True to Self

An Interview 

Arghavan Khosravi On Tension, Circumventing Censorship, and the Protest of Iranian Women

“The Orange Curtain” (2022), acrylic on canvas over shaped wood panel on wood panel, 64 1/2 x 49 inches. Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and Colossal.

by Grace Ebert, Colossal

For Arghavan Khosravi, obscurity is the point. The Iranian artist (previously) translates the experience of living a dual life—that of immigrating, of presenting differently when at school and at home, and of wanting to deny clear interpretations—into disjointed works that are equally alluring and destabilizing. She’s never proscriptive and offers viewers several entrance points into her narratives, which center around agency, identity, and most recently, the Woman, Life, Freedom movement in protest of Iran’s strict limitations on women and girls.

I visited Khosravi’s solo show, True to Self, at Rachel Uffner Gallery in mid-November, a week after our phone call transcribed below. In addition to her fragmented wall works bound by cord and layered in multiple dimensions, several figurative sculptures congregate at the back of the gallery as a sort of battalion. The women are armored with chainmail and Persian helmets but aren’t militant, instead forming a structural resistance that both demands their right to be seen and invites viewers to stand with them in defiance and solidarity.

Grace Ebert: You have a background in graphic design and illustration, two disciplines rooted in narrative and storytelling. And in the first article we wrote about your work, you say that before you start a new painting, you keep thinking about what you want to say in it. Of course, your background is influential, but why is this narrative component so crucial to your work?

Arghavan Khosravi: I have always been painting on the side in my spare time, but when I came to the U.S. in 2015 to go to grad school and study painting, I wanted a fresh start. I thought that I should forget about all the skills that I learned during those years as a graphic designer and illustrator, and I had to let go of the set of tools that those fields gave me. I started with abstract paintings that were all process-based and more like happenings, accidents, pouring paint, things like that because I thought I’d have to start from the opposite pole in this spectrum. I didn’t have any sort of narrative in my work. 

When I was working in this mode, the process was not satisfying. The result was not satisfying for the viewer. In school, my first grade was very horrible. I was depressed for a week after my first critique, and that was a very small example of what a career in art was going to be. It was a good practice to not get disappointed by negative feedback. After that, I realized that for what I want to express in my paintings, abstraction is not good. I shouldn’t try to abandon narrative or all those things that I learned while working as a graphic designer. I thought that having those perspectives in my work as a painter could help me to create my own visual language. 

So I landed on painting, maybe from a slightly different perspective than someone who has been trained more traditionally or conventionally as a painter. That’s how having a narrative in my work became more and more important. 

At some point—it was a couple of years that I was away from home in Iran—I started to think about my memories from Iran, and because of some visa complications, I wasn’t able to travel. Beyond the immediate feeling of nostalgia, I thought of my memory and more and more about the situation in Iran. That became the prominent subject matter in my work. My work became more narrative about the situation in Iran, how women are treated, and in a broader sense, people in general, in a semi-totalitarian theocracy. That was the point of departure in my studio practice.

“The Battleground” (2022), acrylic on canvas over shaped wood panel, on wood panel and wood cutout, elastic cord, metal and glass beads, feather, brass, 63 x 53 inches. Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and Colossal.

Grace: Have you always known what you wanted to say, especially as it relates to those more political or humanitarian issues that you’re talking about?

Arghavan: Even when I started, it wasn’t like, okay, I want to address these issues. It was more organic. It started with my childhood memories, which had nothing to do with the current situation because it was through a lens of me as a child and on a more personal level. But then it started to be more about the human rights crisis in Iran. 

I never have a clear idea of what I want to paint. I leave my imagination free while I’m sketching, and I try out different things and look at a lot of source material because sometimes that helps me. My creativity is more activated like that. When I look at several images from all different kinds of sources, some ideas come to my mind. It’s more like a stream of thoughts. Ideas are floating in my mind, and different images come to the surface and go. 

But when I want to start a painting, at that point, I have a very clear idea of what I want to paint. Everything is pre-planned during that sketching phase. Sometimes when I start to paint and look at my sketches, some things are even clearer to me because, before that, it seems that they were on a subconscious level, and I wasn’t even aware of them. Then it’s like an object in front of me. I look at it, and I realize that there were these underlying meanings that even I was not, in an active sense, aware of. 

Grace: What are some examples of subconscious things?

Arghavan: There is one piece called “The Void.” At the bottom of the composition, a woman is trapped in a box, and on the middle level of the painting, there is a woman trapped in flames. The more you go up, some positive things emerge, like a window to a garden and a woman who is sitting and reading a book, looking out from the window to that garden. When I was thinking about this composition, I didn’t consciously think about the hierarchy of the positioning of these elements. From the bottom to the upper part of the composition, there is a sense of liberation or hope. When I was working, I never thought about this logic.

“The Void” (2022), acrylic on canvas over shaped wood panel, on wood panel and on wood cutout, elastic cord, aluminum rod, 58 1/2 x 65 inches. Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and Colossal.

Grace: I know symbolism is something you’re always thinking about. You use recurring motifs—hair, strings, chords, and I noticed that more recently, you’re using bodily wounds, like gashes in people’s skin. I know that these symbols serve different purposes and that they’re not all speaking to the same thing, but why do you decide to return to these recurring motifs? What does that repetition offer you and offer the narrative?

Arghavan: At first glance, they are very simple symbols, and most of them are universal. I like to complicate them and have them in my work in a way that conveys more complex thoughts. It’s like having this set of simple alphabets and then creating words or sentences that are not as simple. Again, it was not intentional, but I realized that I’m drawn to these simple symbols and to have them juxtaposed with other symbols or other imagery that in the end, eventually, convey something more complex.

In general, I’m interested in symbols because they make the paintings accessible to a wide audience. People coming from different cultural backgrounds, different life experiences, can have their own take by looking at these symbolic elements in the paintings. 

Maybe it’s because of where I’m coming from. In authoritarian systems, if you want to say something and not be in trouble, you have to say it in a way that it’s open to interpretation to circumvent that censorship. I think it has become part of Iranians’ DNA. Now that I’m here, and I have the freedom of expression, and I can say almost anything I want, it’s still part of me. If I want to be genuine in my paintings and true to myself, I still have that approach. It makes the paintings not just limited to a specific audience but also hopefully not specific to a time or geography. And maybe more poetic, I guess.

Grace: Last time we spoke, you mentioned that your goal is to find something that’s universal in women’s experiences. It does make sense that obscuring the meaning, not being so direct with what you’re speaking about, lends itself to being more universal. 

Arghavan: Exactly. And hopefully more timeless so that in the future, still the pieces have something to say. At the end of the day, I think the Iranian audience, Iranian women to be more specific, are the ones who get the paintings the most because we are coming from the same circumstances. While the audience is not limited to them, I think they are the core audience.

Grace: That makes me wonder what your relationship with Iran is at the moment.

Arghavan: Since late 2016, I haven’t traveled to Iran, so my contact is limited to my family, friends, and social media and news outlets. But I follow everything closely because still, a part of me is living there. I care about what’s going on. Based on what happens in Iran, I get energized, or inspired, or sometimes depressed. I try to reflect that in my work. To very selfishly put it, the main reason I make my paintings is because they make me feel better and cope with these negative thoughts or feelings. 

Also, the other part of the creative process that gives you satisfaction is that you share it with others. They can comment on it, share their own experiences, and create a broader conversation. For me, painting is a healing or coping mechanism to deal with trauma on a both personal and collective level.

Grace: And you paint every day, is that right?

Arghavan: Yeah, except for the days that I’m on a trip. I paint every day. I don’t have any days off.

 “The Scissors” (2023), acrylic on canvas over shaped wood panels, wood cutouts, metal nails, metal buckles, leather, 86 x 86.5 x 14 inches. Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and Colossal.

Grace: I want to return to the obscurity that we were talking about in terms of the beauty of your works. I find them so destabilizing because I look at them, and they’re beautiful. They have bright colors and very clean lines. And yet, as you just mentioned, they’re full of anger, full of grief, full of rebellion. Can you talk about that dichotomy between the two?

Arghavan: You’re right that there is this dichotomy in my work. At first glance, the bright colors look like they could communicate some positive feelings, but the closer you look, some disturbing imagery is lurking beneath that beautiful surface as you said.

I’m interested in this idea of contradiction in general, not just in how the paintings look. When I have imagery coming from different contexts—like historic, contemporary, Western, Eastern—this creates tension, which is like a visual translation of the tension Iranian people feel living in Iran. Most Iranians don’t believe how the governing system is thinking and believing, so there is always this clash between tradition, religion, and then modernity and secular ideas. 

Like what I said about symbolism, it becomes like part of your DNA, this dual life you have to lead in Iran. In public, you appear to be following the rules that are based on religion, and then in private, you have your secular way of life and your freedom of thought. This is the core reason behind this idea of contradiction. When it comes to the paintings’ color palette or composition or even the way I paint, which is very precise— the painting has a sense of delicacy—then there is this contrast between these bright color palettes and the darker subject matter or situation depicted. I hope that it creates this tension that was something on an everyday basis when I was living in Iran I experienced.

Grace: Would you like to talk a little bit about what it was like growing up in Iran?

Arghavan: I’m happy to. I think this is the case of most Iranians, they say that there is a dual life that they have to live. I was born and grew up in a family of which religion wasn’t a part. My parents and extended family weren’t religious. So the first time that I encountered religion, when I had to face it and be forced to practice it, was in school. At seven years old, you start to realize that there is this separation between your private space and the public space. There are things you do at home that you shouldn’t mention in school, like if you listen to a kind of music, things like that.

The other thing is that the compulsory hijab starts at that age—not in the streets, but when you’re in school, we have to cover our hair. You realize that there is this distinct separation, and at an early age, you learn how to navigate this double life. First, it’s at school, then at your college and your workplace. You always know that once you step outside the haven of your home onto the streets, you have to adhere to these Islamic laws and like the case of Mahsa Jina Amini, risk your life if you don’t. 

Although I should mention that since last year’s uprisings in Iran, which started in reaction to the compulsory hijab, women are defying that. They’re defying to wear their compulsory hijab in public and risk their freedom or even their life. It seems that these newer generations are trying to rebel against these laws that are imposed in public and on a daily basis, and courage is contagious. They are not wearing their scarves as an act of civil disobedience. So, women’s hair has become a political object in Iran.

Grace: It feels like this disjointed reality, of living several different lives, comes through in the fragmented nature of your work where you have all of the different panels and different dimensions. 

Arghavan: Yeah, and on top of that, now I’m also living the life of an immigrant. Even now I feel that I’m living in between places, like a part of me is still living in Iran. I’m living here, but I don’t feel that I 100% belong to here, at least at the moment. Maybe in the future, things will change. That’s another reason that I feel like these multi-panel pieces are really speaking to that experience. 

Grace: Absolutely. I’m also curious about the use of hands in your pieces because hands to me seem to be representative of agency. 

Arghavan: Or lack of agency. 

Grace: Right! And sometimes in your works, the hands are glowing. Sometimes they’re bound by strings or cords. What does the hand mean to you? What do the gestures mean to you?

Arghavan: Hands can be charged with a lot of emotions, and how they’re positioned can convey a lot of emotions and feelings. This is something that you can see in miniature paintings, as well, not the hand, but the expressions of each person. Each figure’s feelings in those paintings are mostly conveyed through their body language, more than their facial expression. That has always been very interesting to me. And in my work, I found that hands are a good vehicle to express several feelings, without necessarily showing the face or the full body. 

And as you mentioned, they represent agency. If they are depicted in a situation where they’re bound to ropes, then they show a lack of agency. These glowing hands, in my mind, are predicting something about to happen. They are a source of power. This woman in this painting is depicted in this repressed situation, but the glowing hands suggest that she’s going to take things into her own hands. Because I have a lot of black ropes or the black ball and chain and shackles, these glowing, colorful hands are the opposite of that. Whatever the ball, chain, and shackles symbolize, these glowing hands are metaphors for the opposite concepts. 

Grace: You have hope then.

Arghavan: Yeah, maybe. We have to have hope. 

If the paintings are too dark, and everything is too disturbing, I, as the painter, cannot stand working on them, let alone with inviting other people to look at them. I need to have this balance of negative-positive in my work because, at the end of the day, it’s my coping mechanism. 

Grace: And, if we don’t have hope, then what is the point? Why make the work?

Arghavan: But a realistic hope, not something that is not achievable and makes you feel numb and not act. Something that feels real, not too idealistic.

Grace: I want to talk also about your recent show at the Rose Museum. Congratulations on that. How are you feeling about it now that is wrapped up? 

Arghavan: It was a great experience. Working with the curator, Dr. Gannit Ankori, was really a great experience. It was a survey, so there were works from the time that I was a student at Brandeis, works from my time at Rhode Island School of Design, and more recent works that I created over the past two years. Having all those pieces in one space, it was really interesting to look at them and look at how my journey as a painter started and evolved. 

For me, one of the highlights of that exhibition was five Persian miniature paintings that were on loan from the Harvard Art Museum and the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Because those are the sources of inspiration for most of my paintings, having those historic masterpieces exhibited beside my work was something that I have always dreamed of. I never thought that it could be possible. So, that was one of the most exciting parts. 

Also in this exhibition, I had eight works that were freestanding, fully three-dimensional pieces. That was also a first for me. They’re now on view for my solo show at Rachel Uffner Gallery in New York.

Grace: How do you feel about creating within this tradition of Persian miniature paintings and being in conversation with them? 

Arghavan: This is something that other people should judge. I have never been trained in that tradition of Persian miniature paintings. The way I paint is self-taught. The first time I studied painting was in grad school, and at that point, they assume you know how to paint. The conversation is more about what you paint. That’s why I don’t think that I can consider myself part of that tradition. 

But, it’s part of my visual language. These miniature paintings, or these patterns within the parts of the paintings, are part of my visual vocabulary, and it’s something that in my childhood I have grown up looking at.

From a cultural perspective, there are some overlaps between my lived experience, my experiences, and that tradition. It is important to note that these visual languages—patterns and arabesque designs—were also often used for governmental propaganda. So, it’s a visual vocabulary which has been developed over the years, and now I am interested in claiming it as my own and expressing my own contradictory narrative with it.

Grace: What made you decide to do fully three-dimensional sculptural works? 

Arghavan: I started to have some three-dimensional elements in my previous works, and I always want to push further and challenge myself in the studio. I have realized that I am more creative when I’m in problem-solving mode. 

I was interested in having pieces that the audience could move around and decide from which angle to look at. When they move around a piece, the work changes. That was also interesting. All of those three-dimensional works were created after the protests in Iran, so I was very inspired by those events. I wanted to give the women in my work a more powerful presence. These three-dimensional, larger-than-life, cropped portraits of women felt like a good choice to have that sense of power. They occupy space in a way that you cannot ignore them.

Grace: You can’t ignore the women no matter where they or you are. You can’t ignore them anywhere.

Arghavan: Exactly.

“The White Feather” (2023), acrylic on canvas over shaped wood panels, wood cutouts, plexiglass, metal nails, chainmail, feather, 82 x 50 x 16 inches. Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and Colossal.

Khosravi’s works are on view through January 6 at Rachel Uffner Gallery and May 5 at Newport Art Museum. Keep up with her practice on Instagram.

Via Colossal