Born in Uşak in 1937, Devrim Erbil entered the Istanbul State Academy of Fine Arts in 1955. A student of figures like Halil Dikmen and Bedri Rahmi Eyüboğlu, he graduated in 1959. Over the years, he rose to the rank of professor at the academy. This long journey, crowned with the title of "State Artist" in 1991, continues today like a visual fairy tale that deepens our gaze at the city.
In Istanbul, there are certain neighborhoods that feel like gateways to the soul; behind those gates, it seems, not the city itself, but a layer of time remains. Erbil's connection with Istanbul is exactly like that. When I asked him about his favorite location in the city, he described getting lost in the back streets of Zeyrek, in the upper parts of the Fener-Balat line along the Golden Horn, as his "favorite spot," where you suddenly feel as if you've been swept to the furthest corners of Anatolia.
According to Erbil, Istanbul is not an "easy-to-recognize" city. It is a city with the Bosporus running through it; with every step, you walk through both water and history. Even during a road-widening project, history gushes forth from beneath the earth. The city pulls you away from the daily rush and calls you back to the grand narrative that "witnesses life," he says. Perhaps that is why, when he mentions that he wishes the peninsula had been declared a protected area years ago, it isn’t merely a complaint; it’s an expression of an artist’s sensitivity and protective instinct.
In Erbil's narrative, Istanbul is not just a backdrop, but a symbol. A place bearing the traces of three distinct cultures, it reappears repeatedly in his paintings as the "old peninsula." When he says, "I am a student of Bedri Rahmi," he is doing more than mentioning a teacher’s name; he is speaking from within a tradition, a workshop discipline, an artistic ethic.
Moreover, his journey did not begin with painting. When he says, "I started with poetry before painting," he reveals the rhythm beneath the lines. He wrote short stories and poems for many years. While in high school, he held exhibitions, even in an unused space in a bank. It’s beautiful to think about – a young aspiring artist finding a small stage for himself in a corner of the city, as if Istanbul were saying, “If you work with me, I will give you endless space.”
In Erbil's story, the pace of life is like a strange knot. When I learned that he was born prematurely at seven months, I asked him if he had always been so hasty in his life, or if he had ever been late for anything. "I've never been late for anything in my life; I've always been ahead," he says, adding that he married and started a family quickly, as if he could not keep up with time.
Although this sentence resembles the modern-day praise of speed, its real message lies elsewhere. He specifically says that he does not like rushing; however, he also acknowledges that the haste of life has left its mark on his own destiny. He describes the process of becoming an artist from a completely different perspective: "I became an artist by feeling the lack of certain things." This is not an expression of production born from the darkness of an inner void; rather, it is born from the desire to fill that void.
Even when he talks about how the three great artists of the Renaissance – Leonardo da Vinci, Raphael and Michelangelo – influenced him, the essence of his narrative returns to life. For him, painting is like "painting life." When I wondered if there was a color he wished to banish from his palette, he replied that he had never removed any color. He simply does not like brown, describing it as the color of absence. His aim is to instill vibrancy in the viewer, to evoke the happiness and joy of life when people look at his paintings.
And then there is "blue." If he were to leave only one color for life, it would be blue. For him, blue is not just a preference; it is almost a habit, a state of mind. Is it the blue of Istanbul, the breath of the Bosporus, or a light filtering through the lines? Each leads to the same place: In Erbil's painting, blue seals the invisible bond between the city and the human being. His expression of how his premature birth intertwined with his love of life is striking; life came to him early, embraced him early.
When it comes to inspiration, the conversation shifts to an even more fairy tale-like tone. "My muse is good-natured," he says. "She’s with me in both difficult times and good times." It reminds me of Picasso’s quote: "I don’t search, I find." Inspiration is not something summoned from outside; it is something kept ready within.
For him, the studio is the space for this readiness. He managed with just a room in his house when he didn’t have a studio for a while. Now he has one in Bodrum and takes great pleasure in it. "The studio is a very sacred place," he says, conveying not just a space, but the seriousness of art, the ritual of labor, and the silent discipline of creation.
Music is essential in the studio. Listening to local music from various climates and cultures excites him. Just as tourists travel the world, music conveys emotions through sound. The studio becomes not only the home of paint and canvas but also of sound and memory. Creating art has been a very challenging experience for him. He has always considered using colors and cultures that have never been used before. Recreating oneself from scratch, he adds, is even harder than childbirth.
When asked about the message he wants to give the new generation, he emphasizes that they should always reinvent themselves, dedicating their excitement, passions and even sleep to it. "If you create a new world through hard work, you will achieve success."
Erbil, who says he would choose this profession again if he were reborn, thankfully brought his brush and palette to Istanbul. That is why we are very lucky.
