Nariman-qızı Sevilâ

Everything around demands interpretation. Each step carries an expectation: to continue a line, affirm the roots, secure an identity, as if every movement must serve as proof of belonging. I do not need to write annotations as if the text itself determined the possibility of being heard. The text doesn’t make my work part of relevance; it simply accompanies it, the way a shadow accompanies the body. I exist in my entirety: in vulnerability and in beauty, in the wounds and in the lightness that sometimes grows out of them. I am a woman, yet I see no reason to emphasize this as an argument. I am a Crimean Tatar, yet I do not wish my identity to be reduced to a key that opens or closes the doors of possibility.

I am drawn to the form that holds memory as the breath of material, not as a document. The bone – a clot of inner beauty – passes through experience but never turns into its commentary. It is what lives within and comes outward when the need to explain dissolves. I take out a bone from my chest: painful, fragile, wet, dreamlike. A turning inward, where form appears, born out of tension. A moment when the corporeal and the spiritual coincide, when art grows from what has long rested inside the rib.

Beauty requires no definition. It is present in everything created, for it belongs to the very order of creation. It is not applied to the world, it grows from within the world.