Tracing Sa’dabad: Unfolding maps, Unfolding questions

by Rana Kelleci

I had the privilege of spending this February at the NIT as a research fellow to delve into my research on and around the so-called Tulip Period, that is to culminate into a master thesis as part of my studies at the Art Praxis program at the Dutch Art Institute. As an artist and researcher I approach this period in Ottoman history from various critical entry points, from the perspectives of historiography, cultural history, space and memory. During my fellowship at NIT, I focused on sources that expanded my spatial understanding of this time period. More specifically, I analysed maps of Kağıthane, a district in Istanbul that is central to this historical period.

At the heart of the Tulip Period -roughly spanning the years 1718 to 1730- stands the Sadabad Palace in Kağıthane. The term “Tulip Period” was popularized by historian Ahmed Refik (Altınay), who introduced it through a series of articles published in the newspaper İkdam in 1913. These articles were later compiled into a monograph bearing the same title. Refik’s construction of the period emphasizes extravagance, cultural progress, and the initial gestures toward Westernization within the Ottoman world. While contemporary scholarship has offered critical and revisionist perspectives on this periodization, the popular imagination still tends to associate the Tulip Period with leisure and pleasure.

In his narrative, Ahmed Refik vividly depicts the opulence and extravagance enjoyed by the ruling elite and various segments of the public in the Kağıthane meadows, the Sadabad Palace, and the pavilions of bureaucratic circles around Istanbul. Drawing frequently on verses composed under Persian literary influence, he offers almost visual renderings of these spaces and the social and intellectual gatherings they hosted. Among his detailed accounts are descriptions of the renowned “Tulip Illuminations”, where members of the elite were captivated by the vibrant display of tulips lit by small lamps at night, accompanied by lavish feasts, music, and literary discourse.

Today, little remains of the Sadabad Palace -its name, meaning “Abode of Happiness” echoing the influence of Persian poetic tradition. Only a few scattered marble fragments of its kiosks and waterworks survive. The Patrona Halil Rebellion of 1730, which resulted in the overthrow of the sultan and the execution of the grand vizier, also brought about the partial destruction of the palace. In the years that followed, the Sa’dabad Palace was intermittently neglected, repaired, demolished, and rebuilt. Today, the site is occupied by the Kağıthane Municipality building, whose architecture retains certain continuities with the structures previously constructed on the same grounds.

My curiosity about the Sadabad Palace was sparked by the striking realization of its absence from the contemporary urban landscape with its initial form. As an artist, this absence resonated with me on a visceral level, prompting a search for its traces in both memory and history. This search eventually led me to Ahmed Refik’s historical imagination, which opened up a series of questions that continue to shape and inform my ongoing artistic research.

During my fellowship at NIT, I investigated the spatial representations of Kağıthane and the Sa’dabad Palace as depicted in maps produced between the 16th and 20th centuries— created by both Ottoman and European travelers and mapmakers. This inquiry began with an introduction to the history of cartography in the Ottoman context, which opened up critical pathways for examining the intersections of mapmaking with identity, collective memory, and imperial power.

Through comparing these cartographic representations, I not only developed a vocabulary for interpreting maps but also deepened my sensitivity to how urban memory and historical perception are inscribed onto landscapes. What initially began as an investigation into the absence of the first Sadabad Palace gradually evolved into broader questions: What does absence signify within collective memory? What might it reveal about our identities? And how does history shape our sense of belonging to a place?

As I conclude this period of research, I feel even more compelled to reflect on my personal relationship with Istanbul—the city where I was born and raised—and to explore how these questions continue to resonate in my practice.

I’m grateful to Fokke, Aysel, and fellow researchers I encountered at NIT for fostering a space where these questions could unfold.