I return often to ideas of belonging, impermanence, memory, and how we carry stories—especially across bodies and geographies. What anchors us? What lifts us? I’m fascinated by personal myths and the body as an archive for emotion. These questions surface not just in my lyrics but in structure and sound: cycles, unresolved melodies, microtonal inflections, layered voices in different languages.

I think my work tries to reconcile transience with rootedness—reflecting a life shaped by migration, change, and the search for home. Sometimes that means borrowing from modal traditions I grew up with; other times, letting silence or breath carry as much meaning as a note.

What role does technology or experimentation play in your composition process?

I almost always start analog — but when I get stuck or bored, I use tech as a kind of toy or a stimulant, a way to get out of my own patterns. It’s not central to how I think musically, but it always finds a way in.

What’s a piece of advice you’ve received that’s stuck with you?

To retain lyrical and musical curiosity as a daily practice — even when you’re not making anything. Pay attention.

Has your background, identity or environment influenced your sound or practice in any particular ways?

I made up songs as a kid — full performances, props and all. I’ve always been somewhat observant and intuitive, but music allowed me to say things language couldn’t hold. I think I compose because I feel things in a shapeless way, and music helps me shape them — not to define, but to understand.

I’m drawn to composition because it lets me build emotional architecture — blending text, texture, and melody into something I can inhabit.

What’s your relationship with improvisation, and how does it shape your work?

It’s the foundation. Most things I write begin in improvisation — usually over a drone, or a repeated idea. It’s how I trick myself into showing up. There’s something devotional in it, a moment of presence and permission. I welcome accidents. Sometimes they know more than I do.

Improvisation is central to my work — especially at the beginning. It’s a space where I can be fully present, where accidents become messages. I often improvise over drones or loose structures, allowing fragments to emerge without judgment. It’s a devotional act — a kind of surrender. From there, I sculpt. I edit. But that initial freedom is everything.

Do you have any rituals or routines that help you get into a creative flow?

My creative rituals aren’t flashy — I try to keep my non-creative routines (like movement and meals) consistent, to create a container for creative bursts. I run, dance, journal, and spend time by the sea whenever I can. Being in transit also helps, I think it keeps the mind loose — and there’s always much to observe. I always carry something to take notes on. 

Can you tell us about your musical influences?

Hümeyra, My Brightest Diamond, Mitski, Fiona Apple, Nick Drake, Matt Elliott, Laura Marling, Björk, Muse. I’m drawn to artists who build worlds — those who make you feel like you’re stepping into a language of their own. I also love early Turkish psychedelic folk and Ottoman court music — their phrasing, their mode-based storytelling.

If you weren’t making music, what would you be doing?

Birds calling in the middle of the night by a highway near Barcelona — piercing, crystalline. Also: the scraping voice of a Cretan lyre, full of longing.

If your music had a visual identity or colour palette, what would it be?

Muted, sun-washed blues. Looking up towards the light from underwater.

What do you hope audiences take away from your work?

A feeling more than a thought — something unnamed but familiar. I hope the work creates space for emotion, memory, and release. I hope it stays with them in ways they don’t expect.

Is there a medium or format you haven’t yet explored but would like to?

Graphic scores — something tactile and open-ended. I’ve been thinking about how to make my work legible without reducing it.

What directions or experiments are you excited to explore next?

I’m excited to integrate movement more fully into composition — not just choreography, but gesture as structure. I want to explore Mediterranean modes and instruments more experimentally, and create conceptually coherent work.

Are there any communities—online or offline—that have been important to your development as an artist?

Yes — London’s Turkish, Greek, and Balkan music communities have been immensely grounding and inspiring for me lately. So have peer cohorts from Roundhouse, Britten Pears Arts, and OCM — places that offered space for experimentation and exchange.

What does collaboration mean to you, and how do you approach working with others?

Collaboration, to me, is a kind of listening. It’s about holding space for others’ ideas while guiding a shared direction. I try to come in with a sense of direction, but stay open to surprise. I value generosity and clarity. I’m not interested in control; I’m interested in what we can build that neither of us would make alone. Especially interdisciplinary collaboration opens up vaults for me.

Who or what are your dream collaborators—past, present, or future?

Brian Eno. Caroline Shaw. 

What are you looking forward to most about In Motion?

The time. The trust. The chance to build something slowly, with space to reflect, dream, and shift. I’m excited for the mentorship, and for the structure that still allows me to explore. Also — the cohort. I’ve always cherished those spaces where people from different corners of music meet. There’s something special about being in the room with others also navigating in-between places.

Sound and Music is a PRS Foundation Talent Development Network Partner supported by PPL.

In Motion is made possible with the generous support of Arts Council England, Jerwood Developing Artists Fund, The Garrick Charitable Trust, Creative Scotland National Lottery and PRS Foundation.