No, I’m not going to talk about Leonardo Da Vinci. I’m going to talk more about how far engineering actually is from art.
There is an ego that comes with engineering education, and many wrong assumptions that come with it. For example, engineers solve problems. That’s true. And as problems get solved, the ego grows. I can do anything.
I have mathematical intelligence, and by using mathematical formulas, I am saving people’s lives. The owners of this ego should probably be mathematicians and physicists. Nevertheless, it becomes engineers. This is because engineers turn theory into practice. And this leads to a completely different mistake: functionality. Engineers look at life through functionality. Everything must have a role. Everything must be clear and must serve a purpose. In the age of technology, this idea becomes even stronger. It even turns into a social perception. Escape from the absurdities of life is sought in “rationality.”
Yet most of the people who changed the world—maybe almost all of them—were dreamers. People who thought in unusual ways, who looked like lunatics to those around them, extraordinary people.
When I think about art classes in school, two things come to mind. First, that the classes were built on the “right line,” the “right shadow,” the “right perspective,” the “right coloring,” and dozens of techniques. Second, the kids whining, “When will we ever use this?”
Drawing neatly, imitating reality, applying the technique correctly… What I love about modern art is that, unlike what we were taught, it focuses much more on expression. Many of the works we admire today would probably fail a traditional art class. I can say we never learned what art actually is in art lessons. We didn’t feel it, we didn’t connect with it, and we weren’t free. Yet when people talk about art today, the first things they mention are FREEDOM and ORIGINALITY. And we were killing exactly that. The talented and the untalented, the rule-followers and the rule-breakers. An education system completely contrary to the nature of art. And it’s like this almost everywhere in the world.
Modern art is like the exact opposite of engineering. Engineering is built on “function.” Something needs to work. Art is not obligated to work. It doesn’t have to tell anything. Most of the time, it doesn’t even force us to think. It is entirely about perception. A field where everyone sees and feels something completely different.
The other day, when I told a friend I started working on “Sculpture and Animation,” he asked, “Why?” and “What will it be good for?”
The idea was exciting, but the fact that it had no use was confusing and disappointing. I’ve experienced this with almost all of my friends. As you might guess, they are all engineers.
The point is not that it’s “useful.” It’s not even about giving a message. The point is perception. And what makes it beautiful is exactly this. Drawing meaninglessly, experimenting, enjoying the process. Not even producing an output, but when you put effort into something you enjoy, you also want to show it.
It reminds me of when I decided to publish what I wrote. I was writing for myself. But when I thought about publishing, I wondered, “What will people think?” If I get terrible reactions, what happens?
The moment I started publishing was the moment I accepted that even a terrible reaction is still a reaction. I haven’t met anyone who criticizes or belittles me more harshly than I criticize myself anyway.
When people look at the same artwork, they don’t see the same thing. That is the nature of light and nature itself. The fact that we “agree” on the color red doesn’t mean we see the same red. Physically, it’s almost impossible.
We’re not even seeing the present moment. Everything we see is the past.
Naturally, everything we look at is actually our own experience. Some people extract social messages, some catch an abstract feeling, some understand nothing.
“Staring blankly” is actually an experience in itself.
When you think about how functionality-trained brains kill creativity, even “staring blankly” becomes a deep and tragic topic on its own.
Today’s world is so full of commercial and purpose-oriented work that anything without a function feels strange to us. We expect a message from films, from objects, even from nature. We look for meaning in music, we want function from paintings, and we even say writing must have a purpose. Even when writing blog posts, we carry the anxiety of “giving a message,” otherwise it won’t be read.
Yet when we wrote, we were writing for ourselves…
When I think about my own writing, sometimes I give direct messages, sometimes the exact opposite. I don’t describe life one-to-one; I fictionalize it or idealize it. Sometimes, purely through imagination. Contrary to what is assumed, I don’t spend hours writing. I write as I feel. That’s why sometimes there is no logical integrity. My texts are full of grammatical mistakes because I don’t have a second version. I write and hit publish. I rarely read what I wrote afterwards.
The reader, on the other hand, seeks clues about the writer’s personality. Behind the interpretation of fiction, they search for a real person. Sometimes this is correct—of course everything we write is mixed with our experiences. But when they ask, “Did you really experience this?”, “Were you struggling during that period?”, “Is everything okay?”, “Do you really feel this way?” I’m usually surprised. Because most of the time, it has nothing to do with what was in my mind while writing.
For example, right now I’m thinking, Will Galatasaray beat Fenerbahçe tonight?
I don’t think an artist creates something thinking, “Let me make something that makes everyone cry, or everyone scared, or everyone smile, or everyone feel pain.”
Usually, the interpretation—“the artist is expressing a sense of freedom here”—is the viewer’s own creation. Thinking that an imprisoned man will naturally deal with the theme of freedom is just the result of our linear thinking. He may not have thought of anything at all. He may have scribbled randomly and thrown it away.
When a child is born, the painter who is expected to paint joyful things may, in fact, be expressing his utter unreadiness for life or his sadness instead of the joy he “should” be feeling. Or maybe it’s a social criticism.
Perception is so different and so unique that even a pencil you leave in the middle of a room will generate millions of stories.
This is why the sentence “The artist meant this,” or “The writer thought this,” is often wrong and meaningless. At that moment, it was simply being done, simply being created. Like the Big Bang—creating a new universe in a massive explosion. I don’t even want to call it emotion, because words would imprison it.
For the same reason, I find musicians who tell stories like “I wrote this song in such a moment” commercial. I see them as attention-seeking, profit-oriented commercial musicians. And I think the same about painters who add pages of explanation to their works.
What I love about modern art is exactly this:
- It doesn’t have to tell anything
- It doesn’t have to be useful
- It doesn’t have to serve a purpose
What does an endlessly spinning reel do?
Nothing.
But someone might sit and watch it for hours.
Someone might extract different meanings from the same movement.
Just like life. Sometimes meaningless and coincidental, sometimes just a part of the motor pushing the gear.
That’s why when people ask “Why?”, “For what?”, “What will it be good for?” I sometimes smile. A smile mixed with a bit of pity. It makes me think about what functional minds have done to the world. Everything we complain about, everything we revolt against, is the product of functional minds.
I also confront the functional part inside me. Sometimes this is the part that saddens me:
Functionality kills creativity.
It extinguishes originality, excitement, and reaction.
The point I’ve reached is not, “I will make art, I can do it too.”
It is more about using art as an excuse to get closer to myself, to the essence of humans and nature. To see the people who truly changed the world.
To prefer the obsession with production and functionality less, and instead enjoy the pleasure of “meaninglessness.”
To make peace with meaninglessness.
bahadirhancicek 
Leave a comment