveyed my requests as best as I could. I don’t remember whether we were able to get the flow right with the lights on the day of the performance. After the show, following the usual applause, no one came to me with a single word, positive or negative. As I was picking up the costumes and leaving AKM, Yıldız Alpar was standing alone at the exit where the artists usually came out, waiting to congratulate me.

After this performance, I started working on a duet. I was clear about the music I wanted to use. While in New York, I attended a presentation by the Austrian composer Klaus Ager about his own works, and as soon as I stepped outside, I found myself buying his record. Another topic I wanted to work on was the costumes. In "Where", due to being overwhelmed with other challenges, I hadn’t had time to focus on the costumes, and I had used the students' everyday clothes, which was a shortcoming for me. Gün İrk, who taught drawing to ballet students at the Conservatory, supported me in this area and did a fantastic job. What I asked from him was a flexible connection that could link two dancers together and separate them when needed. Together, we went to Fuat Hayat’s store in Nişantaşı, where they made ballet costumes. Fuat Hayat was a grumpy man, always ready to scold his customers. However, when Gün gently asked in a sweet, soft voice, “Mr. Fuat, it might be trouble, but if we shorten the cuffs a bit and add elastic at the ends, we can solve our problem. What do you think?” Fuat softened, and while we waited there, he had what we wanted done. Because I had utilized classical ballet movements, the dancers didn’t struggle as much in this piece, but the material I used between their bodies was a problem that haunted my dreams at night. After a certain point, I began losing control over the piece, and it ended up developing in its own way. I named the piece "1/2=2/1" after a poem by Özdemir Asaf that I was reading at the time. Meanwhile, a thought started to bother me regarding school performances. How would our students become artists with just one or two performances at the end of the year? During my own time as a student at Ankara State Conservatory, we used to perform almost every week because we had our own small stage. These children needed to meet the audience more. In my spare time, I began looking for a venue. At that time, Vakkorama opened at the entrance of Sıraselviler Street in Taksim, and it had a space big enough for "1/2=2/1" to be performed. After getting the necessary approval from the relevant authorities, I met with the dancers to share the good news, but they didn’t seem very happy about it. This was an unexpected response. The next day, they informed me that they couldn’t perform outside of the State Opera and Ballet’s stages. I told them that I wouldn’t include the piece in the school repertory because they had not yet reached the maturity needed to perform it. I also told them that the value of a piece is determined not by the venue in which it is performed but by its content, form, and interaction with the audience, and then I left. The next day, I was called to the director's office. Our conversation was brief. I communicated my reasoning to the director without changing a thing, just as I had told the students. In the following years, "1/2=2/1" was restaged with Serap Meriç and Işıl Kaner. It was also included in the repertoires of the Türkuaz Modern Dance Group and the Ankara State Opera and Ballet.

Although "1/2=2/1" didn’t meet the audience that year, working with Gün İrk was very beneficial for me. Besides being skilled, she was humble and generous. Thinking that they could offer support, she introduced me to the founding partners of Bezden, Yılmaz Zenger and Güler Umur. Güler was also a faculty member in the Fashion Design Department at Teşvikiye, İstasyon Sanat Evi.

In 1985, education had been interrupted due to a fuel shortage. My students and I took advantage of this break by working non-stop for twenty days with gloves, hats, and scarves, creating the backbone of a piece. The previous summer, I had spent my days in Ayvalık listening to the music of Chick Corea and Herbie Hancock. For the new work, I didn’t hesitate to choose a piece of music they had played together. The number of students participating in the class suddenly increased, reaching thirteen. I had never worked with such a large group before, but I couldn’t bring myself to split the group into a first and second cast. This was a ballet method where the best performers were assigned to the first cast, and the others worked on the side with fewer opportunities to rehearse. I decided to work with them equally, without any distinction between students. My priority was to introduce and make them love modern dance. They couldn’t love it by just taking a modern technique class. They absolutely had to dance in modern choreography. The results were very positive. They all took ownership of the work, trying to do their best. The music we used not only sounded beautiful but also complemented the ballet steps, setting the style for the choreography. However, due to the small size of the rehearsal space, I wasn’t sure whether some sections would work. We had to rehearse in a larger venue to ease my concerns and film the piece in its current form. Recently, I had met one of Turkey’s most prominent cartoonists, Oğuz Aral, and shared my problem with him. After thinking for a while, he asked if a gymnasium might work for us. A week later, we rehearsed in a gym, the name of which I can’t recall, after we used chairs to limit the space to the size we needed. Yılmaz Zenger filmed the work while Güler Umur took notes to design the costumes. My students made such great progress in both intellectual and physical aspects that I dedicated the piece to them. "Dedicated to Young People" was performed at the Venus Theatre in 1985 as part of the International Youth Festival.

E.B.: Despite all the obstacles, you move forward by creating solutions and establishing solidarity, and now we come to “Endless”. Where did the idea for “Endless” come from?

A.T.: “Endless” was born in 1986 from the idea of creating a piece using round stones I collected from the seaside in Kalkan. With every project I worked on, my excitement grew, and I tried to involve different artists. As soon as I returned to İstanbul, I told our rhythmic teacher, Fevziye İnal, about my project and asked if she could support me with rhythm. Güler Umur also agreed to design the costumes for this piece. The work began with a birth scene, accompanied by a rhythm created by the clashing of the stones I had collected from the Mediterranean shores against a wooden board and each other. The costumes for the dancers, designed by Güler, were bodysuits with certain areas deformed, and were sewn in the workshop of the Bezden company, located a bit further than the Istanbul Radio House. Depending on the need, we would go to Mr. Yılmaz’s factory, where he made fiberglass furniture, and spray painted them. Oğuz Aral came to our first costume rehearsal and said that the children in the costumes looked like Mickey Mouse. The issue was with the part of the costume covering the head. Moreover, it was a Saturday, and the costumes had to be ready by Monday. In a panic, I called Güler and explained the situation. I spent the rest of the day dealing with my own feelings. I felt very amateur and careless. When I went to the sewing workshop on Sunday morning, I found the holiday worker, Güler, and Yılmaz Bey waiting for me. Yılmaz Bey started speaking angrily. How could I not have noticed the problem earlier and waited until the last day? Suddenly, the words “Mr. Yılmaz, you are right. I’m very ashamed, I’m sorry” slipped out of my mouth. In that moment, Mr. Yılmaz seemed to soften, and the love, compassion, and tolerance behind his anger filled the entire workshop. In addition to the costumes, Güler had designed a fabric backdrop for the stage, which could be used by the dancers. Looking back, I still wonder how I had the courage to add a set to the project despite there being no significant progress in the stage conditions. Since I didn’t have the opportunity to hang the set in the hall and rehearse with the dancers, the work had to be tested on stage. In every show, I would be ready in the light room and tell the technician the cues for the play.

E.B.: How was "Endless" received by the audience?

A.T.: "Endless" began to attract attention from the very first performance. Once we were going to perform on the stage of a private school. While the rehearsals were being held for the ballet pieces of the first part of the show the little children in the audience were talking loudly and running around. When the rehearsal for "Endless" began, the atmosphere fell into complete silence. The children watched the entire rehearsal without taking their eyes off. What had they seen in "Endless" that captured their interest so much? "Endless" was performed on various stages in Turkey and at the Aberdeen Youth Festival, and it was also part of the repertoire of the Türkuaz Modern Dance Company.

E.B. What were your working and living conditions like during that time? How did you share this process with Çağrı? 

A.T.: During this period, when my daughter Çağrı’s daycare closed, Yıldız Technical University’s nursery accepted her. Every morning, regardless of rain or mud, I would rush out, dropping Çağrı off at the nursery first and then heading to class. The nursery closed at 5:00 PM, while my work often continued until 7:00 PM. In such cases, I would call the nursery and inform them of the name of the student picking up Çağrı, and she would spend the remaining time with us. At that time, rehearsals for "Noktasız" were ongoing, and I was working with a piece of fabric about eight to twelve meters long, which I planned to use in a section of the piece. Every time the fabric was lifted, the dancers would pass under it or create different shapes with it. Years later, the dancers recounted how they had let Çağrı loose in the middle of the room when they were very tired during the fabric section, and we all laughed about it. Every day, a mother volunteered at the nursery to assist the educators and care for the children. I didn’t have the luxury of leaving my classes to spend a day there. To avoid disappointing Çağrı, I decided to go one day and give the children a creative workshop. The workshop went wonderfully, and the children were having a great time. Çağrı, however, was unhappy and protested the game by not leaving my side. What she actually wanted was for me to be with her all day, like the other mothers, rather than share me with her friends. The responsibility of my classes and my belief in my work took up all my time and energy, leaving little for my daughter. It was unfortunate that a recent graduate had to teach modern technique, dance composition, improvisation, and repertoire all at once, without anyone to turn to for support or advice regarding these classes when difficulties arose. Even after working for hours and coming home, I couldn’t spend enough time with my child, as the problems I needed to solve for the next day’s class occupied my mind. One day, while playing with Çağrı, she clung to my arm and said, "You’re not with me," and she was still very little at that time.

E.B.: Since your return to Turkey, you have dedicated all your energy to your students, and then in 1987, you were invited to the American Dance Festival. How did you evaluate that process? 

A.T.: In 1987, I was invited to the American Dance Festival as an International Observer Choreographer. Since returning to Turkey, I had created five repertoire pieces for my students. I was aware that I hadn’t created anything extraordinary. The work I produced naturally paralleled my students' development. Nevertheless, this was a great opportunity for me to test myself. Spending six weeks with over 20 choreographers from different parts of the world, taking technical classes, and discussing the performances we watched every evening. That was precisely what I had been searching for. On the first day of the festival, classes were held to determine the levels of students participating in technical courses, and instructors assessed each individual’s skill level. Viola Farber, a former dancer of Merce Cunningham, took a liking to me and placed me in the advanced level. At that time, Viola was one of the most sought-after instructors in France. I wanted to take her class, but I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to learn her complex combinations. I asked her if I could attend a lower-level class. Her response was a firm "No." For three days, I watched her classes from the outside, trying to memorize the combinations. On the fourth day, I started attending the classes, and I realized that my body and mind were adapting more quickly to the increasingly complex combinations with each passing day. After a while, we were able to sit and chat with Viola. I shared the challenges I faced while teaching technical classes, trying to benefit from her experiences. One day, I went to the office of the festival president, Charles Reihart, and told him that I had brought a tape of my choreographies and that I needed feedback on my work to grow. He suddenly hugged me tightly and said, "Well done!". Two days later, the best dance critics, choreographers, and technical instructors in America gathered to watch my work. I requested that they not be gentle with me and to provide their critiques ruthlessly. They agreed that my work might not appeal aesthetically to everyone, but they recognized the significant effort and integrity behind it. Someone asked why I used music by Chick Corea, Philip Glass, and Meredith Monk. I explained that I had chosen this music from my own archive, and at that moment, I turned bright red. I realized how much I had taken the easy route in my music choices!

One event that deeply affected me during the American Dance Festival was my phone conversations with Duygu Aykal. While my close relationship with Duygu continued uninterrupted, I received news of her illness. Shortly after that, modern stage designer Metin Deniz, Duygu, and I came together, and during our conversation, Duygu said, “I’m entrusting Aydın to you; take care of her.” Recently, her illness had progressed, and she and her husband, Gürel Aykal, had settled in Texas for treatment. I called her every day, describing my lessons and the works I had seen in detail. She would respond, “You’ll see, soon I’ll have wonderful news to share with you.” I was aware that Duygu had entered a point of no return, but emotionally, I couldn't accept it.

E.B.: One of the names you mention frequently is Şebnem Aksan. What is her role and place in your life?

A.T.: If Şebnem Aksan did not believe in and trust me, I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish even half of what I did during this process. I believe she is a person who has made significant contributions to the development of ballet and dance in Turkey with her insights, courage, knowledge, and experience. When I started teaching at the conservatory, what struck me the most was that in Şebnem's class, students did not feel unhappy and could express their thoughts freely. Her pedagogical approach in the lessons deeply influenced me. For her, all students were exceptionally valuable as individuals. She cared about each of them wholeheartedly without any discrimination and would drop everything to help solve a student's problem. However, she didn’t always like discipline and sometimes broke the rules she set herself. Perhaps this characteristic allowed her to be open to new ideas. Thanks to Şebnem's natural organizational skills, we were invited to the Aberdeen Youth Festival in 1987. 

E.B.: If I’m not mistaken, the same year the conservatory moved from the building next to Yıldız Technical University to the old buildings of the Applied Fine Arts Faculty directly across from Akaretler Street. How did this situation affect you?

A.T.: In fact, it was great news. The place we were moving to consisted of four separate buildings with a courtyard in the middle. One of the buildings was completely allocated to us. In the two-story building, there were four rooms: two large and two small. We sacrificed the corridor to enlarge the room on the upper floor. Unfortunately, when we were asked to vacate the old building before the new buildings were completed, the training was interrupted again. However, we needed to prepare for the Aberdeen Youth Festival. Şebnem stepped in once again and arranged for us to work in a room at the Sculpture Museum, which was located right next to the new building we would be moving into.

In my new work “Tangomania” I decided to use the music of Sergio Cervetti, my music teacher from NYU. When I returned to Turkey, he gave it to me, hoping that I would use it for one of my works. The first section of the piece was in a tango rhythm. Although I had never had any connection with tango until that day, a voice inside me said, “What does it matter? It should be your tango.” I was determined to follow that inner voice. The first section unexpectedly emerged quickly. The steps, spatial usage, and relationships between the groups were so clear that when I transitioned to a normal-sized space, the choreography didn't work, and it took me weeks to solve the problem. As I needed to use more steps for the larger space, the relationships were disrupted, the music felt incomplete, and I was desperately trying to recreate the old relationships that I had originally crafted and loved. In the end, I persisted and managed to find a point where I could integrate the conditions of the space. The second section was a transition for me. The grand and exuberant expression of the first section gave way to a simple, delicate, and silent communication between a man and a woman, while the piece concluded with the reflection of this communication within the group. The costumes were designed by Zepür Hanımyan, who was initially a costume designer at the City Theater and later worked as an art director in television and film. "Tangomania" was first performed at the Aberdeen Youth Festival in 1987. It later became part of the repertoires of the Türkuaz Modern Dance Company and the Ankara State Opera and Ballet.

E.B.: What was happening with the Conservatory and your relationship with the students during this time?

A.T.: In 1988, I proposed a course to support the creativity of first-year ballet students, and it was accepted. I was so excited that my heart raced as I entered the first class. The first-year students were incredibly innocent, open to trying things, and free from judgments and molds. In the classes, they first explored body movements and body parts. Then they were introduced to these movements with time, space, and different energies. At the end of the year, the tiny choreographies they created from this knowledge and experience were truly remarkable.

In recent years, the growing interest of students in modern dance began to disturb some ballet instructors within the department. The first reaction came after the creativity course I taught to first-year students. During a meeting, one objection stated, “While we’re trying to fit the children into a certain mold, you are disrupting them,” and as a result, this course was removed from the curriculum. We had moved into our new building and had better working conditions, but the peace I had realized was so valuable at that time was replaced with unrest. Yes, the students were increasingly interested in modern dance every day, but this did not mean they were drifting away from ballet. Ultimately, the destination for all of them would be the State Opera and Ballet. Indeed, that’s what happened. Some students, like Bahar Vidinlioğlu and Serap Meriç, after graduating, performed as soloists at the Istanbul State Opera and Ballet and continued to work with the Türkuaz Modern Dance Company, which was established in the 90s, and with me.

In 1989, I started a new choreography. This time, I wanted to work with a composer. My friend from the Ankara State Conservatory, violinist Nejat Başeğmezler, had started composing music during our school years. He agreed to compose music for my new piece. Metin Deniz took on the responsibility of Duygu's legacy, and we found the opportunity to work together. We dyed our fabrics in the large cauldrons at Aykut Hamzagil’s workshop in Dolapdere. We then created dynamic new areas within the performance space using thick ropes made from these fabrics. Eighteen students participated in this piece. Unfortunately, the tensions within the department affected our working conditions, and we had to conduct rehearsals almost secretly. "Günlük" was performed on May 27, 1989, at the Cemal Reşit Rey Concert Hall.

After a while, Şebnem Aksan was removed from her position as department head, and I was also banned from choreographing for the students. The reason given was “becoming famous by using the students”! Thus, while a period in my creative process closed, new horizons continued to open up in front of me.