In one of the halls of the A. Kasteyev State Museum of Arts in Almaty, we recently attended the solo exhibition of the artist Äygerim Käribayeva, entitled My Sky Above Me (🇰🇿 Meniŋ aspanım töbemde). But before we plunge into the canvases themselves, permit me to detain you for a moment with my favourite pursuit: etymology.
From Stone to Firmament
My modest command of Turkish suggests to me that the exhibition’s title in Kazakh would leave a native speaker of Türkiye somewhat nonplussed. They might well recognise the Turkish benim (“my”) in the Kazakh meniŋ, but when it comes to aspan (“sky”), matters become rather more intricate.
In modern Turkish, the word has admittedly retired to the dictionary margins, labelled as archaic and obsolete in the form asuman, making it no small feat to trace its lineage back to aspan. Both terms descend from the Persian آسمان /asmān/ with the identical meaning, which in turn traces back to the Proto-Indo-European *h₂eḱmō (“stone, firmament”), built upon the root *h₂eḱ- (“sharp”). That our forebears pictured the celestial vault as a stony dome, and meteorites as stray masonry tumbling from the battlements, is entirely logical. What is rather more staggering, however, is the dazzling progeny generated in our respective languages by these primordial ancestors.
Let us begin with the Proto-Indo-European *h₂eḱmō. In Proto-Balto-Slavic, it evolved into *kā́ˀmō—do you recognise the Polish kamień or Czech kámen for stone? In Proto-Germanic, it assumed the guise of *himinaz (“dense cloud cover, heaven”). With a modicum of imagination, one perceives in it the German Himmel. In certain dialects, the nasal sonorant /m/ hardened into the plosive /b/ and subsequently softened into the fricative /v/, ultimately yielding the English heaven.
With the root *h₂eḱ-, matters become positively scintillating. In Greek, it begat ὀξῠ́ς (“sharp”), which gifted us oxymoron (literally “pointedly foolish”) and the designation for oxygen in the majority of Western European languages (O = oxygen), simply because the ancient Greeks regarded a sour taste as “sharp”. The Romans concurred: in Latin, the verb became aceō (“to turn sour, as wine”). Furthermore, the Latin acuō (“to sharpen”) gave rise to acūmen (“a point, keenness”) and acūtus (“sharp”). The Slavonic ostry (sharp), incidentally, springs from that very same root *h₂eḱ-. In Proto-Germanic, it blossomed into *agjō (“edge, corner”), which bestowed upon English edge and upon German Ecke.
Meanwhile, in Persian, no sharp-sour linguistic crises ever transpired; stone remained stone, the celestial vault was masonry of the sturdiest sort, and the word for it survived intact in Kazakh—largely because the veneration of the firmament, or more precisely its presiding spirit Tengri, represents the most ancient creed of that region.
Phew! With one half of the exhibition’s title satisfactorily dissected, we still find ourselves saddled with the second: töbemde (“above me”). It is constructed in impeccable accordance with the tenets of Turkic grammar: the suffix -m (“my”) coupled with the locative case suffix -de. The root, moreover, is easily recognisable: the Kazakh töbe equals the Turkish tepe (“hill, summit”). True, in modern Turkish this root is no longer enlisted to forge spatial adverbs or directional nuances—they prefer alternative roots for the abstract notion of “above”. But the Kazakhs are a wonderfully practical people: is a hill high up? Indeed it is. Is being upon a hill being upstairs? Quite so. And that, as they say, is that.
The Visual Sanctuary of Äygerim Käribayeva
If you have persevered thus far, it is evident you possess an inquiring mind. Excellent. As a modest reward for your attention and fortitude, let us examine the charming canvases of Äygerim Käribayeva. Naturally, the exhibition came equipped with the obligatory, solemn-sounding curatorial manifesto. I shall spare you all but the most homeopathic dose:
My works are an attempt to create a ‘visual sanctuary’, a place where everyday existence blossoms into constructive optimism. […] I invite you to step into this space where social roles fall silent and only sincerity remains. Remember: after all the noise dies down, nothing lingers within but tenderness, and one’s personal horizon is ever open to those willing to raise their eyes. Welcome beneath my Sky!” — Äygerim Käribayeva
The Kazakh apa, hailing from the Proto-Turkic *apa (“elder female relative on the paternal or other male side”), serves as a courteous mode of address for women senior in age or station, and may be variously rendered as “elder sister, auntie, mother, or grandmother”. Jan—literally “soul”—frequently performs the office of an affectionate diminutive suffix in address. Thus, combined, they yield something akin to “dear auntie-soul”.
The Turkic ay denotes both the month and the moon. Furthermore, the latter was traditionally perceived as bright, luminous, and comely, which accounts for why ay so frequently graces Turkic given names: Aygul (“moonflower”), Aynur (“moonbeam”).
The körpe is a traditional Kazakh quilted mattress or coverlet. In antiquity, it was fashioned from stallion hide and edged with decorative fabric. Today, it constitutes a fabric cover stitched in intricate geometric patterns (silk, satin, or sateen), stuffed with down, cotton wool, or animal hair, including camel hair.
And now, a brace of additional canvases:
Perhaps therein lies the true magic of art: it compels us to slacken our pace, to peer closely into familiar words, and to discover fresh layers of meaning within them. For this humble observer, visiting Äygerim Käribayeva’s exhibition proved to be a most refreshing linguistic and aesthetic reboot. And you—what exhibitions, or indeed what singular words, have lately brought you to a halt and set your mind wandering?
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