Open spine softcover with hand-folded silkscreen dust jacket and insert
Katil var means "there is a murderer". According to many, that murderer is Recep Tayyip Erdogan, the president of Turkey.
A professed man of the people with multiple Swiss bank accounts and over $4,000,000 stuffed in shoe boxes. A man who ordered the police to tear gas thousands in Taksim, who weeps for a dead Egyptian girl and defames a dead Turkish boy. A man who steals and distributes opposition media to friends like candy. And a man who violates human rights to lock up Selahattin Demirtas, the most charismatic politician Turkey has seen in decades. Much of this is alleged of course. It can only ever be alleged.
Katil var. I first heard those words in the toxic and pivotal summer of 2013, during the Gezi park protests. Reverberating in and echoing around Taksim, Sisli, Okmeydani and Gazi Mahallesi. Words shouted with courage by the thousands of lithe youths that I had a crush on and wanted to be. Words painted on walls and quickly obscured with grey paint the next morning. Words that could only be voiced in the safety of a crowd.
Katil var. A photobook of what I saw between 2012 to 2015. The short period when Erdogan was at his most vulnerable, beginning with the lead up to Gezi, Gezi itself and covering the Soma mining disaster, the refugee crisis, Newroz festivals and culminating with the loss of the AKPs majority in the summer of 2015. A time perhaps predicted by Nazim Hikmet in his poem, Plea.
Katil var. My first and probably last photobook. It's the result of nearly 40,000 shots with a Leica MP, llford HP5 and an oversized flash with a sticker of a heart on it. It's the result of being detained and deported. It's the result of friendships gained and even better friendships lost. And it's the result of years of artistic insecurity, procrastination and of reconciling myself to loss.
- Charlie Kirk.