Necdet Sen ~ 1 November 2000
You had read his adventures by the name HIZLI Gazeteci (Speedy Journalist) and made him one of you. He had showed up in a periodical at the first time twenty years ago.
Then, he was serialized on a daily newspaper. He walked away on his own way taking bunch of compliments and few offensive words with him.
And years later, one day he suddenly walked out of our lives. Instead of being a good boy, keeping his mouth shut,and trying to save his position he openly called tyrant "tyrant" and found himself out of the door. This was not the way of mind for the orientalist maestros of press, who are not quite accustomed to those who can push away the privileges they have for the sake of candidness.
Later on, he reappeared in another newspaper with a different name, which was Wind of Change. His name, which turned into a money-spinner trademark had been trimmed by his "dumb" creator. He was the graphic novelist who never saw what he has been doing as a real "profession" and found it very embarrassing to act on a self-seeking manner. The HIZLI Gazeteci (Speedy Journalist) was only a frail bridge, not a firm establishment, between the social life and himself. As I said this son of a gun was a real dumb. He hung around this market place where the marketing experts are called artist and the real artist can only be remembered after his demise. Although most of the time he was broke he always went to the places where he was invited. And wherever he was he always missed the streets.
The writer of the HIZLI Gazeteci (Speedy Journalist), that is me, is a kind of weirdo. I have always felt myself like a Painted Bird in an elite society, which has got extremely confused about what the art is, and got no courage to confess that " I do not know a thing about art, in fact I do not know a shit about anything. I just read the columnists, memorize my lesson and speak at every opportunity". They are exposed to be easily deceived by the charlatans who pretend to be an artist.
In today's world, the commands of consumption society are conceived of the commands of God. There must be some monkey business beyond the sudden departure of a graphic novelist from where he was apple of the eye. What could have happened behind the doors?
"Well, I am asking to you my friend who has the patience of reading this lengthy piece. Have you ever had one of those moments that you were cought up defenseless with the question of "who I am, where I am going, what this rush is for?" Have you ever thought of walking out on what you have been doing and setting off to seek for your "true adress"? Are you sure that having expensive cars, stylish furniture and a summer house at South of France is more valuable than truth itself."
"Think twice. Do you have the guts to turn your sight to your own self and feel the secret knowledge inside you by sitting in an empty room with no electrical appliance or under a tree silently, and listening to your breathing? Can you get rid of the commands of mediocrity that you filled your head up with, of these pack of superstitions you called conscious? Can you take that conformist shield of yours off? Can you break away the coral reef you live on and let yourself float?"
"Difficult isn't it? You are right. As a matter of fact everybody is a little worn out by life. Silence is frightening. So, lets jump for the joy! Turn up the volume of your television! Fill all your spare time with something so that you cannot have the time to listen yourself."
Translated by Camay Ozalp
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