In my final major project I would like to examine the relationship between personal culture memory and object. I intend to explore and investigate the inherent conflict within my historical personal development and to present this as a contemporary woman artist. There can be little doubt that engrained memories emanating from the past, the morals with which one grows up, the troubles, sorrows, stresses and strains one experiences are important factors which shape one’s future being. Deep rooted memories cause us to view cultural, educational, political, geographical issues from a multitude of different angles from the others. The same memories also subconsciously enable us to analyse, appreciate and criticise hand crafts, art and design from different perspectives. My work is also necessarily influenced by my experiences and memories; particularly my cultural memory. I am from a Turkish background where strict Muslim family values prevailed. I am, and have always been, proud of who and what I am. It was nevertheless an existing conflict within me, a silent rebellion against gender based bias, parent’s controlling behaviour, a chauvinistic society that made me eventually leave my country and become what may be described as “my own person”. As someone who consequently has spent a considerable period of time in United Kingdom there are inevitable moments when I feel that I am physically and mentally split between two seemingly quiet diverse cultures. My sense of belonging perennially migrates from one culture to the other. Although my roots are deeply embedded in my culture the dilemma of being a woman seeking independence of mind and freedom of speech perhaps turned me into someone described as an outcast. As a woman who has not been able to fully experience and enjoy childhood, as someone who experienced youth as a result of personal efforts, as someone who could not timely protest, as someone who has not been able to realise desires engrained within me I shall try to expound my unfulfilled past with the objects that stem from that past. Young women of marriageable age who are from my background in Turkey prepare dowry chests. Everybody, including me, had one. Each piece therein is a result of eye-straining effort; each embroider is a message that could not be expressed to the loved one. My signature was on each chain I assembled, each etamin I processed. My colourful efforts glittered on the beads I placed on yashmaks. My fingers wandered on the prayer mat on which I sat to pray. I had to give up on my dowry chest. My eye straining handicrafts are forever trusted friends of my untold, unlived story. The contents of the chest are the contents of a historical package accumulated piece by piece. It is a magical chest in which I buried a bundle of dreams together with my dowry. All the lies I had to tell in order avoid embroidering. I changed my clothes to escape my grandma and to play football; and even those little girls who fell in love with me when I dressed as a boy. However towards the end of year 1979 I couldn’t escape any longer. I was caught by my grandma, and a mighty slap on face ensued. “You are 7 years old,” she said. “Sit down you shrewish girl and embroider handicrafts, you will soon get married,” she continued. Shocked, I started embroidering; and the girl who had an eye on me appeared at the end of the road. “Oh dear,” I said to myself, “sort this one out.” In the Turkey of that era pupils would wear an all black uniform and a pristine white removable collar. I remember my first collar most vividly. I used a size 21 “tulip” brand sewing awl and 70 sized ladies’ “oren” cotton. My finger was black and blue all over as a result of rolling the cotton. I completed the collar within two hours and wore it to school. Needless to say I did not have a mother to do it for me; I had to do it myself. It was the year in which life chose to trip me over. I got up though and after that date I was not grateful to anyone, and did not let others be aware that I was missing a mother, although the pain was always with me. I processed my dowry chest with my own hands and without help from anybody else. I did this with the dream of marrying in accordance with Turkish traditions and with the self promise of living happily ever after. But it did not happen. Fate had other plans for me; to marry an Englishman and to move to England. When the culture I could not live, the unrealised dreams come to daylight with the objects I hid in the chest I was not able to utilise the reality which I will have to face rests with me.  Has the chest digested my dreams, which have now been subjected to passage of time, within its stains just as I have had to assimilate them? Time will show, and we shall witness. The reason why I have exhibited my stained history is to face the regretful reality of my changing cultural make up and to share our cultural differences in each object I embroider and process. Happy blogging!