Text by GIGI SUREL
Poetry and word night at A Thousand-Pointed Star. Credit: Natalie Chia.
The HIGH of Teaspoon Projects
I launched Teaspoon Projects earlier this year – a curatorial initiative that has been the most personal, exciting thing I’ve ever built. My child.
After working in large commercial galleries since 2020, with limited contact with artists of my time, I was ready to create something with more heart; my heart. The goal was to shine a light on the daily and the ‘usual’, the overlooked themes we often take for granted. The name Teaspoon Projects came from an essay by Georges Perec, in which he urges us to notice and question our ‘teaspoons’.
(Georges Perec, in Approaches to What (1973), calls on us to question the unnoticed details of daily life. Our habits, rhythms, tools, even our teaspoons. By examining the trivial and familiar, from the streets we walk to the contents of our pockets, Perec argues we can uncover truths we’ve long taken for granted. It’s precisely their apparent futility, he suggests, that makes such questions essential.)
Opening night of Duets. Credit: Natalie Chia.
I wanted to start from the personal and move toward the universal, infusing more life into the way art is presented, by creating experiences around installations and allowing time and space for non-artworld insiders to connect. Our first exhibition, A Thousand-Pointed Star, opened in February with twelve multidisciplinary artists. It explored the self as a constellation with a title inspired by Clarice Lispector, through programming that felt more like a festival: a perfume workshop, a poetry and word night, reading groups, and food performances.
Then came Duets, a duo show I curated with Mariana Lemos, featuring Maya Gurung, Russell Campbell and Dwayne Coleman. Everything clicked.
Installation shot of A Thousand-Pointed Star. Credit: Studio Adamson.
Those first two shows exceeded every expectation. Duets especially made me feel like I was exactly where I needed to be. I was meeting dozens of people every day, either at Teaspoon events or other openings across London. Half excited, half dragging myself, depending on the caffeine/alcohol ratio running through my body. It was go-go-go for months.
Just as we were preparing to launch Duets the book at the ICA on June 10th, life pulled me in a different direction. I found out I had to leave for my hometown, Istanbul —unexpectedly, and urgently— for family reasons
Closing Event of A Thousand-Pointed Star. Credit: Natalie Chia.
Duets the book. Credit: Sophie le Roux.
Displacement and Instinct: A New Kind of Writing
One of the first feelings I had was fear. Not just fear of losing momentum, but fear of losing presence. Or plainly, the fear of losing. When you run your own project, the boundary between life and work dissolves. As many people in the art world know, it’s not just about networking, it’s about showing up. Physically. Consistently. In the London art world, presence can feel like everything. Miss a season —even if it’s summer—and it can feel like you’ve been erased.
“ONE OF THE FIRST FEELINGS I HAD WAS FEAR. NOT JUST FEAR OF LOSING MOMENTUM, BUT FEAR OF LOSING PRESENCE.”
Just as we were preparing to launch Duets the book at the ICA on June 10th, life pulled me in a different direction. I found out I had to leave for my hometown, Istanbul, unexpectedly, and urgently, for family reasons. That night —the night I found out I had to leave— I picked up a notebook. The one I bought years ago and never once used. A beautiful blue leather cover, ‘dreams’ inscribed in gold foil. I always wanted to be a journaler, but I think I only prioritised creative activities when they could be seen, appreciated, shared. But sometimes writing takes you. It comes from within, uninvited. That night I wrote in the dark. Lights off. I was too scared to see what was coming out of me. I still haven’t looked at that notebook.
Readings by Mariana Lemos and Melanie Scheiner from the launch of Duets the book at the ICA. Credits: Sophie Le Roux.
The Duets book launch went beautifully. I was holding on despite the worst migraine attack in my life, responsible for many people, many moving parts. Flower arrangements, lighting, projectors, CDJs.
Honestly, I think I would’ve cancelled it if it had been my wedding. But there was something anchoring about being responsible for others. That accountability didn’t let me spiral. I don’t resent it – because this particular journey of uncertainty began as ‘girl you gotta’, I still keep going.
Istanbul Writing Life: Asking, Receiving, Reclaiming.
Back in Istanbul, I yearned for rhythm. I returned to my old ways of searching: two master’s degrees – I’m a nerd – I need dozens of tabs open in my mind. Mere ‘plans’ were making me anxious. I needed something substantial. I needed to make. But what?
I kept remembering a video interview featuring Mandy El-Sayegh, one of my favourite artists, where she speaks about how there can be a way out from the worst place: scars are sublime voids where something new can be born. She was speaking about Gaza, but I felt the resonance everywhere.
Between hospital visits and phone calls with loved ones, I started reaching out. I emailed editors I had known but never pitched to: Perediza, Marie Claire Türkiye. I’d never written about art in Turkish before. It’s my native language, but English had become my professional one. In both, I felt like an impostor.
But I asked, and they said yes.
Suddenly, I had assignments I could do from anywhere. I realised that many of those contacts had come from spontaneous ‘hellos’ – the kind of courage that Teaspoon had built in me. When I worked at galleries —and before that, as a lawyer, another story entirely—I was quieter, unsure of what I could contribute. Now, I felt like I had something new to say.
Photo taken by the author.
I wrote about Yoshimoto Nara’s Hayward show, drawing connections to the book The Cute by Sianne Ngai (Sianne Ngai, ed. The Cute 2022) that talks about how the ‘cute’ being subjected to infantilisation, deformation, and violence, in fact, controls the viewer. That’s the thing: being physically present so intensely for a while gave me something to harvest later. I started balancing sofa-rot Gigi and out-and-about Gigi.
Writing about complex institutional shows in Turkish grounded me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s also been a humbling experience, to say the least. I got called out for using em dashes —like this— in my first article, something that’s simply not done in Turkish, where a comma is used instead. That moment made me realise why I used to overuse commas in English, before I discovered the magic of the em dash.
I’m currently following the London scene virtually. As always, I’m especially drawn to exhibitions that orbit books. books at Brunette Coleman, showing work and ephemera from Etel Adnan to Chantal Akerman; The Yellow Wallpaper at Incubator in collaboration with MAMA, based on Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s 1892 short story; or Final Hot Desert’s presentation of Graham Wiebe’s collection of self-help books. Maybe I’ll pitch something about them soon.
I try to stay present through screenshots, DMs, Instagram stories, voice notes, videos I beg friends to send. I’m learning how to build proximity without physical access. It’s not the same. But it’s something. Like a second version of the COVID rhythm I thought I had outgrown. A new normal I didn’t expect, but am slowly adjusting to.
Installation shot of A Thousand-Pointed Star. Courtesy of Incubator and Mama.
Not Knowing, Still Writing.
I don’t know what this season of back-and-forth will lead to. But I know that I’m still writing. I’m still here.
I feel brave enough to plan Teaspoon’s next exhibitions: one in September at Filet Hoxton, drawing on the oeuvre of Annie Ernaux, and another in November with Display Fever, around ‘the art of loving’. I’m so glad the project was born nomadic and collaborative. The shows run for about a week, and I can always ask for help.
I’m grateful to the editors who trusted me —Alara at Marie Claire, Aryana at Perediza, Beth and Ana here— for these bilingual opportunities that help me grow and stretch every day.
I’ve realised that presence can, and should, take many forms in art. Yes, it is still very much an IRL experience – and I love and respect that – but life is full of grey areas. We need more creative ways to fit into them. And words are one of the most powerful tools for doing just that.
“LIFE IS FULL OF GRAY AREAS. WE NEED MORE CREATIVE WAYS TO FIT INTO THEM. AND WORDS ARE ONE OF THE MOST POWERFUL TOOLS FOR DOING JUST THAT.”
I used to see press as something I had to be a part of. Exhibition reviews, interviews, something to post on Instagram. Now, it’s something I hold onto. Something that holds me.
Even when things feel paused or stretched, I know I’m still inside the work. Going to an exhibition —or even making one— isn’t the whole point of being in the art world. I used to say in interviews: I want to provide experiences that are different from what a traditional gallery setting can offer. That’s why I always included events. And this summer reminded me: access and inclusivity require even more creativity. We should never let art —writing or any kind of thoughtful documentation— fade away.