Different Paths to Hal In Place and Together with Hal Collective — Jonatan Habib Engqvist

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Often, those who say something cannot be done are interrupted by others doing it. Inspired by James Baldwin, this phrase succeeds in describing Sinopale — and perhaps even more so, the work of Hal Collective. Indeed, it is remarkable to witness how artists, producers, and local residents come together with trust and curiosity, transforming Sinopale into far more than a biennial art exhibition. Hal Collective’s commitment to creating and sustaining a space for cultural production and community takes this one step further, yet it would not be wrong to claim that neither could exist without the other.

In recent years, Sinopale has made several radical choices. From its online upcycling edition — in which curators and artists from previous editions were invited back and even carbon dioxide measurements were transparently shared — to this year’s theme, the biennial embraces an approach that invites individuals and communities to reconsider their impact on the world and explore new systems of values for a sustainable future. Fundamentally, the relationship between the biennial and Hal Collective brings together Félix Guattari’s three ecological spheres — environmental, social, and mental — described in this year’s edition as interchangeable spaces for negotiation and reconstruction.

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In times of increasing environmental challenges and political unrest, small-scale initiatives such as Hal Collective can offer alternative and resilient models. How can we develop artistic methodologies within a hyper-local context? How can we engage with questions of cultural heritage, language, or ecology? Can art have a positive impact on the environment? Can we understand time differently while still responding to the institutional frameworks of a biennial? These are among the collective’s central questions. Not only do these questions lie at the heart of their projects, but they are also directed inward, enabling the collective to evolve while remaining attentive to the wider context.

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Hal Collective consists of people who have chosen to live and work in Sinop as cultural agents. In many ways, following the pandemic, they recognized both the fragility of art life in major cities and the possibilities offered by hybrid modes of working and forms of social engagement outside the mainstream’s fast-paced and competitive structures of artistic production.

When considering the differences between the institutionally dictated discourse of art over recent decades and what is at stake in an initiative like Hal Collective, several points deserve emphasis. First and foremost, the notion of the audience is turned upside down. The goal is not to satisfy people arriving for a brief visit. Instead, the returning neighbor stays longer and wants to talk about what they have experienced. Perhaps this person even decides to participate in the process of creation. This could be your neighbor, or someone lending an object or a story to an artistic process. Even someone who has never considered engaging with contemporary art — or who does not know what it is — may become curious and want to learn or see what is happening.

In Sinop, there is already a local community that invests in, participates in, and shapes these processes. Yet this is not something that simply “happens.” Such a collective must consist of multifaceted people who relate differently to cultural production. Here, idea and practice are inseparable. From this emerges a collage in which every component possesses equal agency. This attitude also allows for a shift in our understanding of art itself. In my experience, Sinopale is a collective curatorial process that encourages conversations, artistic research, and collaborative presentations. Walking together — even if only for a moment or a few hours — is a promise that we do not have to look at the world alone.

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Over the last two years, Hal Collective has mapped waste from industries and the sea around Sinop, though these maps are only starting points. In another context, the idea of creating a participatory map of how the city is perceived and discussing the findings could be challenging in terms of generating participation. However, the method employed by Hal Collective is not one in which an artist instructs an “audience” or even a “community project.” Rather, it is a complex intertwining of local and visiting co-creators. Make no mistake: the maps produced through this process are not merely traces or illustrations of a psycho-geographical or radically pedagogical experiment. They will undoubtedly mutate, transform, and return in new forms. Everything created here will acquire a life of its own and become a vehicle for something not yet known. That is the beauty and strength of such participation. There is beauty in diversity, and there is power.

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There are many ways to reach Hal: along the shore, past the extraordinary roof of the old bathhouse, through streets where fishing nets are repaired, or across the noisy industrial zone. Whichever path you choose, you encounter different smells and sensations, remnants and things regarded everywhere as waste. These objects are so ordinary that we may not even notice them. Yet sometimes perspective is the only thing we can control. What if these objects were not garbage, but resources? How might they be used? What else could they become? This question is asked both from the present and from the future. Through a recycling library, a waste inventory, and process-oriented resource workshops, Hal has already become — and will continue to be — a gathering place and center for cultural production.

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Finally, I must confess that I do not believe art can create entirely new worlds or bring forth something completely unprecedented. It cannot change what we see. But it can influence how we see what we see, and how we value it. Shifting or bending our perspective on the world we inhabit is no small thing. Art can, for instance, reveal the ordinary things standing before us every day from a slightly different angle. Or it can show how seemingly unrelated things are interconnected. When artists move closer and farther away, when they grant time and space to what is often overlooked, perspectives shift. I believe Henry David Thoreau once said, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.” Sometimes, all we need is to be interrupted by someone else.