Years ago, I was browsing through an exhibition in a modern art museum in New York when I came across a pile of sand. The first thing that crossed my mind was that the museum was under construction.

Later, when I realized that the pile of sand was an artwork on display, I couldn’t help but laugh. Then, I began to reflect - and 25 years later, I’m still reflecting. What does this simple pile of sand mean? What was the artist trying to convey?

Sometimes, the purpose of art is to be just that: a seemingly ordinary pile of sand. Art doesn’t always fit into a clear framework; it often speaks more to thought than to form. Perhaps the artist was inviting us to pause, to slow down, and to really notice the things we usually overlook; the things we dismiss as ordinary or insignificant. Years later, I wonder if that sand symbolized the fragile and slippery nature of life and memory and the flow of time.

While reading Ayşegül Savaş's third novel, The Anthropologists, which has not yet been translated into Turkish, I was reminded of that pile of sand; so plain, seemingly mediocre, yet somehow extraordinary. Just as a mound of sand as artwork challenges our perception of what art is, the writer of this novel also disrupts our usual expectations of what a novel should be. As with the simple pile of sand, The Anthropologists may come across as 'unremarkable' or 'insignificant' at first glance. The novel deviates from using traditional plot elements which could make it difficult for the reader to maintain momentum. There is no clear conflict, no dramatic tension or climax and there is no resolution because conflict itself is absent.  However, I think it is this simplicity and ambiguity that gives the novel its strength. In fact, that's probably the appeal of the book for many.

The protagonists of the novel, Asya and Manu, are a young married couple, newly graduated from university, with no shared language or homeland. In an unnamed foreign city, (though likely somewhere in Europe), they search for a place to call home both physically and figuratively. The novel is structured like storyboards in short, titled episodes and through these episodes, we witness how Asya and Manu question their lives as immigrants, navigating the delicate nature of daily interactions with new friends, Zoom calls with family and neighbors from different generations. Asya is both a documentary filmmaker and an anthropologist, and it is through her first-person lens that we observe the couple’s quiet, everyday life unfolding. It's hard to write such a concise, introspective and character-driven story; however, Ayşegül Savaş achieves this with a surprising sincerity and simple language.

The book has sparked a range of opinions among my reader friends. Some find it too calm, perhaps even boring, citing a "lack of plot and conflict." For others, me included, it resonates deeply. I especially admire how the events of the couple’s daily life are portrayed with such subtlety and nuance that their emotional depth and complexity only become fully apparent after finishing the book. For instance, Asya’s and Manu’s transition from student life to settled adulthood is conveyed not through grand turning points, but through seemingly minor moments such as shopping for groceries with intention, dressing up for a mortgage appointment, or attending a party out of social obligation. Another strength of the novel lies in its use of home as a powerful metaphor, woven throughout the narrative with care. I was also wondering if the namelessness of the city may serve to highlight that home is less about a specific place and more about a sense of belonging and emotional connection.  As I read the book, I couldn’t help but fondly recall my own early—and admittedly privileged—adulthood, spent as a young woman working in a modern Western capital. The ordinary yet vividly drawn moments in the story stirred a quiet sense of connection between me and the characters. I felt that I would have easily fit into their world—and genuinely enjoyed their company over coffee or wine.

The author, with her uniquely simple, poetic language, skillfully reveals the depth hidden in seemingly ordinary moments. Yet for the general readers who are accustomed to a traditional plot, this quiet narrative may feel slow or even tiresome. Minimalist storytelling, like minimalist visual art, demands something more challenging: patience, attentiveness, and a willingness to engage and observe.

The readers may expect more from this novel just as the grandmother in the story expects bigger things from Asya. As a matter of fact, her grandmother says to Asya, "We have given you the name of a huge continent (Asia). You're making a documentary of a small park."

When we read Savaş's life story, we can see the autobiographical nature of this novel better. Born in Istanbul, Ayşegül Savaş lived in Adana, Ankara, London and Copenhagen as the child of a family of diplomats. She studied anthropology and sociology in the United States. After completing her master's degree in writing in San Francisco, she moved to Paris in 2012 with her Latvian husband. The city depicted in the story is also very similar to Paris, where the author lives.

Barack Obama's inclusion of Ayşegül Savaş’ s novel The Anthropologists in the list of his favorite books in 2024 has elevated the author's literary stature on an international scale. I think Savas was already a powerful writer, but the inclusion on this list has established her as a more prominent writer and introduced the book to a wider readership around the world.

Even if the quiet, everyday moments of the story don’t resonate with you, I believe you’ll still appreciate the book for Savas’s beautifully simple yet powerful language. Perhaps it’s precisely this calm simplicity that offered comfort to Obama, who was weighed down by difficult decisions, heavy responsibilities, and a relentlessly busy schedule. I truly believe the book is masterfully crafted, capturing the subtle depth and hidden weight of ordinary existence. (NS/VK)