Actually, all objects are initially just a "thing." Of course, we are the ones who attach meaning to them, assign importance, and form deep bonds with them.

For me, I think the meaning of an object starts to deepen when it accompanies a memory. No lie, sometimes there are objects that win my heart purely through their form, texture, or craftsmanship. But what takes them a step further for me is the relationship I build with them rather than their physical features. The moment they start carrying a memory, an emotion, or a story, they stop being just an item.

I think both are possible. What determines this is the number of objects surrounding us and the relationship we build with them. If you only own as much as you need, you are the owner of the objects. In fact, it might be more accurate to say that you establish a balanced relationship with them rather than having "ownership." But when you start accumulating more than you need, it's as if the roles reverse; this time, the objects start managing you. That is why I believe a world of objects that matches your needs and is carefully curated is much more liberating.

I used to form much stronger bonds with objects in the past. I had a habit of accumulating, archiving, and finding it hard to let go of them. I put a lot of work into changing this. I think I've come a long way, but I'm still trying to learn how to build this relationship in a simpler, healthier, and more conscious way. I know I'll never be a minimalist. But at least I no longer struggle as much as I used to when saying goodbye to objects I don't need anymore. I guess what I'm still trying to learn is how to maintain this balance of belonging vs. ownership between myself and objects.

Although it varies from object to object, I think the story is a step ahead for me. Except in very special cases, it is quite possible to find another object with the exact same form or function. But having a story unique strictly to that object doesn't seem to happen very often.

While answering this question, my eye caught the compass on the bookshelf made by my grandfather. My grandfather loved creating new solutions by combining different objects or transforming the functions of existing ones. Back when I was a student, during an all-nighter, we urgently needed a compass. Since we had no way of buying one at that hour, my grandfather used a needle, a pen, a pair of scissors, and tape to craft a compass that looked far from what we were used to, yet met our need. Since that day, I have used compasses, needles, scissors, pens, and tape countless times. But I don't think any substitute object could ever replace this compass. Because what makes it valuable to me isn't whether it's a perfect or imperfect object, but that every time I look at it, it reminds me of my grandfather, his creativity, and that night where we had so much fun.

It's a bit hard for me to answer this with a single object. But I can talk about three rings that transformed my relationship with objects.

First is the ring that my aunt and mother gifted to my maternal grandmother on a Mother's Day, which has now been entrusted to me. Everyone who knew the ring's old state, especially my grandmother, always talks about it with great admiration. It used to feature a flamboyant peacock figure adorned with turquoise stones. But over the years, its delicate curves bent, some parts broke, some stones fell out, and others were put in their place. Looking at it today, it's impossible to even recognize a peacock on it. Every time I hear the ring's story, a completely different peacock comes alive in my mind; and whenever I look at it, I remember both the enchanting and transient nature of objects.

The second ring is my husband Yunus's wedding ring. One day, I wore his wedding ring and left the house, only realizing I had dropped it on the way once I got back home. No matter what I did, I couldn't find it. When I explained the situation to Yunus with an overwhelming sense of guilt, he simply told me that it made no sense to beat myself up over an earthly object. It must have been ten years since I lost that ring, but I still remember that day with complete clarity. Thanks to that ring and Yunus, I learned that regardless of its worth, every object is temporary; what is truly lasting is the emotion it represents.

The third ring is the pink plastic-gem ring my niece put on my finger at my wedding. While everyone was giving us gifts at the wedding, she must have felt embarrassed for arriving unprepared. She slid off her ring (probably from a magazine or toy) from her delicate ring finger and put it right onto mine. She was seven or eight years old at the time. That tiny ring, which I could barely fit on my pinky finger, taught me that an object's value isn't determined by its monetary worth, but by the intention and feeling that accompany it.

Looking back today, I see that my tendency to collect used to be much stronger. As a child, I made collections of napkins, erasers, and pens. I couldn't even imagine parting with certain objects. Over time, I said goodbye to most of them. Now, instead of collecting everything, I prefer collecting objects I actually use or that inspire me.

I have a brooch collection that I've been building for a long time. They are already one of the accessories I use most often after my earrings. Both their thematic variety and the powerful visual language they carry despite their small scale fascinate me immensely.

Another collection I started about ten years ago after moving to Portugal (which I had to put on hold now that I live in Istanbul) consists of educational materials from Portugal's dictatorship era. Notebooks, envelopes, paper, pens, and paints are part of this collection. But the most precious ones to me are undoubtedly the stamp sets. I am deeply impressed by how they carry traces of that era's educational approach, ideology, and everyday life, plus the fact that they can still be used after all these years.

So, that's it...