If I could write a poem, I would want to talk about the shape of my feet while sitting on a chair for week, night and day. And how my feet would look like a big piece of flesh when I got up to go washroom or how the chair would lose its form and totally different obsession after many hours of sitting on it. I am holding someone’s belt to get down the stairs, 1-2-3-4-5, and turn right and there is toilet and goes in and there is the light let your eyes free of the black fabric. If I could write a poem, I would tell the story of the young girl beside me who feels the same torture and suffer and I wouldn’t need my eyes because I could recognize her with my hands. I do not know where she is right now; I do not know if she is happy. Maybe she is using words to tell our story. On the other hand, I chose big canvases to tell the endless sorrow I feel. I usually became black fabric and black canvas; the belt became the arrow that showed me the way. I always talk about myself because it’s me that I know best. Chair. Black fabric. Arrow. Dough and a room. Millions of people in the room and I am one of them.
Nuriye Kilinc, 2005- Toronto