A part of North-East Turkey, my hometown Rize has a lot to tell. In the photography series Liparit, I aimed to provide a sort of viewfinder to the outsider, to let them have proper lighting before laying their eyes on my hometown. Located in coastal Rize in Northern Turkey, my village is called Yalikoy. It was formerly known as “Liparit”—a word I believe to have originated from Georgian, although not fully confirmed by my family. Even this small detail sums up the region perfectly; mysterious, complicated, beautiful in its form and shape.

The early 1980s. My father gets his first camera trusting his brand new photography skills gained at a local course. Thus a Japanese beauty made out of metal and glass enters my parents’ life, along with any acquaintances who may come along. Roll after roll, developed and printed in our bathroom, squeezed into the limited time that is left over from harvesting tea and fishing. The first years of my brother and sister, the final years of my grandparents, the smile on my young mother’s face, the untouched beauty of Yalikoy and many fishing boats, all recorded accordingly.

The year 2015. I get my first film camera. It was an old Canon I received from my father, though later I had many more. Film photography proved to be a fulfilling experience which shouldn’t have shocked me at the time. After all, I had my reasons. I remember hating digital photography from the age of ten when I thought people left shooting with film for good. See, growing up, I was always surrounded by photos from the past. An era I couldn’t touch, but still managed to be a part of. I loved every detail about those photos, the colour, the depth, the feeling I got when I touched them. It was so mesmerising to see the place that I was now a part of so significantly different many years ago, yet still, somehow the same. It felt as if I was filled with an immense desire to be a part of that, to go back in time, to be lost in the patterns of something old, something that belongs. However, that was not my sole motivation.

Generation after generation, my family knew how to make. Crafting was a way of life as it formed part of our soul, bringing us to unity. From planting, growing and grinding their corn to making their own clothes from the fabric they have woven on their handmade looms, these strong women in my family are concrete role models in terms of creating. Getting lost in the details of whatever I see comes from this meticulous tradition of crafting settled in my bones, such impulse to find and create beautiful things to survive.

My grandfather was a boat-maker and fisherman. Hence, being in the sea, touching water, getting soaked in salt, and watching wildlife became a big part of our life. I watched and listened and then I watched some more. I remember just dropping my body into the sea, watching the clouds or the slender shadows of the waves depending on where my vision was directed at. It felt like filling a vault containing beautiful and cutting images that I still go and peek at. I was bewildered by all the light and texture that surrounded me, like how my hands would form these deep lines after each day of swimming. As I grew older, my tendency to capture light and visually fulfilling details grew as well; I believe I owe it to the images that were burned under my eyelids when I was a child.

Years later when I started photography, I found the exact same camera my father first had. I then vowed to take similar photos to that of my father’s, this time through my own eyes. I wanted to create and document the craft; the craft in me, the craft surrounding my family and Rize—my community. I wanted to magnify the beautiful details of Rize and emphasise the strong connections between my people, and here we are!

In April 2018, I visited my hometown carrying my camera and a bag full of black and white film with the intention to capture its essence. I spent some fantastic days there, in the place I’ve belonged all my life, but this time I saw it through the viewfinder with a motivation to “show”. The experience was exhilarating and at times nerve-wracking. To show the reality and beauty hand in hand was my task and I had to look at my hometown from a different perspective; which made me realise how much more it actually has to offer.

During my days of shooting, I had a chance to visit and talk to the neighbours I haven’t seen in a long time. Their enthusiasm to join the project was inspiring. Experiencing a true female bond in the backdrop of crafting and creating was so empowering; they, continuing their daily lives, keep working and making I; creating photographs, documenting them as I see them.

Hilal Kalkavan is a photographer and educator from Istanbul, Turkey. She completed a Bachelor’s Degree in English Language for Education at Marmara University and uses film photography to capture the intricate textures and tones of her surroundings.

Words & Photography: Hilal Kalkavan

Published: October 2018

Commissioned by Lungs Project