tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84824694772038403952024-03-14T10:08:10.379+00:00Art AwareArt Aware is a non-profit-making blog that monitors all that’s interesting in the world of contemporary art, literature and culture in Iran and in the Iranian worldwide diaspora.
It is a review and commentary of new exhibitions, events and developments in art media in Iran and in the West. I am a working artist and also an academic art historian.
Edited and compiled by Dr Aida ForoutanDr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.comBlogger693125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-5225079761573380792024-02-05T11:44:00.002+00:002024-02-05T11:59:10.988+00:00“The Grandest Orphan Cinema”: <h3 style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-weight: normal;"><a href="https://filmmakermagazine.com/tag/ehsan-khoshbakht/" target="_blank">Ehsan Khoshbakht</a> on MoMA’s “Iranian Cinema before the Revolution, 1925–1979” Series</i></h3><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCC19OKEr8dBtRI4sA2_x4gG2ThcyT53Jljp3N_0-YRRTFnwPT0u83or2PTqyGLbNiuVdRzPYiGxEIgd1S6gPRqcML_IA1AyVIXgotyvRBU65Fmh677G0XoCDQDmMD8CNyMwr5yCncdaN04JUbmHHVH9W3Pabi3lnBqD0GKdNNn2pq4uizJvyWp65rjI/s1240/15_Chess-of-the-Wind_6.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="698" data-original-width="1240" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmCC19OKEr8dBtRI4sA2_x4gG2ThcyT53Jljp3N_0-YRRTFnwPT0u83or2PTqyGLbNiuVdRzPYiGxEIgd1S6gPRqcML_IA1AyVIXgotyvRBU65Fmh677G0XoCDQDmMD8CNyMwr5yCncdaN04JUbmHHVH9W3Pabi3lnBqD0GKdNNn2pq4uizJvyWp65rjI/w640-h360/15_Chess-of-the-Wind_6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chess of the Wind (1976), Image courtesy of Filmmaker Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">Interview by <a href="https://filmmakermagazine.com/author/rene-baharmast/" target="_blank">René Baharmast</a> in <a href="https://filmmakermagazine.com/category/festivals-events/" target="_blank">Festivals & Events</a>, <a href="https://filmmakermagazine.com/" target="_blank">Filmmaker Magazine</a> </p><p>Starting with a packed house on the night of October 13 and concluding right after Thanksgiving, MoMA showcased <a href="https://www.moma.org/calendar/film/5632" target="_blank">“Iranian Cinema before the Revolution, 1925–1979,”</a> the largest retrospective of Iranian cinema ever held inside or outside of Iran. With close to 70 films covering the pre-revolutionary period, there were works from Iran’s most famous filmmaker, Abbas Kiarostami; the most famous film of this era, the late Dariush Mehrjui’s <i>The Cow</i>; and repertory favorites like Ebrahim Golestan’s <i>Brick and Mirror</i>, Bahram Beyzaie’s <i>Downpour</i> and Forough Farrokhzad’s <i>The House is Black</i>. But, significantly, there were also films by lesser-known but just as vital filmmakers such as the Iranian Hitchcock, Armenian-Iranian Samuel Khachikian (<i>Anxiety</i>) and Masoud Kimiai, whose banned and politically censored <i>The Deer</i> had a rare screening as it was intended to be seen. One of Iran’s most popular actors, Parviz Sayyad, had one of his directorial efforts shown, the harrowing <i>Dead End</i>. Sohrab Shahid Saless, the most influential filmmaker of this era, had three films, including the masterpiece <i>Still Life</i>. Filmmakers who were important figures beyond their directorial work, like Bahman Farmanara and Farrokh Ghaffari were also represented. </p><p>Putting this together was quite a feat. To that end, I spoke to the individual most responsible, the co-director of Il Cinema Ritrovata, Ehsan Khoshbakht—who had his documentary about this era, <i>Filmfarsi</i>, also shown in the series—in a wide-ranging conversation to place everything in its proper context. </p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>What’s your background and how did it relate to putting this retrospective together?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht:</b> My background in architecture informs what I do. Like a piece of architecture, I always think of the retrospective’s foundation, the main structure, facade, the ornamentations of all the different films, as fading into different architectural prescriptions that I have in mind.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><b>Filmmaker:</b> So you see it as somewhat of a design project?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht:</b> Very much, just like entering a building for the first time. How much is the height of the ceiling the moment you enter? If it’s 250 cm, there is a feeling; if it’s 300, it’s a completely different feeling. How are the audience going to be influenced under this perspective? How are they going to go out? What’s the circulation? What’s the movement? </p><p>In this program, for the first time in the history of retrospectives of Iranian cinema, there are arthouse films or we say in Iran, “Cinema-ye Motafavet,” shown next to popular films, or “<i>filmfarsi</i>.” There are documentaries, fiction films, short films, animation films, commissioned films, industrial films, educational films, newsreels and also films made by non-Iranians about Iranian subjects and films made by Iranians abroad. </p><p>I co-direct a film festival in Bologna, Il Cinema Ritrovata, which is a festival of film history, film restoration. So, the idea of preserving the history of Iranian cinema is another major concern of mine on a daily basis. How can more films be made accessible? How can films be made accessible in decent-to-ideal copies? You have seen the entire range of that in this MoMA show, from absolutely fantastic, first-rate restorations of films to copies that are decent enough to be screened, because that’s the only way we can see <i>Tranquility in the Presence of Others or Gheysar</i>. It is important to include them. I’m not going to wait forever until we could get hold of a print to digitize or restore it. It is important to have the entire picture there, even though some of the bits are out of focus, some are blurry, some are not in ideal condition.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>How hard was it to find these films and then convince the people who I imagine own the rights to these films to allow you to screen them and show them? I imagine for many, many reasons— having a diaspora, and the nature of our people—it must have been a very challenging ordeal.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>I have worked on many different projects, including directors whose films have drifted into oblivion. I’ve had to deal with Hollywood studios, different archives around the world on different retrospectives. This was, perhaps, the most challenging work for me, and I think my colleagues at MoMA would confirm that as well—if not the most challenging for them, then one of the most challenging because of all the issues involved, mostly political. This is a cinema, and a period in film history, to which access has been largely blocked. Those bits to which access has not been blocked is in the hands of the state in Iran, which is under severe sanctions. Tracking down the rights holders, the estates of the filmmakers (many of them have passed away) is a nightmare. There are many logistical issues. Information hasn’t been there; we gathered information for the first time. </p><p>Even though I worked with my colleagues on this for more than a year, from my end, I’ve been working on this for at least eight years. In 2015 I started gathering information about prints, initiating restoration projects and, most importantly, gaining the confidence of Iranian filmmakers. The latter meant that I had to convince them my work would be beneficial to them, to better understanding and appreciation of their cinema. Did all of them trust me? Many did—not all of them of course, because it’s a country affected by many drastic changes over the past 50 years and people have lost many things, including the sense of trust and hope. It’s been a very challenging process, at points nightmarish. The simplest things can get so complicated for no reason but, this was the largest retrospective of Iranian pre-revolutionary cinema ever, inside or outside Iran, since the 1979 revolution.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>These films are very difficult if you don’t have an awareness of Iran. Even for me, it is challenging because there are so many subtleties, so many complicated parts of our country as far as ethnicities, class, traditions, that in many way are very subtle, and they are also in conflict, so it’s hard to really grasp the full meaning of them. One question I’m going to ask you is a question interviewers usually ask at the end but I’ve noticed usually get terrible answers to because [the interviewee is] tired. As a British Iranian, what does this retrospective mean to you?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht:</b> I don’t know what it means for me as a British Iranian, but it means a great deal to me as someone who has, in a way, dedicated his life to cinema. Finally there is this great opportunity, in at least in one major Western city, for people to see one of the grandest, most dazzling, most fascinating, crazy chapters in film history, which remains largely unwritten. Where it is written, it is full of inaccuracies, presumptions, and [shaped by] the lack of access to the material. Now, this is it: look at this country, look at its people, and you will see beauty, ugliness, excitement, boredom, despair, hope—the entire range of humanity that exists in any other place. </p><p>You referred to the fact that many of these films need contextualization. I agree with you. They have an advantage: that no matter how oblique the message is, the film is visually rich. The experience of watching the film, regardless of connecting with its different layers of meaning, context, subtext etc, is often very rewarding. I have learned from some of the greatest Iranian filmmakers—like Ebrahim Golestan, who passed away earlier this year at 101—that we have to do our job and do it right. I’m not concerned with our image.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>Because the films speak for themselves?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht:</b> They do but, there’s something more important. I have confidence in Iranian culture. I don’t have to defend it, I don’t have to glorify it, I don’t have to put it on a pedestal. I believe they speak eloquently for themselves. They don’t need me. </p><p>In Bologna, in June, we premiered <i>The Stranger and the Fog</i>. When I was working on the color grading in the lab, I was looking at the film saying, “This is going to blow them away.” I knew that. I was sadistically standing outside of the cinema waiting to look at the faces of people coming out after two hours and 25 minutes of that incredible piece of cinema.</p><p>As you said, the films speak for themselves, but they also speak of many different Irans that we are not aware of. We’ve never been there. We haven’t spoken the dialect. We don’t understand the cultural specifics of those regions. It is also rewarding and eye-opening for Iranians. <i>Chess of the Wind</i>, which was restored three years back—well, even Iranians were not aware that the first lesbian scene in Iranian cinema was there. It was eye-opening for everybody. So, again, I believe in these filmmakers, in that country, and that’s why there’s no anxiety in what I do. I know it’s going to work. Of course, you can have your choices, you can prefer, for instance, Shahid Saless to Beyzaie or Aslani to Naderi. You can like a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Institute_for_the_Intellectual_Development_of_Children_and_Young_Adults" target="_blank">Kanoon</a> film more than a Ministry of Culture film. That’s a question of taste and personal experience. Overall, I think we’re speaking about a very solid film culture.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>My understanding is the Iranian National Film Archive takes reasonably good care of their films. Is that true?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht:</b> They do. They were one of the first members of the International Federation of Film Archives after the end of the Second World War, mostly thanks to Farrokh Ghaffari, whose <i>Shab-e Ghouzi </i>(<i>Night of the Hunchback</i>) was part of the program. Iran has always been very active on that front but, unfortunately, I’ve been told that by the time of the revolution only 30% of the pre-revolutionary films were deposited at the National Film Archive. After the revolution, with the process of destroying the films and the madness of the new regime accelerating, it became more difficult to collect the films, but what they have gathered they have preserved well. They have not necessarily restored many, but they equipped themselves with the latest digital technology. </p><p>The problem, of course, with the Iranian National Film archive, is the ideological side. Even if they preserve Iranian films, they still cannot show many of them. They can’t even lend them to international festivals or cinematheques. This is mostly because of lack of hijab, or when there is a sex scene or a dance number. So, it is true to some extent that the Iranian National Film Archive is well-organized and doing their job. But for this program, it was done totally without the cooperation of the National Film Archive because, again—the United States, Iran, governmental institutions. Out of the question.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>I think I saw a few films where in the introduction it says something about it coming from the Iranian Film Archive, but that’s from prior years I take it?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>That’s perhaps from having already been deposited somewhere else or scanned in Bologna. For this we didn’t get any prints directly from the Iranian National Film Archive.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>I know in other parts of bureaucratic Iran decisions are often made without rhyme or reason, right? Often times they depend on the mood of whoever you’re talking to. Is that the case with cinema?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>It is. That’s the way the country functions…or doesn’t function. It’s very irrational, like each individual has a different approach. Of course, it’s very hectic and unpredictable, but it’s mostly because of the lack of trust and fear of repercussions or consequences.</p><p><b>Filmmaker:</b> Last time I was in Iran 10 years ago I went to the Iranian Film Museum. In their gift shop they had DVD collections of various film directors, many of who I wasn’t familiar with. One was Farrokh Ghaffari, which included a documentary where I was astonished by his intellect. Was he influential with films?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>He was a very influential person in many ways. He was the director of the Shiraz Arts Festival. He invited all those great figures not only in cinema but also in other fields of art. He was the deputy manager of Iranian National Television, he allowed many filmmakers to produce films, he was the head of the Iranian National Film Archive. He started taking the history of Iranian cinema seriously. He wrote books on Iranian cinema, he made his own films, he interviewed older filmmakers. So, he was extremely influential, but he was not that influential as a filmmaker because, unfortunately, most of his films were extremely unsuccessful. The one that remains in its untouched, intact form is Shab-e Ghouzi, which is a wonderful film but we cannot call him a very influential filmmaker.</p><p>There was a small group of people in Iranian culture before the revolution who were powerful because they were directly linked to the Pahlavi family in different ways. He was one of them. I say a small group, because there were very few people who actually used it for a good cause: “Ok, I have the power, I can go to the Queen and have a chat with her. Why not do this? Why not do that?” For instance, Lily Amir-Amorjand, the head of Kanoon. These were technocrats who were actually creative, imaginative, who cared about Iranian culture, about people. That was rare in those days because people were, of course, mostly exploiting an opportunity for power.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>Sohrab Shahid Saless’s <i>Still Life</i> especially resonated with my film critic friends. This was interesting for me, because in some ways it’s a less Iranian film, and the ways that it is Iranian is a bit harder to understand, because it partly revolves the son who is working in the south, and the railroad, the change and loss of tradition.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>But that’s a very Iranian film. Probably you have not experienced life in rural Iran. I’m coming from a small town. I have experience stillness of life in rural Iran. Nothing changes, nothing moves. There’s just a sad poetry in this sense of stillness. It’s a very accurate film in that way but it’s not meant to be accurate or inaccurate. It is about a slice of reality which has then been polished with multiple devices coming from a Bressonian tradition in cinema, and then making it different from Bresson, because if you look at Bresson films they have many cuts. They are fast-paced films. But Shahid Saless turns the film into a painting in time, because it is obsessed with dead space, dead time, dead moments. I’m not surprised your friends were moved by Shahid Saless, because his cinema might look similar to Bresson’s. Saless is the type of filmmaker whose impact on the viewer gets stronger and deeper after the film is over. What he does with you is store certain kinds of information in your head and then the memory of those images and sounds grow bigger. A Shahid Saless movie has an afterlife that’s even stronger than the experience of sitting in the cinema and watching the film for 90 minutes.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>How was he received at the time, both inside and outside of Iran?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Unfortunately, his films were not shown in Iran very often. They were only shown at the Tehran International Film Festival, all three of the ones he made after settling in Germany. They were received very well, he won prizes, he was celebrated, but he was also very unhappy. He was an unhappy man in general. The political situation in Iran at the time made him even unhappier. Most of the reviews I have read from that period are positive, but, for a filmmaker, not being shown outside of the festival circuit was perhaps very disappointing. This is one of the major contradictions of Iranian cinema. The necessary infrastructure was not there. Iranian Public Television was co-producing a film like <i>Still Life</i> but there were no cinemas to show it at. The ministry of culture produced <i>A Simple Event</i> but there were no arthouse cinemas to distribute it around the country. That’s very sad. They were doing something very valuable and then completely abandoning what could have been the next major effort to make sure that film was going to be seen.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>Yes, there’s so much of this, where it’s such a simple fix but it’s just not done. It’s incredibly frustrating. I don’t know where this comes from.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>The lack of education. We don’t train people. If you have cinemas, you have to train your projectionists to treat the prints with respect. That hasn’t been the case in Iranian cinema. The government should have taken responsibility: “Each of you should come and have this certificate to prove you can handle film.” This could have saved many more films if projectionists were treating films better.</p><p>When I say this, I’m referring to one of the most expensive, best-funded festivals in the world. The Tehran International Film Festival, in the ’70s, invited William Wyler from America, showing a Wyler retrospective. Prints went from Hollywood to Iran. When these precious prints were returned they were damaged—there’s a new book about it by my friend Kaveh Askari from the University of California Press (<i><a href="https://www.ucpress.edu/book/9780520329768/relaying-cinema-in-midcentury-iran" target="_blank">Relaying Cinema in Midcentury Iran</a></i>). In that book, Kaveh has unearthed documents showing that many of those prints were so badly damaged that Hollywood studios asked the Iranian government for compensation, because the festival was organized by the Ministry of Culture. So, the Minister of Culture himself wrote back to the Hollywood studios apologizing and then paying—I don’t remember the exact figures—something like $5,000, plenty of money in the ’70s, for each damaged print. It is stupidity. You spend thousands to have Wyler and Gregory Peck there, all those parties in the Hilton Hotel, and you don’t do the most basic thing: Your projectionist doesn’t know how to handle a print. That’s the Iranian problem in a way.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>I saw that you translated quite a few of these films, but Farsi is very difficult to translate because our language is full of things where, if you translate literally, they don’t mean anything in English. What was your approach with regard to the translations? What was the most important thing you wanted to have people understand?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Most of the time, the essence of the conversation or information conveyed. I deal with films from all over the world, so I’m always very conscious about subtitling, following certain standards in terms of the number of characters. Most of the time I don’t really go for translating cultural references. I go for the simplest version of that dialogue in English because we only have three seconds to read it. It would be counter-productive to try to add information to that. I often go for some tiny details which would hopefully reveal something for an audience member who is more attentive. For instance, in <i>Chess of the Wind</i> there is a police character, “Bazpors.” Of course, you can say “inspector,” but I didn’t translate it as inspector. I translated it as “commissar,” because I wanted to convey this piece of information: in the 1920s, the setting of the film, the military and police in Iran were using a Russian model. You can also see that in the uniform, a kind of <i>ghazagh</i> (cossack). However, some of the films are almost poetry or prose poetry. When it comes to Golestan, that is very challenging. In these cases I usually work with the filmmakers—I worked in collaboration with Golestan to get what he actually wanted, get it right, get his approval. Then you have the very rare case of musical numbers in films like <i>Doroshkechi</i> (<i>The Carriage Driver</i>), where they’re basically jiving but also rhyming and it’s beautiful.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b><i>Raghse-ye Shahr</i> (<i>Dancer of the City</i>) is half a musical.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Oh yeah, for me the rhyming thing was very important, to get the songs to rhyme in the translation. For that, Kaveh helped me a lot. He’s very good. I always joke with Kaveh—he’s the head of the film department at Michigan State University—“If you ever wanted to abandon academia, you would have a wonderful career in <i>filmfarsi</i> as a songwriter.” If you want to compare a modern translation with totally embarrassing contemporary translation just have a look at the copy of <i>Downpour</i> by Beyzaie, which is a translation from the ’70s. It’s been subtitled in Lebanon and it’s inaccurate, messy and selective. It translates one line and then decides not to translate the next one which is equally important. Unfortunately, in the ’60s and ’70s—not only in Iranian cinema, in many non-English speaking, non-western world film industries—subtitles were very inaccurate. Iran would usually send films to Lebanon. Those who were very lucky would send them to France and that was, perhaps, a bit more accurate, but even the old subtitling work of films by Ebrahim Golestan, done in France, of films like <i>Brick and Mirror</i>, are not accurate at all. So, for the first time you see that not only in its complete form, but with a proper translation.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>What’s the difference between a digital preservation and digital restoration?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>A digital restoration is when you have whatever elements, ideally from camera, some negative or far-from-ideal positive, which was the case with Downpour, and scan them. You remove the dirt, scratches, defects. You create a version which is restored and fully reworked to resemble the original work the way it was intended. It’s a time-consuming, very expensive process. Preservation is just a basic scan of the film with no major clean-up project, no digital restoration. You just preserve it so you can show it. For instance, the print of <i>Still Life</i> is so fragile they would not let MoMA screen it because of the possibility of the film breaking after five minutes, so they had to preserve it.</p><p><b>Filmmaker:</b> All of these films, none are scanned off of video tape right?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Oh, no, all from positive or negative. Most of them are from positive. </p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>I was really taken with Bahman Farmanara, specifically <i>Prince Ehtejab</i>. Stylistically it took a lot of risks. It was way ahead of its time and its story, for us, is very real, very intense. It goes back to a lot of the stuff you were speaking about earlier. I saw a documentary with him where I saw he had a great intellect and also produced many films in the ’70s that are being screened here. What can you tell me about him?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Farmanara is very important for Iranian cinema both as a director and producer. His most famous work is as a director. <i>The Tall Shadows of the Wind</i> is a very fascinating film belonging to a series of films that anticipate, in a prophetic manner, the arrival of the Iranian Revolution. But, as a producer, his career is so underrated. Look at <i>Chess of the Wind</i>—it’s Farmanara. <i>Gozaresh</i> [<i>The Report</i>] by Kiarostami, it’s Farmanara. You look at <i>F for Fake</i> by Orson Welles, it’s him. The biggest box office hit in the history of Iranian cinema, <i>Dar emtedad shab</i> (<i>Along the Night</i>), directed by Parviz Sayyad and starring Googoosh [the most famous Iranian pop star, still around today and doing sold-out concert tours across the globe], that’s him. He has produced some of the most cutting-edge arthouse films, the most popular film in the history of Iranian cinema and co-productions, so many different talents. He has a wonderful business mind. That’s exactly what we have always lacked. I always tell my friends, if someone like Bahman Farmanara had been in charge of the film industry in Iran, all those infrastructural problems we just mentioned could have been solved. He studied in America. He had a vision, he was familiar with the process, everything from production to distribution. Thanks to Mehdi Bushehri [the Shah’s brother-in-law, married to his twin sister, who funded Orson Welles’s <i>The Other Side of the Wind</i>], he was entrusted with running this company but it was very short-lived. What he did in the span of four years is totally remarkable.</p><p><b>Filmmaker:</b> Obviously Kanoon was a big part of this. How would you describe the relationships the filmmakers of that generation had with one another? Were they friends, collaborators in a similar way to the French New Wave?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>I did a similar program in Berlin, much smaller, and had some Iranian filmmakers join me. The last question I asked every single filmmaker was “was it a wave?” Meaning, as a new wave, was it actually a wave? Almost every single one of them said no. They all rejected the idea of a wave. That tells me something about the Iranian psyche, especially the radical individualism of the Iranian artist that doesn’t want to be part of any group. But when you look closely, it’s insane—of course they were all collaborating with each other, at a level even more unifying than the French New Wave. Look at Amir Naderi: he did the photography for Masoud Kimiai, wrote scripts for Abbas Kiarostami, his films were edited by people like Sohrab Shahid Saless, Kamran Shirdel and Bahram Beyzaie. He made films with scripts written by Mohammad Reza Aslani. Look at Houshang Baharlou: the DP of how many of these films? Look how certain institutions, like the Ministry of Culture or Kanoon, brought a sense of coherent style to these films. There were festivals like Shiraz Arts Festival and Tehran International Film Festival. Go and browse the catalog of any of these festivals, all these films were presented there. It was clearly a “wave” then and it is even more so now. They all reject it, because there’s a sense of resentment about that period—their careers have been halted, they’ve been pushed into exile. There’s been many sad endings in the history of Iranian cinema—look at Shahid Saless, look at Mehrjui. It’s a very sad story.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>The actors in these films—Behrouz Vossoughi, Parvaneh Moussoumi, Mary Apick, Susan Taslimi, Naser Malek Motiei, Forouzan—where were they trained? Because they are all fantastic in these films. It was really a revelation for me, because I was expecting a little bit of idiosyncratic un-evenness.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>No, wonderful stuff, very nuanced, very charismatic. They were all trained in the school of life, because there were no acting schools.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>Oh! So they’re all untrained? They didn’t have theater backgrounds or anything of that nature?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Most of them didn’t. In the case of Mary Apick, I think she did. Vossoughi was a dubber before he became an actor. Nasser Malek Motiei was a school teacher. He was found in the street because he was good-looking. They got better and better; these were self-made movie stars. When you see the two styles of more realist non-actor tradition and movie stars overlap, the result is often very good. One example is <i>Dayereh-ye Mina</i> (<i>The Cycle</i>) by Mehrjoui, because Forouzan acted in it and is brilliant in the film.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>I saw that you wrote about Samuel Khachikian. You described him in your documentary as the Hitchcock of Iran. He was a very interesting guy, very sophisticated, trying things, experimenting from what I gathered.</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>Yeah, he was a master of form. There is not a single shot in his golden period—to me, from 1956 to 1965— that has not been carefully calculated and arranged. He is the master of mise-en-scene. In a sense he is the “total director” of Iranian cinema, to the point of over-directing his films, because he was obsessed with the medium. He wanted to manipulate and control every bit of sound and image in his films with very little resources, so all the soundtracks are stolen from different films. He turned it into this beautiful, hybrid, fast-moving view into an imaginary Iran. It’s not a real Iran, it’s an Iran that an Armenian Iranian fantasizes about: Drive American cars, have subscription magazines, go out with fancy skirts, go to the theater at night and drink coffee. People didn’t drink coffee back in the ’50s, they drank tea, but that’s the Samuel Khachikian version of Iran, which is really remarkable.</p><p><b>Filmmaker: </b>Where do you go from here? What’s next with Iranian cinema?</p><p><b>Khoshbakht: </b>In terms of preserving the past, we need money. The future is going to be defined by money. There are still some films to be restored, preserved, and money is always the main problem. Look, I’m so grateful for people like Martin Scorsese and George Lucas, for all the great things they have done for Iranian cinema, all these totally selfless contributions. But so far I haven’t been able to convince my fellow Iranians that preserving these films is as important as preserving artifacts in the British Museum, such as a piece of stone from 2,500 years ago. These are as important but more fragile. If we don’t do it now, in ten, 15 years, there will be no trace of some of these films. So, for me, just creating awareness, making more films available and trying to enlarge and expand and extend what I did in New York. Hopefully, one day, we could show as many Iranian films as possible through different platform, festivals, cinematheques. That’s my dream vision of the future.</p><p>I’m dealing with something which is so vast. We have to take care of this film heritage before things become too difficult to salvage. I’m benefitting a lot from the kindness of many different institutions, but there’s a limit to it. Because Cineteca di Bologna is not there to restore Iranian films. They are there for Italian cinema. They’ve been so kind: “OK, we do it—it’s important because nobody else does it.” Cinémathèque Française does it, but it’s not their job. The money they receive from the government is for preserving their own national cinema. Iranian cinema is in a way the grandest orphan cinema that existed!</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://filmmakermagazine.com/" target="_blank">Filmmaker Magazine</a> </p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknA3kjhsTOVaTuMH13uTfOwYHszc6HTHAWvRm8oS_Ha_48EXlQJy0gW0efX3EpikWXQdFUyxvoFxH0QAsKfSNVZo-Uug_5K703-bI7jorPbtJYKQv7ge9YREWiiBMrvgcd1JdgE1X1szh9em05c8_vXPyihAajlnElOQuRkYboB8AmDnT2-1swFJ0MRU/s2000/Cherike-ye-Tara_Ballad-of-Tara.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1557" data-original-width="2000" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhknA3kjhsTOVaTuMH13uTfOwYHszc6HTHAWvRm8oS_Ha_48EXlQJy0gW0efX3EpikWXQdFUyxvoFxH0QAsKfSNVZo-Uug_5K703-bI7jorPbtJYKQv7ge9YREWiiBMrvgcd1JdgE1X1szh9em05c8_vXPyihAajlnElOQuRkYboB8AmDnT2-1swFJ0MRU/w640-h498/Cherike-ye-Tara_Ballad-of-Tara.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ballad of Tara (1979), Image courtesy of MoMA.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-24666555536697300992024-01-06T14:51:00.000+00:002024-01-06T14:51:10.316+00:00Persian alphabet 'ART IRAN: Falling into Language' group exhibition features work by Iranian artists<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJpWLxeQ98AmzrzMtyWsxkBeB2RLvxshpnJag0LizQ4_Fi14HXh7hoGTPVndmmWjlU1iO5F3OUI7aTyiFH4vcTwFlxLtOozHmkQqN61gVwyVrwoNzw42wDyiAofCLgphZutnLIQvwUEjjSYuDNzcuqj9ByPVfh9eMpElQrtuDdjtVru_gGn5Pfm6A-Y0/s960/Written-Room-by-Parastou-Forouhar-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="960" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVJpWLxeQ98AmzrzMtyWsxkBeB2RLvxshpnJag0LizQ4_Fi14HXh7hoGTPVndmmWjlU1iO5F3OUI7aTyiFH4vcTwFlxLtOozHmkQqN61gVwyVrwoNzw42wDyiAofCLgphZutnLIQvwUEjjSYuDNzcuqj9ByPVfh9eMpElQrtuDdjtVru_gGn5Pfm6A-Y0/w640-h426/Written-Room-by-Parastou-Forouhar-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Written Room</i>, a site-specific installation by Parastou Forouhar, will be created in a narrow corridor of the gallery. Acrylic paint. Courtesy of the artist, Craft Contemporary and Artdaily.cc.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>by <a href="http://Artdaily.cc">Artdaily.cc</a></div><p>In collaboration with nonprofit Farhang Foundation, a compelling new group exhibition, <i>ART IRAN: Falling into Language</i>, opens at the art museum <a href="http://www.craftcontemporary.org/" target="_blank">Craft Contemporary</a> on Jan. 28, 2024 with an artist talk, and runs through May 5.</p><p><i>ART IRAN: Falling into Language</i> presents nine expatriate Iranian artists who engage diverse forms of the Persian alphabet, handwriting, and fragments as an essential part of their artistic practice. This exhibition includes installation works, drawings, collages, site-specific art, and an interactive installation. The methods used range from sewing; assemblages of letters, words, and ceramics; and wall painting.</p><p>“The technique of handwriting on objects of different materials, from dishes to architectural tiles, is part of daily life in Iranian culture—and has been throughout history,” notes the exhibit's curation team, Roshanak Ghezelbashand Hoda Rahbarnik.</p><p>“The text that appears in <i>ART IRAN: Falling into Language</i> is not necessarily there to be read. It is there to be seen,” explain Ghezelbash and Rahbarnik. “The audience's inability to read these letters captures the in-between state the artists occupy in their daily reality: no longer belonging in their homeland nor in their new home. They chose handwriting over calligraphy— a well-known official expression of the alphabet with a long history within and outside the Iranian art scene; the artists chose handwriting as their voice—to gain a sense of belonging. What they bring with them into this new state of alienation might ultimately be described as a new kind of cosmopolitanism—it belongs to nowhere, so it is at home everywhere.”</p><p>For example, <i>The Written Room</i> (pictured above), a site-specific installation by Parastou Forouhar, will be created in a narrow corridor of the gallery. Visitors will feel like they are walking into a room; her handwriting covers the walls, floors, and ceiling with black ink in this entirely white space. The Persian alphabet is presented in a way that may be unreadable even to Iranian readers, but the emotions conveyed in her art are universally understood.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Hadieh Shafie's installation, Ceiling Circle and Floor Circle, includes a hanging paper sculpture, a corresponding circular work on the floor, and three paintings (titled Safar, meaning travel). The installation features the word "Eshgh," meaning love, written on numerous layers of paper. The word "love" is repeated thousands of times, then rolled up and placed together as a cohesive work.</p><p><b>Women Artists</b></p><p>In addition to the women curatorial team, the exhibition features nearly all women artists (there is one husband/wife artist team). The artists include Golnar Adili, Parastou Forouhar, Taraneh Hemami, Elnaz Javani, Maryam Palizgir, Hadieh Shafie, Shadi Yousefian and the team of Neda Moridpour and Pouya Afshar.</p><p><b>Six Years in the Making</b></p><p><i>ART IRAN: Falling into Language</i> was made possible by the generous support and collaboration between Farhang Foundation and Craft Contemporary (formerly known as the Craft & Folk Museum).</p><p><i>ART IRAN: Falling into Language</i>, “has been six years in the making,” says Alireza Ardekani, Executive Director of the Farhang Foundation. “I am delighted with the powerful artistic voices and multiple perspectives presented in this groundbreaking exhibition.”</p><p>The curatorial team of Roshanak Ghezelbash and Hoda Rahbarnik were selected as the winners of the prestigious ART IRAN Curatorial Competition, which welcomed arts professionals with experience in developing highly focused group exhibitions centered on Middle Eastern art and culture. Entrants of the open call, which was announced in 2021, were asked to submit a proposal for an exhibition of visual art that evoked themes of Iranian culture and heritage, as expressed in Iran's contemporary art scene.</p><p>The submissions were reviewed by a distinguished panel of five jurors, including curator and scholar Fereshteh Daftari, curator Maryam Ekhtiar of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, world-renowned artist Tala Madani, senior curator Bennett Simpson of MOCA, and Craft Contemporary's former exhibitions curator Holly Jerger.</p><p>“Amid ongoing global challenges, we hope that this exhibition not only asserts cultural resilience but also acts as a catalyst for community empowerment,” said Rody N. Lopez, Executive Director of Craft Contemporary.</p><p>“These Iranian artists have followed different trajectories around the world,” note Ghezelbash and Rahbarnik. “In their state of diaspora, they maintain a solid relationship with the Persian language as a visual and symbolic device. Though immigrant artists inevitably assimilate into the new cultures within which they find themselves, the persistence of what they brought with them from home remains.”</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2KcgXwZseONFAa6suDX6ae11LpdkP2_wiw_YvrTn__UIq27gOqV4le81ttQhC30QjxnGPOWodQoB7oZqMj9_uJh-jI6c_HHzljtabfw9d1gwp89OcAuBXoSvh60Syr9MGI7KH9fXGid4dC9Iz9441jU6eCSJAVA6tlkoAUnDaXRFtDAgCBRHGnDMMNU/s837/Alphabet-Of-Silence-Taraneh-Hemamai-Artwork-6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="837" data-original-width="745" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq2KcgXwZseONFAa6suDX6ae11LpdkP2_wiw_YvrTn__UIq27gOqV4le81ttQhC30QjxnGPOWodQoB7oZqMj9_uJh-jI6c_HHzljtabfw9d1gwp89OcAuBXoSvh60Syr9MGI7KH9fXGid4dC9Iz9441jU6eCSJAVA6tlkoAUnDaXRFtDAgCBRHGnDMMNU/w570-h640/Alphabet-Of-Silence-Taraneh-Hemamai-Artwork-6.jpg" width="570" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taraneh Hemami, <i>Alphabet of Silence</i>, 2006. Installation, wood panels, variable depth, paper and encaustic on wood panel; and 16 sculptures, paper and encaustic on air-dry clay, 72” x 2” x 72”. Private collection. Courtesy of the artist and Craft Contemporary.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2x9kCvigftOpQlUBVL-pLxVUez4ejjw747nWHGlox-TTtsoGJ5tKT1dMIDMqSkN6H6UAXrNBdrPKQ8ZSkJ5qBz8Q-kdS6edVtm0-uhUM2cTejqksSwhk6afBuFyYZ6DGWutkZEExnCWYVnee6T7FYe7swWEVcUHkc2kNI7g4CwqGFivo5BJTvrDrNns8/s1186/Screenshot-2023-10-20-at-1.53.18-PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="1186" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2x9kCvigftOpQlUBVL-pLxVUez4ejjw747nWHGlox-TTtsoGJ5tKT1dMIDMqSkN6H6UAXrNBdrPKQ8ZSkJ5qBz8Q-kdS6edVtm0-uhUM2cTejqksSwhk6afBuFyYZ6DGWutkZEExnCWYVnee6T7FYe7swWEVcUHkc2kNI7g4CwqGFivo5BJTvrDrNns8/w640-h428/Screenshot-2023-10-20-at-1.53.18-PM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Elnaz Javani, <i>My Effigies</i>. Stuffed object made of white muslin fabric, Hand sewn with black thread, covered the external layer with stories in Farsi & Azari calligraphy. Variable Dimension. </span>Courtesy of the artist and Craft Contemporary.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><p>Via <a href="http://www.craftcontemporary.org/" target="_blank">Craft Contemporary</a> and <a href="http://Artdaily.cc">Artdaily.cc</a></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-29787881237400042242023-12-16T20:23:00.001+00:002023-12-16T20:24:05.815+00:00And They Laughed at Me <h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Newsha Tavakolian’s images and the scent of roses</span></h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GQf3z8wAv-w2nzHgrjFzs5iFc4JlUVaaCT9MUs3OSx34h5ya0zACi6OSUUBRU0XD805C2RnNM8aq4JkY-49wMq2mAhhP2fzAwKSwCWN5nD-vuh4cnz59koo9Io_fiJynsD0m7nkuy-ukyEikmoW2EZVywIxBabEKEI0a-Aayul1k7Dq1m5WCAdE7s3I/s1024/2-729x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="729" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GQf3z8wAv-w2nzHgrjFzs5iFc4JlUVaaCT9MUs3OSx34h5ya0zACi6OSUUBRU0XD805C2RnNM8aq4JkY-49wMq2mAhhP2fzAwKSwCWN5nD-vuh4cnz59koo9Io_fiJynsD0m7nkuy-ukyEikmoW2EZVywIxBabEKEI0a-Aayul1k7Dq1m5WCAdE7s3I/w456-h640/2-729x1024.jpg" width="456" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>by <a href="https://www.collater.al/en/author/giorgia-massari/" target="_blank">Giorgia Massari</a>, <a href="http://Collater.al">Collater.al</a> <p>A woman intent on smelling a rose. An image that is repeated seven times in the photo exhibition by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/newshatavakolian/" target="_blank">Newsha Tavakolian</a>, winner of the first Deloitte and Fondazione Deloitte Photo Grant. On view now Dec. 13 at Mudec Photo in Milan, the Iranian artist’s <i>And They Laughed at Me</i> project is a personal account of the collective history of Iran, a country marked by an oppressive political environment. The project was chosen from nineteen others, proposed by ten expert and international figures contacted by Deloitte and Denis Curti, curator and artistic director of the Grant.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZ3cU-RNtLNJM0FXpRrroTQK16Nq_zslb8SWnSy4WFjJMZ86PVGyPgYZNBcE8wbVC_quN-GQBsPNQmC9fDqO4rMuIQASkd8JmVs7yumqrizl3iVtpn2SX_42NSoGsilyaFqX0t3wS3JcExnn2VH5HYI1TxbFL-R41poZi9SidOZewvC8aQ-Xdz-2XsQI/s1024/1-679x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="679" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFZ3cU-RNtLNJM0FXpRrroTQK16Nq_zslb8SWnSy4WFjJMZ86PVGyPgYZNBcE8wbVC_quN-GQBsPNQmC9fDqO4rMuIQASkd8JmVs7yumqrizl3iVtpn2SX_42NSoGsilyaFqX0t3wS3JcExnn2VH5HYI1TxbFL-R41poZi9SidOZewvC8aQ-Xdz-2XsQI/w424-h640/1-679x1024.jpg" width="424" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The image of the woman sniffing the rose – the emblem of the project proposed by Renata Ferri – gradually disappears over the course of the exhibition. On the one hand the cancellation of identity, on the other a repressive system that emphasize the decision – making power of Iranian politics over the life of the community. «This scent I don’t want to forget,» this shot tells us, «I would like to return to such gestures and I hope that people around me can return to it.»</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ9xHiivAsugftNpzkTgFhyphenhyphenaW0fjv77LtD625OM-Aq4dj01_p22qNNq3WU2kNjsdr_tkVY1BiW_zSQZ72Y3y7MHeFhZDEdaM2Zw6HBPoqKLmW4mF5Hv_nBz6ITtY8JcQiWcO0UB-XXRxOJ-qgU36m0xvBQqu13XPQG3RpHt__JA23j96wdabsffFCITk/s1024/gpezzato_Allestimento_Deloitte-Photo-Grant_12.12.23-13-1024x683.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ9xHiivAsugftNpzkTgFhyphenhyphenaW0fjv77LtD625OM-Aq4dj01_p22qNNq3WU2kNjsdr_tkVY1BiW_zSQZ72Y3y7MHeFhZDEdaM2Zw6HBPoqKLmW4mF5Hv_nBz6ITtY8JcQiWcO0UB-XXRxOJ-qgU36m0xvBQqu13XPQG3RpHt__JA23j96wdabsffFCITk/w640-h426/gpezzato_Allestimento_Deloitte-Photo-Grant_12.12.23-13-1024x683.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credits G. Pezzato. Courtesy Collater.al </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPA5WqlmT-Jm-9PAUv_FBUuqdMXXjfm4cvGOI9hISMOb0D5lprD4hcRfFQFL6Q9hYSod7xGjyHP8bU43A4hm_OgHpq568MfioaNGuMDfIsXCC1GlLuLzEqUChdr0Q9oYEqluw5dmVgy4ou2BKGDD6rYhizPy4zb2fpzGLZBmrcAXYgymYYaRIfcR2y3nk/s1024/gpezzato_Allestimento_Deloitte-Photo-Grant_12.12.23-15-1024x683.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPA5WqlmT-Jm-9PAUv_FBUuqdMXXjfm4cvGOI9hISMOb0D5lprD4hcRfFQFL6Q9hYSod7xGjyHP8bU43A4hm_OgHpq568MfioaNGuMDfIsXCC1GlLuLzEqUChdr0Q9oYEqluw5dmVgy4ou2BKGDD6rYhizPy4zb2fpzGLZBmrcAXYgymYYaRIfcR2y3nk/w640-h426/gpezzato_Allestimento_Deloitte-Photo-Grant_12.12.23-15-1024x683.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo Credits G. Pezzato. Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><p>This repeated image dictates the rhythm of the exhibition itinerary that intersects Newsha Tavakolian‘s personal life and family memories with those of the community. The works – more than seventy archival images, unpublished shots and stills – are fragmentary, imperfect and unwanted, with the intention of showing “the raw and unfinished reality from which we cannot escape.” The path is enriched by handwritten descriptions by the artist, which contribute to a strong feeling of empathy in the viewer. The images are edited by Newsha, who often – as with the woman sniffing the rose – performs an erasure operation. The conceptual compositions reveal the drama of oppression but, at the same time, chart a path to freedom.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrqmGmNhQ__kr6A4tehGrxISYHurClu0wqGlG-Ktg_QQvFszDhEKOixPZIXT_0u6IZrJOzV6s5uMdULgrVyRNp_-RdYBF_K9mmcFbTDGJ7pa3cZwXGY07P1uTAa1MTUEZFLQd0upkjeiQQmp6_Yscf7BKj8G83ST-8Slq42oVSaSxf7ITVDzqcvFpk6E/s2560/%C2%A9-Newsha-Tavakolian-And-They-Laughed-At-Me.-Portrait-of-a-journalist-in-Tehran-scaled.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1935" data-original-width="2560" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrqmGmNhQ__kr6A4tehGrxISYHurClu0wqGlG-Ktg_QQvFszDhEKOixPZIXT_0u6IZrJOzV6s5uMdULgrVyRNp_-RdYBF_K9mmcFbTDGJ7pa3cZwXGY07P1uTAa1MTUEZFLQd0upkjeiQQmp6_Yscf7BKj8G83ST-8Slq42oVSaSxf7ITVDzqcvFpk6E/w640-h484/%C2%A9-Newsha-Tavakolian-And-They-Laughed-At-Me.-Portrait-of-a-journalist-in-Tehran-scaled.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Portrait of a journalist in Tehran. During student protests in Tehran in 2017 many students were arrested and making recognizable images of people became almost impossible. From this moment on I began hiding the faces of people I’d photograph. Courtesy Collater.al </td></tr></tbody></table><p>Newsha Tavokolian’s images become the voice of an oppressed people and, as the artist herself points out, are meant to let politicians know that we are watching them. “They laugh at me,” says the title of the project. Here “they” refers to politicians who often remain distant from the issues of the people. According to Newsha, the artist’s job is to “let politicians know that we are watching them, we have to be their watchers.”</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8yrrd9Az4xvENIrsyBbul3vgPgVL6p1V8KEl84KuxNf6rs9tzHaxWsdmzqfVW7bQCt1prYyQQHm5hNscoi2Q6WAY37423OpPjlTt80638UPxKhX6hODnrCcrsNnpplremzpAEmpVzdw_y5PTQJmg8SBsXFRLyfUYEHNhNgwOOBpURMQQY0gMNy53Kog/s1024/3-668x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="668" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8yrrd9Az4xvENIrsyBbul3vgPgVL6p1V8KEl84KuxNf6rs9tzHaxWsdmzqfVW7bQCt1prYyQQHm5hNscoi2Q6WAY37423OpPjlTt80638UPxKhX6hODnrCcrsNnpplremzpAEmpVzdw_y5PTQJmg8SBsXFRLyfUYEHNhNgwOOBpURMQQY0gMNy53Kog/w418-h640/3-668x1024.jpg" width="418" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVRi2B7P-hFrgZL7ab0y6iazwlGj9no_3eTCgHvIWatrGDTLeTYAIa43j1r-COunrd5m9GypItlnE8-T9qYRHVvnsma-kApabHqjQLwqcrBzG64jltl1tu3tXgbK_Dx6aDuE3Mo8EjXNlCWmnHKf7TMm7T8722NYbcMJb3nhf10pceqjnHi9vH3m6A1I/s1024/4-670x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="670" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDVRi2B7P-hFrgZL7ab0y6iazwlGj9no_3eTCgHvIWatrGDTLeTYAIa43j1r-COunrd5m9GypItlnE8-T9qYRHVvnsma-kApabHqjQLwqcrBzG64jltl1tu3tXgbK_Dx6aDuE3Mo8EjXNlCWmnHKf7TMm7T8722NYbcMJb3nhf10pceqjnHi9vH3m6A1I/w418-h640/4-670x1024.jpg" width="418" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw92eUDJTyJjNyFGkgITmhJA6Ii9WJzWF1vonvVf735EHsBpoMvUSD3qTUCN4z2PUy9jHFtkDY4EpJvgfHqjPjWonoirCaak3vPYLp_nOgI7cSS_LObmvQH5eUKw_Lo4RQO-OiBHuxOjfe3e590wXtrSmFwInems1zFQr2LV7VeSwWHw3wfAXRV49QueI/s1024/5-665x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="665" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw92eUDJTyJjNyFGkgITmhJA6Ii9WJzWF1vonvVf735EHsBpoMvUSD3qTUCN4z2PUy9jHFtkDY4EpJvgfHqjPjWonoirCaak3vPYLp_nOgI7cSS_LObmvQH5eUKw_Lo4RQO-OiBHuxOjfe3e590wXtrSmFwInems1zFQr2LV7VeSwWHw3wfAXRV49QueI/w416-h640/5-665x1024.jpg" width="416" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWJ6eUXJ9gV0dy_9wblkECbBXXjXTJ2QhbzotlSVz1HAda0kdVHdPm2GS6AieXXOlJJBvnq0CaXcGYKO56l_DRPtgPcnnyHfrDXd9grZzTIgGlNVSfbi8TdbtxWJNTI4N7hPcfxWiyrS0oeDyEzQhIoA_K1eSqQ0n3x34vBB36cQdxjYx9cFIsBUKGNU/s1024/6-663x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="663" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWJ6eUXJ9gV0dy_9wblkECbBXXjXTJ2QhbzotlSVz1HAda0kdVHdPm2GS6AieXXOlJJBvnq0CaXcGYKO56l_DRPtgPcnnyHfrDXd9grZzTIgGlNVSfbi8TdbtxWJNTI4N7hPcfxWiyrS0oeDyEzQhIoA_K1eSqQ0n3x34vBB36cQdxjYx9cFIsBUKGNU/w414-h640/6-663x1024.jpg" width="414" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7V6wXx65zHvRfazDBvCrj9VzHC_DTorFgQm7mJthm8mWX5bWP5uIYrQNvDKqDrftZGa3dgP39G62apwXEkZ9nLscrFkkRylfhsMlaxyEQsrSNCrMjYUEXKYqeHeng1HJzaP7VAuTWtt1EFW3ILpEslW7TLtypW3UJVWJP2s8cqCG6DMW7vrFXf4uOPp8/s1024/7-686x1024.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="686" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7V6wXx65zHvRfazDBvCrj9VzHC_DTorFgQm7mJthm8mWX5bWP5uIYrQNvDKqDrftZGa3dgP39G62apwXEkZ9nLscrFkkRylfhsMlaxyEQsrSNCrMjYUEXKYqeHeng1HJzaP7VAuTWtt1EFW3ILpEslW7TLtypW3UJVWJP2s8cqCG6DMW7vrFXf4uOPp8/w428-h640/7-686x1024.jpg" width="428" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Collater.al</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p><i>The exhibition is open until January 28, 2024 with free admission. More information <a href="https://www.mudec.it/photo-grant-di-deloitte-and-they-laughed-at-me-di-newsha-tavakolian/" target="_blank">here</a>.</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="http://Collater.al">Collater.al</a> </p></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-44901042451073872572023-12-09T16:03:00.002+00:002023-12-09T16:08:01.927+00:00 A Revolution on Canvas<p style="text-align: center;">Documentary Review (2023)</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>Sara Nodjoumi delves into the mystery surrounding the disappearance of more than 100 "treasonous" paintings by her father, seminal Iranian modern artist Nickzad Nodjoumi.</i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfomo64u0GV3mHEnuo5Rz0u5qBmGkJmOdoWSph7itBFQcsn_m1xN4vIIlMQ1XRA18y0_pf-b879hukXDp81iq-qYrzpUgFD-TjjtCbfAaEz8P27lS3lyRZNxrNzShdKVuuCUXy4Cc-AcEFlapIS3gh5acVE9ipNgqfPzzzbFg482VMOJheTdytrAr1ps/s1200/a-revolution-on-canvas-movie-review-2023.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzfomo64u0GV3mHEnuo5Rz0u5qBmGkJmOdoWSph7itBFQcsn_m1xN4vIIlMQ1XRA18y0_pf-b879hukXDp81iq-qYrzpUgFD-TjjtCbfAaEz8P27lS3lyRZNxrNzShdKVuuCUXy4Cc-AcEFlapIS3gh5acVE9ipNgqfPzzzbFg482VMOJheTdytrAr1ps/w640-h266/a-revolution-on-canvas-movie-review-2023.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy RogerEbert.com.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>by Brian Tallerico, <a href="http://RogerEbert.com">RogerEbert.com</a></div><div><br /></div><a href="https://www.rogerebert.com/cast-and-crew/till-schauder" target="_blank">Till Schauder</a> and <a href="https://www.rogerebert.com/cast-and-crew/sara-nodjoumi" target="_blank">Sara Nodjoumi</a>’s “A Revolution on Canvas” is a smart intersection of the political, personal, and artistic, revealing how all three can be intertwined in a way that makes them impossible to extricate. For Iranian artist Nikzad "Nicky" Nodjoumi, art is always political. And art is always personal. His unshakeable commitment to his beliefs and his need to express those beliefs have made him not only an outcast from his country but also one of its most vital voices. “A Revolution on Canvas” sometimes feels a little light on the concept of “Revolution” regarding form and ambition—it’s a pretty straightforward HBO Doc—but the filmmaking here is empathetic and inspiring. Sometimes, the work of an artist being unpacked by that artist’s relative can lead to bland hagiography, but Nicky’s daughter Sara uses her personal angle to an advantage, never hiding her love and admiration, making it easier for us to feel the same.<span><a name='more'></a></span><p style="text-align: left;">The now-81 Nikzad Nodjoumi is an Iranian artist who moved to New York in the ‘60s, finding his revolutionary spirit in a time when it was everywhere in the Big Apple, only to watch the rise of the Shah in his home country. Of course, this political and social upheaval formed the Islamic Revolution, and Nodjoumi’s art boldly reflected the time in which he was radicalized, fearlessly taking aim at not just the leadership in his country but the systems around the world that propped it up. The art seen in “A Revolution on Canvas” is breathtaking in its concept and execution, a blend of pop art like Nodjoumi saw in the counter-culture movement of the ‘60s in New York and the images of his culture. A greater appreciation of Nodjoumi as an artist will surely emerge from this project.</p><p style="text-align: left;">However, what separates “A Revolution on Canvas” is the effort to better understand Nodjoumi as a man, warts and all. He is an open interview subject for his daughter, often answering her questions as he paints, furthering the merging of artist and father into one image. He is also clear about the problems that led to his divorce from Nahid Hagigat, Sarah’s mother and an artist in her own right. He left Hagigat and his daughter to join the revolution against the Shah, and that spirit impacted everything he did. When she asks if he missed her, he bluntly says, “No.” At one point, he seems startled at the suggestion that going to a protest on <i>his wedding day</i> would be an unusual decision. One senses an attempt on the filmmaker’s part to better understand this part of her father and how his passionate beliefs impacted his art and his family. Sara says, “So much of my memory comes from his paintings,” and that aspect of “A Revolution on Canvas” is the film’s most compelling.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Embedded in this fascinating family drama is something of an international thriller in the Nodzoumis’ attempts to retrieve some of Nikzad’s art from the Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art. When protests erupted in the city, Nodzoumi fled the country, leaving behind some fascinating paintings, work that he agrees may not be his best but are historically essential to capturing the tumultuous time in Iran in which they were made. The attempt to get the paintings out of the museum’s storage includes redacted names and blurred footage, people who don’t want the authorities to know that they’re trying to bring work deemed anti-Iranian back into the light. It’s well-done stuff that lands in an interesting place, but I was consistently more drawn in when watching Sara and Nicky discussing his life and work as he painted, still trying to express something through his art that he can’t in words. One imagines he will be forced by something inside to do so until his dying day.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PfOkKB0s8QEC7QBhA92lhEMWh634ecCTEHrcmgaQtQdTmHQZ6BppVaWNEMF8jboUcPYsfbWLbuRDj6ueVwDdiDvojvl5GfCcr4jE9k7HV3bqybxtRHLMcopwDLKAJqRVi21US9NOhVOZjBaB4UW326wcOJhhf23_ExNN29WC47iccvEmYcsdQWZxfRM/s1280/full_UNTITLED_NICKY_NODJOUMI-03-Clean-16x9.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4PfOkKB0s8QEC7QBhA92lhEMWh634ecCTEHrcmgaQtQdTmHQZ6BppVaWNEMF8jboUcPYsfbWLbuRDj6ueVwDdiDvojvl5GfCcr4jE9k7HV3bqybxtRHLMcopwDLKAJqRVi21US9NOhVOZjBaB4UW326wcOJhhf23_ExNN29WC47iccvEmYcsdQWZxfRM/w640-h360/full_UNTITLED_NICKY_NODJOUMI-03-Clean-16x9.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy Tribeca Film.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i>Opens in New York on December 1st and Los Angeles on December 8th.</i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></p><p style="text-align: left;">Via <a href="http://RogerEbert.com">RogerEbert.com</a></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-69495790409742125482023-12-02T14:41:00.000+00:002023-12-02T14:41:49.024+00:00True to Self<p style="text-align: center;">An Interview </p><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Arghavan Khosravi On Tension, Circumventing Censorship, and the Protest of Iranian Women</span></h2><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzsdN9-0FZFevmiejTvm_DlqHMo3zNZWFLJy3unFwa-73_6A3WhGhBZRdWwTvBB1mhIdNbzf_s6ENo9pLaHGrXwFU5CYJRcJalQ5jD1OVLWUVdxpetSY0OW4x0WRQ45TICXVKOdUW935ueLJRuYDYPCVon5UoboICHiGj-h_HU9SaStzwGjEOZifjtbk/s1536/khosravi-3-1536x1177.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1177" data-original-width="1536" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHzsdN9-0FZFevmiejTvm_DlqHMo3zNZWFLJy3unFwa-73_6A3WhGhBZRdWwTvBB1mhIdNbzf_s6ENo9pLaHGrXwFU5CYJRcJalQ5jD1OVLWUVdxpetSY0OW4x0WRQ45TICXVKOdUW935ueLJRuYDYPCVon5UoboICHiGj-h_HU9SaStzwGjEOZifjtbk/w400-h306/khosravi-3-1536x1177.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div>by Grace Ebert, <a href="https://www.thisiscolossal.com/" target="_blank">Colossal</a></div><p>For <a href="https://www.arghavankhosravi.com/" target="_blank">Arghavan Khosravi</a>, obscurity is the point. The Iranian artist (<a href="https://www.thisiscolossal.com/tags/arghavan-khosravi/" target="_blank">previously</a>) 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 <i>Woman, Life, Freedom</i> movement in protest of Iran’s strict limitations on women and girls.</p><p>I visited Khosravi’s solo show, <i>True to Self</i>, 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.</p><p><b>Grace Ebert:</b> You have a background in graphic design and illustration, two disciplines rooted in narrative and storytelling. And in the <a href="https://www.thisiscolossal.com/2019/09/aghravan-khosravi-paintings/" target="_blank">first article</a> 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?</p><p><b>Arghavan Khosravi:</b> 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. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5LnZ8J0-3sT1KKVc7-h5bK_2BxSxtfsqVt57zYxUYrJi5KJNdRTaMubHJSTqaZYo14YeQLyvtLP7KhVPLjH4Fs85rxLX4snNvdoi5zbW7KLHadUvUj90n4VWNVOCVvqrp9yofsDTv8GFpOWPmzBBX9KRBpUAbbnp-9Zu8M3p_4e2guYUvIxBJjLvd6Y/s1536/khosravi-2-1536x1364.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1364" data-original-width="1536" height="355" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5LnZ8J0-3sT1KKVc7-h5bK_2BxSxtfsqVt57zYxUYrJi5KJNdRTaMubHJSTqaZYo14YeQLyvtLP7KhVPLjH4Fs85rxLX4snNvdoi5zbW7KLHadUvUj90n4VWNVOCVvqrp9yofsDTv8GFpOWPmzBBX9KRBpUAbbnp-9Zu8M3p_4e2guYUvIxBJjLvd6Y/w400-h355/khosravi-2-1536x1364.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Grace:</b> 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?</p><p><b>Arghavan:</b> 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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. </p><p><b>Grace:</b> What are some examples of subconscious things?</p><p><b>Arghavan:</b> 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.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRfEumbB2lLPdxieBTD45vOwYX2-n9OXpoRQyYlOniSk1ZMOr0dDIstoU03NQrI6um5o4Tixr8KtAAnEo7-fP1lRAYcnO5NisAAFctgfUSQZa4ZbuOkK0pdl3mL8LG3G4hpqBRad3Ee3ZtWPoP2jcJBDsv-xwLYn1CW-AYT7PpAPdJ4UiTotVOA28hMI/s1536/khosravi-1-1536x1442.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1442" data-original-width="1536" height="375" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRRfEumbB2lLPdxieBTD45vOwYX2-n9OXpoRQyYlOniSk1ZMOr0dDIstoU03NQrI6um5o4Tixr8KtAAnEo7-fP1lRAYcnO5NisAAFctgfUSQZa4ZbuOkK0pdl3mL8LG3G4hpqBRad3Ee3ZtWPoP2jcJBDsv-xwLYn1CW-AYT7PpAPdJ4UiTotVOA28hMI/w400-h375/khosravi-1-1536x1442.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Grace</b>: 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?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: 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. </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: That makes me wonder what your relationship with Iran is at the moment.</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: And you paint every day, is that right?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: Yeah, except for the days that I’m on a trip. I paint every day. I don’t have any days off.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0G8GZ4K84uN-fZatWECx8a6DHMQ1A9m2jMraLbn7el7oZP5kvfCcbeWEZCdLXkn5m3peaooeJdpNy7pmI8TXHgxrAti7cfN5WxxgH1uTIujDZd2P3uqori5inTDT0eCX_pDRjIj4xEbhpSftsGoEXSiVsAttqhCLM5eAz8NLBuVSEVhqucLVOCccygQ/s1536/khosravi-4-1536x1508.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1508" data-original-width="1536" height="393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0G8GZ4K84uN-fZatWECx8a6DHMQ1A9m2jMraLbn7el7oZP5kvfCcbeWEZCdLXkn5m3peaooeJdpNy7pmI8TXHgxrAti7cfN5WxxgH1uTIujDZd2P3uqori5inTDT0eCX_pDRjIj4xEbhpSftsGoEXSiVsAttqhCLM5eAz8NLBuVSEVhqucLVOCccygQ/w400-h393/khosravi-4-1536x1508.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> “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.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><b>Grace</b>: 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?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: Would you like to talk a little bit about what it was like growing up in Iran?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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.</p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: 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. </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p><b>Grace</b>: Absolutely. I’m also curious about the use of hands in your pieces because hands to me seem to be representative of agency. </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: Or lack of agency. </p><p><b>Grace</b>: 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?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p>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. </p><p><b>Grace</b>: You have hope then.</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: Yeah, maybe. We have to have hope. </p><p>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. </p><p><b>Grace</b>: And, if we don’t have hope, then what is the point? Why make the work?</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: 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? </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p>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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: How do you feel about creating within this tradition of Persian miniature paintings and being in conversation with them? </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p>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.</p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: What made you decide to do fully three-dimensional sculptural works? </p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: 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. </p><p>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.</p><p><b>Grace</b>: You can’t ignore the women no matter where they or you are. You can’t ignore them anywhere.</p><p><b>Arghavan</b>: Exactly.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuigvPxlSAlf-90bIeESe00AHhkMj7Cmwyb2dpCCDDyrjqwP0gKoEikuUmj4VgVoOKeUTw-4tKyP_UUsLjZWy4s_6vTM36c-s0VHhhSS2bMjzX3kW_vT7cRUfVjqvRi9Q7ZClI0TBYFRVwsFxOvUmPsWSyc5dKTLdKe-wHzhPnEH2uxmhfPhnhl1k0zpA/s1536/khosravi-5-1536x1183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1183" data-original-width="1536" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuigvPxlSAlf-90bIeESe00AHhkMj7Cmwyb2dpCCDDyrjqwP0gKoEikuUmj4VgVoOKeUTw-4tKyP_UUsLjZWy4s_6vTM36c-s0VHhhSS2bMjzX3kW_vT7cRUfVjqvRi9Q7ZClI0TBYFRVwsFxOvUmPsWSyc5dKTLdKe-wHzhPnEH2uxmhfPhnhl1k0zpA/w400-h308/khosravi-5-1536x1183.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“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.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><i>Khosravi’s works are on view through January 6 at <a href="https://www.racheluffnergallery.com/" target="_blank">Rachel Uffner Gallery</a> and May 5 at <a href="https://newportartmuseum.org/" target="_blank">Newport Art Museum</a>. Keep up with her practice on <a href="https://www.instagram.com/arghavan_khosravi/" target="_blank">Instagram</a>.</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://www.thisiscolossal.com/" target="_blank">Colossal</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-59396044028376826542023-09-16T14:20:00.001+01:002023-09-16T14:20:35.196+01:00A new book documents art and resistance in Iran<h3 style="text-align: center;"><i style="font-weight: normal;">Woman Life Freedom offers a wide-ranging look at how people have used all kinds of creative means to make their voices heard</i></h3><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFowsNAwril6YtnMIHlXz5m0bwNniA2SpEImFK_zyPCl9TRWzWBo4kNUDzDdq2knC6Q9920_JoI_cwGneteHpLXkvl98Fzv5srxk4PGdx_drlAEfOKPIH1Udi57AIOX9Fl6YZ5JK9L9pbjjU6sYpK_UDyqdMYaeLqj7KZffkZ17Oi4OpX4BoeUwR5P7A/s1080/9.-Mina_M_Jafari_WomanLifeFreedom-JoratLondon-RGB.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="845" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrFowsNAwril6YtnMIHlXz5m0bwNniA2SpEImFK_zyPCl9TRWzWBo4kNUDzDdq2knC6Q9920_JoI_cwGneteHpLXkvl98Fzv5srxk4PGdx_drlAEfOKPIH1Udi57AIOX9Fl6YZ5JK9L9pbjjU6sYpK_UDyqdMYaeLqj7KZffkZ17Oi4OpX4BoeUwR5P7A/w501-h640/9.-Mina_M_Jafari_WomanLifeFreedom-JoratLondon-RGB.jpg" width="501" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woman Life Freedom by Mina M Jafari. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">by <a href="https://www.creativereview.co.uk/landing-page/megan-williams/" target="_blank">Megan Williams</a>, <a href="https://www.creativereview.co.uk/" target="_blank">Creative Review</a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div>One year after the death of Jina Mahsa Amini at the hands of the ‘morality police’ in Iran comes a new book named after the movement that rose up in its wake.</div><div><br /></div><div>Iranians – led by women and girls – poured out into the streets of cities across each and every province, echoed by satellite demonstrations around the world, as they chanted Zan Zendegi Azadi or Jin Jîyan Azadî, meaning Woman Life Freedom in Persian and Kurdish respectively.</div><div><br /></div><div>Edited by Malu Halasa, a writer and editor specialising in Middle Eastern art and literature, the new book brings together insightful written accounts of the past year – and the pivotal events of long before – with a broad range of images showing how visual media helped to propagate messages of resistance.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1r5TVvmE4Ie07EZ0i-TtOzEYiEdfMpbDCO1PkJa7pMj-ZYM_M5dkXZfUbRLzdKXNYQDuU7KFSBG2aDJt1i9UZPo2teZM5QbpzkqDU4xX2As81YBjPev1_YRIvN-Bkc0KNP298OgIgS-SLHgeLgmVfFYTyjR6o7pr17W6aUsdpELrpteNCShHvuklGjM/s1697/19.-Or_Yogev_womenofiran.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1r5TVvmE4Ie07EZ0i-TtOzEYiEdfMpbDCO1PkJa7pMj-ZYM_M5dkXZfUbRLzdKXNYQDuU7KFSBG2aDJt1i9UZPo2teZM5QbpzkqDU4xX2As81YBjPev1_YRIvN-Bkc0KNP298OgIgS-SLHgeLgmVfFYTyjR6o7pr17W6aUsdpELrpteNCShHvuklGjM/w453-h640/19.-Or_Yogev_womenofiran.jpg" width="453" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women of Iran by Or Yogev. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5z_-RQD3vQqDeXA-pJ8pWPrOxTZypWPzYJ0jon7vTnV9ixXx50gveewGwhVzeI4hQ_ILpu0D_5F6Xbe5xIUJHmGQQJiark47ZvC2fOQRlTUZSBC85vkJCkGaT6iTYxJXr4TFkv2R4jjbMQZBBImnGb-lHzmRXgiNQbt3Vg3pbrwK55WGGbUjOkosfXQg/s1697/5.-Babak-Safari-A3.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1697" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5z_-RQD3vQqDeXA-pJ8pWPrOxTZypWPzYJ0jon7vTnV9ixXx50gveewGwhVzeI4hQ_ILpu0D_5F6Xbe5xIUJHmGQQJiark47ZvC2fOQRlTUZSBC85vkJCkGaT6iTYxJXr4TFkv2R4jjbMQZBBImnGb-lHzmRXgiNQbt3Vg3pbrwK55WGGbUjOkosfXQg/w453-h640/5.-Babak-Safari-A3.jpg" width="453" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Power of Women by Babak Safari. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><div>Social justice movements are often emblematised by evocative, symbolic imagery, and for Woman Life Freedom, the image of a woman removing the hijab – mandatory under Iranian law – became shorthand for the uprising.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the book, the Iranian Women of Graphic Design (IWofGD) describe the image of cutting hair as “a worldwide symbol of protest against cruelty, injustice and anti-women laws”. The collective runs an extensive online resource making protest visuals – among others – readily available to the masses.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKegY0XhkUxpayydg5_EFwk2QeRap2PjLZqUBZqX6eT9inz2fASnM57wEaI46KWo1lRgwodkErS96bLTApyYDlqtpMIO0Wv5R5P6c5r3aSdWAHkYoYkWmQitqR-Qgqn242628C_rZloNci7gS2z-dAsFRYFJb0u9GLAMjf9gzBL5WcJdZJ7dMJRz8GpU/s1431/1.-Blinding.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1431" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpKegY0XhkUxpayydg5_EFwk2QeRap2PjLZqUBZqX6eT9inz2fASnM57wEaI46KWo1lRgwodkErS96bLTApyYDlqtpMIO0Wv5R5P6c5r3aSdWAHkYoYkWmQitqR-Qgqn242628C_rZloNci7gS2z-dAsFRYFJb0u9GLAMjf9gzBL5WcJdZJ7dMJRz8GpU/w536-h640/1.-Blinding.jpg" width="536" /></a><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blinding As a Weapon of Suppression in Iran: Special Report by Mana Neyastami, published in IranWire in March 2023. Courtesy Creative Review.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1srY_lWyUqOwtYwj35dDWmwOatm8sX490nkQmlqrVaR9YIlDmnDi1TjS-Z8ra7G-KrdDCQVe7CwsHfqv_OM3_j6luTVmHmyiZyMh3-S-iW5L2wmTGh-3hCKqRIJ3rGp7ZWgfJiPfgk0iPVvbGGgFrds6T_lou3ORlvxy6jpZAXG7OKiU73i_IBCTNbNs/s1636/4.Ghazal-Foroutan_The-Persian-Rosie-1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1636" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1srY_lWyUqOwtYwj35dDWmwOatm8sX490nkQmlqrVaR9YIlDmnDi1TjS-Z8ra7G-KrdDCQVe7CwsHfqv_OM3_j6luTVmHmyiZyMh3-S-iW5L2wmTGh-3hCKqRIJ3rGp7ZWgfJiPfgk0iPVvbGGgFrds6T_lou3ORlvxy6jpZAXG7OKiU73i_IBCTNbNs/w470-h640/4.Ghazal-Foroutan_The-Persian-Rosie-1.jpg" width="470" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Persian Rosie by Ghazal Foroutan. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKSzlP9HFuFI6J9jVrSODQ8A1PufTPk00XRMhiKoozoVsGCRu8iZrJaOiFsuwSxuI1zyQ5OIlZEOOfUVAokemmJlaMT0BZhiy5Fqo_ILkyHMxdD5aEgmTseRAml3Q4oIBpXMbLFNtfptgUgg3Oi3j0vYEYOXKdTYGyKGyAJ-XJA92B4JpilZL0e2Rv8w/s1200/14.-innerjalz_womenlifefreedom2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKSzlP9HFuFI6J9jVrSODQ8A1PufTPk00XRMhiKoozoVsGCRu8iZrJaOiFsuwSxuI1zyQ5OIlZEOOfUVAokemmJlaMT0BZhiy5Fqo_ILkyHMxdD5aEgmTseRAml3Q4oIBpXMbLFNtfptgUgg3Oi3j0vYEYOXKdTYGyKGyAJ-XJA92B4JpilZL0e2Rv8w/w640-h640/14.-innerjalz_womenlifefreedom2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illustration by Jalz of the Azadi (Freedom) Tower with Matisse’s dancers and the protest slogan ‘Women, Life, Freedom’. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><div>The book covers mediums that have long provided a canvas for revolution, from posters to graffiti to performance. These examples appear alongside modern-day mechanisms like social media posts, which, according to the book, offer “new, nimble ways to subvert regime censors and internet morality police”. Halasa explains that this mix of tradition and modernity underpins “dissident art” in Iran, which “often blends centuries-old indigenous motifs with contemporary global memes”.</div><div><br /></div><div>It also examines the various everyday means of expressing resistance: the rare women fashion designers recalibrating dress codes, or the group of mostly women who not only show their hair, but dye it in a spectrum of rainbow hues too.</div><div><br /></div><div>As art historian Pamela Karimi answers in an enlightening Q&A, “the art of the Woman, Life, Freedom protests operates in informal, tangible and profound ways. Art has become an integral part of everyday life.”</div></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yamSbu_RdnzUKwIsqaJxITaY8zqmvvMWtUm2VJHSFStui6LB73PQYUjfy3oQVoSYqyQANhlqaRIapnvUNeTrdVriFo1OJ2y26VN59oV-im86DY5g_IAqyRSbg_bWwpVohDDSsvYE81CEN5fVNeUVGGJ-2EPmqF03bSafeXbHES8tvQR7plYVCWlgwqQ/s1842/Woman-Life-Freedom.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1842" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3yamSbu_RdnzUKwIsqaJxITaY8zqmvvMWtUm2VJHSFStui6LB73PQYUjfy3oQVoSYqyQANhlqaRIapnvUNeTrdVriFo1OJ2y26VN59oV-im86DY5g_IAqyRSbg_bWwpVohDDSsvYE81CEN5fVNeUVGGJ-2EPmqF03bSafeXbHES8tvQR7plYVCWlgwqQ/w416-h640/Woman-Life-Freedom.jpg" width="416" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Woman Life Freedom edited by Malu Halasa is published by Saqi Books; saqibooks.com. Courtesy Creative Review.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="https://www.creativereview.co.uk/" target="_blank">Creative Review</a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-49404217729417870242023-09-16T13:53:00.001+01:002023-09-16T13:56:01.783+01:00How photography can reveal, overlook and manipulate truth<p style="text-align: center;">The fearless work of Australian Iranian artist Hoda Afshar</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcxbpoNSEqzkAYrvzAzph9TVNeqmUZjh4-GRuMyfxaVFx06PsoQkZaSXO-ysiGo_R3g361AMq8ECwMtQRYrc181KxMYfpWAWPBRqacyIC7ctPxTwIQ6B1jio58M2PqLJ_XNeNE8lsu-4-_9T8e3f0tyIs22D_wlQP7-QHv1v1UFarfK-gcCHlGKJ3ksU/s640/file-20230906-27-5xaf8v.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="640" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvcxbpoNSEqzkAYrvzAzph9TVNeqmUZjh4-GRuMyfxaVFx06PsoQkZaSXO-ysiGo_R3g361AMq8ECwMtQRYrc181KxMYfpWAWPBRqacyIC7ctPxTwIQ6B1jio58M2PqLJ_XNeNE8lsu-4-_9T8e3f0tyIs22D_wlQP7-QHv1v1UFarfK-gcCHlGKJ3ksU/w640-h512/file-20230906-27-5xaf8v.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #88’, from the series ‘Speak the wind’ 2015–22, pigment photographic print, 80 x 100 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>by <a href="https://theconversation.com/profiles/tom-williams-1451858" target="_blank">Tom Williams</a>, <a href="https://theconversation.com/" target="_blank">The Conversation</a></p><p>Through her poetically constructed images, <a href="https://www.hodaafshar.com/" target="_blank">Hoda Afshar</a> illuminates a world overshadowed by history and atrocity. Yet we never see despair: we see defiance, comradeship, reinvention and a search for how photography can activate new ways of thinking.</p><p>Afshar was born in Iran and migrated to Australia in 2007. She began her practice as a documentary photographer in Tehran, having originally been attracted to acting.</p><p>Staging and creative intervention would become significant features of her work.</p><p>Even in her early, nominally “documentary” series, you can sense an embracing of the ambiguity of the still image, and an interest in composing a reality more vivid (and perhaps genuine) than dispassionate reportage might be capable of.</p><p>Afshar is now one of Australia’s most significant photo media artists, so it’s a surprise that <a href="https://www.artgallery.nsw.gov.au/whats-on/exhibitions/hoda-afshar/" target="_blank">Hoda Afshar: A Curve is a Broken Line</a> at the Art Gallery of New South Wales is her first major survey exhibition.</p><p>What unites her materially diverse work is a concern with visibility: who is denied it, what is made visible by media, and how photography can reveal, overlook and manipulate truth.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZlVVkk1kGw9WndgfMLxa0_I2CfyxupaxO11ZuiLyrwv6fV8Wxgazw2cux6nBJjqMljsC1Ck8PndhZ-YVtxibZ2poA7PtcFlw2v81PxV8puyKJHDPLi4KoPr6AQJ2ztwO4FKcuX2MEi5tECLOfrG2B7x2ghcpBLuAtWzlVMMXhAlMpXDwIKXbvxy7VxM/s600/file-20230906-27-iuzza0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="600" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZlVVkk1kGw9WndgfMLxa0_I2CfyxupaxO11ZuiLyrwv6fV8Wxgazw2cux6nBJjqMljsC1Ck8PndhZ-YVtxibZ2poA7PtcFlw2v81PxV8puyKJHDPLi4KoPr6AQJ2ztwO4FKcuX2MEi5tECLOfrG2B7x2ghcpBLuAtWzlVMMXhAlMpXDwIKXbvxy7VxM/w640-h508/file-20230906-27-iuzza0.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Twofold’ 2014, printed 2023, from the series ‘In the exodus, I love you more’, 2014–ongoing, digital print on vinyl, installation dimensions variable © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Much of her work addresses critical humanitarian issues of our time: war, statelessness, diaspora, oppression, corruption. She challenges stereotypes. We don’t see passive victims or closed narratives: we are introduced to new perspectives that might lead us to reappraise the world we inhabit.</p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Familiarity and distance</h4><p>The exhibition is made up of six bodies of work, the first of which began with the passing away of her father in Iran.</p><p>In the exodus, I love you more (2014–) is a portrait of her home country formed by experiences of familiarity and distance. The artist is both at home and searching, like an outsider. Images suggest at times an intimate proximity, and at others a separation akin to the one made by raising a camera to your eye.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEjQkmLJy5DsCVMjmaZZaOhAeR8CaP2okUb3NVkJnR-Vmrik0yAjnuEaU8Kg5nvltZ0BUudVZ_XBCbweRS4vLzS3EHBGI9jwpRxuMvhPlElXTaWA2F-fuHIGXMyGsbS_LZeUN31PNpzrAeoaYzZP0zhobKM7xOknBoQ6LPzBKaoK7YK4Khlktmt9OaGQ/s600/file-20230906-29-rq5er9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="476" data-original-width="600" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrEjQkmLJy5DsCVMjmaZZaOhAeR8CaP2okUb3NVkJnR-Vmrik0yAjnuEaU8Kg5nvltZ0BUudVZ_XBCbweRS4vLzS3EHBGI9jwpRxuMvhPlElXTaWA2F-fuHIGXMyGsbS_LZeUN31PNpzrAeoaYzZP0zhobKM7xOknBoQ6LPzBKaoK7YK4Khlktmt9OaGQ/w640-h508/file-20230906-29-rq5er9.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Grace’ 2014, from the series ‘In the exodus, I love you more’ 2014–ongoing, pigment photographic print, 47 x 59 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Afshar examines her experience of migration and, she tells me, seeks to “dismantle the idea of there being one way of seeing Iran”.</p><p>The final image in this series shows the erasure of a woman’s face in a painted Persian miniature.</p><p>In the adjoining room, the new series In turn (2023) is a suite of large, framed photographs of Iranian women based in Australia. Many images show them as they tenderly braid one another’s hair. These women are unidentifiable, apart from artist and activist <a href="https://www.theage.com.au/national/victoria/say-her-name-melbourne-s-iranian-community-protests-over-mahsa-amini-death-20221001-p5bmh7.html" target="_blank">Mahla Karimian</a>, who appears airborne with a pair of flying doves.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIMdEJ8QhkKci8HaKimNDyIsC7O2HLThtwZl3xfx7QVTtRV0OnamOvl_NeeA3-d212vebfSxgKL283Y-I-rb8SWYrTI8e0ODPeUtR-8TUbLDRcHL2TvlXYfhPZbqmafw_ojYnTR5dvCZ12vHa8CLX0pymU4RLpcF3N--b3Xx3ZkHvtrfZ1TRurRSyb9c/s750/file-20230906-19-xon6lk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDIMdEJ8QhkKci8HaKimNDyIsC7O2HLThtwZl3xfx7QVTtRV0OnamOvl_NeeA3-d212vebfSxgKL283Y-I-rb8SWYrTI8e0ODPeUtR-8TUbLDRcHL2TvlXYfhPZbqmafw_ojYnTR5dvCZ12vHa8CLX0pymU4RLpcF3N--b3Xx3ZkHvtrfZ1TRurRSyb9c/w512-h640/file-20230906-19-xon6lk.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #4’, from the series ‘In turn’ 2023, pigment photographic print, 169 x 128 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>This work was catalysed by the <a href="https://www.icrw.org/women-life-freedom-why-icrw-stands-with-the-protest-movement-in-iran/" target="_blank">women-led protest movement</a> sparked by the death of <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2022/sep/16/iranian-woman-dies-after-being-beaten-by-morality-police-over-hijab-law" target="_blank">Mahsa Jina Amini</a>, an Iranian Kurdish woman arrested in September 2022 for not following Iran’s strict <a href="https://www.nbcnews.com/news/world/iran-impose-strict-dress-code-hijab-women-protests-mahsa-amini-rcna79081" target="_blank">female dress codes</a>. The uprising filled the streets with women chanting “Women, Life, Freedom!” and “Say her name!” in fearless defiance of authorities, who responded with <a href="https://www.pbs.org/newshour/world/watch-women-and-girls-are-still-protesting-in-iran-heres-why" target="_blank">murderous retaliation</a>.</p><p>Afshar was observing her homeland from afar. She says she wanted to “share voices the media was ignoring”. She was inspired by social media images of women plaiting each other’s hair in public: a rebellious act that echoes a practice of <a href="https://qz.com/467159/these-female-kurdish-soldiers-wear-their-femininity-with-pride" target="_blank">female Kurdish fighters</a> preparing for battle.</p><p>But the images aren’t violent. They’re quietly peaceful, showing solidarity in grief, hope and determination. In making this “visual letter” to her Iranian sisters, Afshar has risked long-term exile from her country of birth.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsOA99RiSye-K9QHvr-eGP7dYt_TcQW_I8zH1yaPlJZBPTE6Zq60XZOWwIAnGTDVK56XmYj6ONi7WRfbthK9Q7AcPCMtFrqbZRoxz7xy7ayaUEvIbMmp9QHRdbxHhJO2GU8jBJCl24TA36-6dfNB7VGU2OuH_9_al4C-rnn0U5tE-TYKwn_g3dBmfFgQ/s750/file-20230906-24-b5xvun.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxsOA99RiSye-K9QHvr-eGP7dYt_TcQW_I8zH1yaPlJZBPTE6Zq60XZOWwIAnGTDVK56XmYj6ONi7WRfbthK9Q7AcPCMtFrqbZRoxz7xy7ayaUEvIbMmp9QHRdbxHhJO2GU8jBJCl24TA36-6dfNB7VGU2OuH_9_al4C-rnn0U5tE-TYKwn_g3dBmfFgQ/w512-h640/file-20230906-24-b5xvun.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #2’, from the series ‘In turn’ 2023, pigment photographic print, 169 x 128 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><h4 style="text-align: left;">Resolute defiance</h4><p>Much of Afshar’s work fearlessly tells stories that have been hidden or misrepresented.</p><p>Remain (2018) was made in collaboration with asylum seekers detained on <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2021/oct/06/australia-to-end-offshore-processing-in-papua-new-guinea" target="_blank">Manus Island</a>.</p><p>This work is made up of a series of austere, absorbing portraits and a large-scale two-channel video installation.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgLW3W9EdeLHkc5FwFDoR59eZC-SnbcPRgfvB6nd1XQfT8jPuY53qhsLUZSTdIgDzWnwDPJ1v2pPOG-dQ7jSr5a5OphHIPINPAooUSppq8NUhMrGj1Nzt393B8e9BBwybDRgPZDu7IvWTw6Ubx9_Wyxllba9aldeztw_YwuFA4rgqdH8afZgdoqC-Zfs/s600/file-20230906-20-72bk24.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="338" data-original-width="600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgLW3W9EdeLHkc5FwFDoR59eZC-SnbcPRgfvB6nd1XQfT8jPuY53qhsLUZSTdIgDzWnwDPJ1v2pPOG-dQ7jSr5a5OphHIPINPAooUSppq8NUhMrGj1Nzt393B8e9BBwybDRgPZDu7IvWTw6Ubx9_Wyxllba9aldeztw_YwuFA4rgqdH8afZgdoqC-Zfs/w640-h360/file-20230906-20-72bk24.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Remain’ 2018 (video still), from the series ‘Remain’ 2018, two-channel digital video, colour, sound, duration 23:33 min, aspect ratio 16:9, installation dimensions variable, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased with funds provided by the Contemporary Collection Benefactors 2020 © Hoda Afshar, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>We see men imprisoned in a place that would otherwise resemble paradise. We hear their voices recounting experiences of trauma and displacement. But, with Afshar, they co-create performative, narrative-evoking works that avoid degrading cliches of victimhood.</p><p>The most widely recognised image in this series is a portrait of Kurdish Iranian writer and filmmaker <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/media/2023/may/22/behrouz-boochani-the-refugee-writer-who-exposed-the-cruelty-of-australias-island-jail" target="_blank">Behrouz Boochani</a>, who chose to be pictured alongside fire. Smoke and flames echo the ardent strength of his gaze. This strength allowed him to emerge a free man after <a href="https://www.humanrightspulse.com/mastercontentblog/behrouz-boochani-refugee-detained-by-australia-for-six-years-is-granted-asylum-in-new-zealand" target="_blank">six years of incarceration</a>.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9-KDLX6KQswvZGsIGo_acR7uzKuA8rGRL1g2QDFCSn-lkFsBRakSX3YcaGunPqd1iAn20YX_hD43SIiP0TjfYEm7ryCTGx_T34uw593lWlQoWFX0HcX0dQZnZihb4a7UUWqnkO-lPdvvLZcKexA4kcvomZhO3LM_yi0N3id3gyChNhXzIS80U41W3DM/s723/file-20230906-18-olfirs.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="723" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu9-KDLX6KQswvZGsIGo_acR7uzKuA8rGRL1g2QDFCSn-lkFsBRakSX3YcaGunPqd1iAn20YX_hD43SIiP0TjfYEm7ryCTGx_T34uw593lWlQoWFX0HcX0dQZnZihb4a7UUWqnkO-lPdvvLZcKexA4kcvomZhO3LM_yi0N3id3gyChNhXzIS80U41W3DM/w532-h640/file-20230906-18-olfirs.jpg" width="532" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Behrouz Boochani – Manus Island’, from the series ‘Remain’ 2018, pigment photographic print, 130 x 104 cm, Art Gallery of New South Wales, purchased with funds provided by the Contemporary Collection Benefactors 2020 © Hoda Afshar, image © Art Gallery of New South Wales.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>In Behold (2016), once more we see acts of resolute defiance by people performing for the camera. Afshar was invited by a group of gay men to observe re-enacted gestures of protection and intimacy <a href="https://www.economist.com/open-future/2018/06/06/how-homosexuality-became-a-crime-in-the-middle-east" target="_blank">outlawed</a> in most of the Middle East.</p><p>Unable to freely express their love in society, they disclose and affirm it for Afshar and her lens.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKi5rsurgqY3aVqhPu1P3BD85URzUzgX5P79Z91slkOyIAXzec5HCWB02KnkFzoqeUnZ_nd8MR7sQMEiWpzP5_eMQWiGMuk6FBWZzUeUC6jO6YfiBW1OUTX3qoB6dFmW5XFHeyunAVNG9coRwxYpao8VvhPhHU1eVau0P4g0UI-flY0HycoC8-oBOmkSU/s600/file-20230906-28-72bk24.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="478" data-original-width="600" height="510" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKi5rsurgqY3aVqhPu1P3BD85URzUzgX5P79Z91slkOyIAXzec5HCWB02KnkFzoqeUnZ_nd8MR7sQMEiWpzP5_eMQWiGMuk6FBWZzUeUC6jO6YfiBW1OUTX3qoB6dFmW5XFHeyunAVNG9coRwxYpao8VvhPhHU1eVau0P4g0UI-flY0HycoC8-oBOmkSU/w640-h510/file-20230906-28-72bk24.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #7’, from the series ‘Behold’ 2016, pigment photographic print, 95 x 120 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Agonistes (2020) pays homage to a group of Australian whistleblowers who appear as a Greek chorus of heroic truth tellers.</p><p>Created through a complex process of photographic recording and 3D printing that conjures lifelike detail, the portraits look like sculpted marble busts. But this rendering leaves the eyes blank, and captions describing the corruption revealed by each figure don’t divulge their names.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIhItmoaoOdbA3h8MnoMVVgcnj_Ky9Z2Xr2txxLbAhdk4ZswSF87Ko-hmvvALkQIfW8khSbIipIZr99UtnS0hc8IyEfPsw_mRUZ0MAq10M84N2XlP_i5CSFk-b9vTAxUKZHP5lvJQTe7aIfs3o4EWfMhIz87ud5AlPvtpEI9pACscAvM5yM1QMPODV28/s751/file-20230906-27-8q4djc.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIhItmoaoOdbA3h8MnoMVVgcnj_Ky9Z2Xr2txxLbAhdk4ZswSF87Ko-hmvvALkQIfW8khSbIipIZr99UtnS0hc8IyEfPsw_mRUZ0MAq10M84N2XlP_i5CSFk-b9vTAxUKZHP5lvJQTe7aIfs3o4EWfMhIz87ud5AlPvtpEI9pACscAvM5yM1QMPODV28/w512-h640/file-20230906-27-8q4djc.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Portrait #3’, from the series ‘Agonistes’ 2020, pigment photographic print, text, 69 x 55 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Afshar maintains her practice of disclosing truth while protecting those who have the courage to tell it.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Being alive is breaking</h3><p>Speak the wind (2015–22) returns us to Iran, to the Strait of Hormuz, where “ill winds” are said to blow. <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/iran-blog/2016/jan/14/african-slavery-in-qajar-iran-in-photos" target="_blank">African slaves</a> were brought here over centuries, a trade only stopped in the 1920s.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLldYfM-lmaG4_hOv_eolOjCP91KIIIkBt0oubYt54L2Wh1iSXcQ-oNGv9XDKMmKoQW5-ne8UNGwJqhHnsGTVlMNSjAeBMV-4ec80IjIFuifSPK8E6tOiIYYe-2egZ6a66lnqxUqVvdbZ3F9uEl1wMXFlY4vwmAFZxTwE24Zgy9MSQk34O3bgiM27Ip8/s600/file-20230906-19-5xaf8v.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="600" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxLldYfM-lmaG4_hOv_eolOjCP91KIIIkBt0oubYt54L2Wh1iSXcQ-oNGv9XDKMmKoQW5-ne8UNGwJqhHnsGTVlMNSjAeBMV-4ec80IjIFuifSPK8E6tOiIYYe-2egZ6a66lnqxUqVvdbZ3F9uEl1wMXFlY4vwmAFZxTwE24Zgy9MSQk34O3bgiM27Ip8/w640-h512/file-20230906-19-5xaf8v.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #18’, from the series ‘Speak the wind’ 2015–22, pigment photographic print, 80 x 100 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Afshar’s photographs and video imagery explore a place haunted by history. We see the outward manifestations of an invisible wind (dramatically carved rock formations, ripples in water, flowing fabric). Shrouded figures bow on the dry earth, seeking cure from possession by malicious spirits.</p><p>Afshar investigates to what extent we are captives of history (in Australia we must grapple with the legacy of colonisation). In making this lyrical work, Afshar again collaborated with local people, some who made drawings of “<a href="https://www.iranicaonline.org/articles/zar" target="_blank">wind spirits</a>” they said they had encountered.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KKXYSWBsDpzRcLwjK21LX1hPuSlFmZEg_lJMThU1S4MglAdQN_vfizelQkcO7Dnc26mNtJGHikondU8-jem5jgzBNttJqjROsMzN2I7mIkHu49xY1i0d1fIiG_9QkDSl_3fkXbaVg_VKZ2BNBGcca6RijWd-oP1gpI39DqAm-q1ldH4ysxTUHQDtwZo/s600/file-20230906-17-9dqnez.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="600" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4KKXYSWBsDpzRcLwjK21LX1hPuSlFmZEg_lJMThU1S4MglAdQN_vfizelQkcO7Dnc26mNtJGHikondU8-jem5jgzBNttJqjROsMzN2I7mIkHu49xY1i0d1fIiG_9QkDSl_3fkXbaVg_VKZ2BNBGcca6RijWd-oP1gpI39DqAm-q1ldH4ysxTUHQDtwZo/w640-h512/file-20230906-17-9dqnez.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoda Afshar ‘Untitled #11’, from the series ‘Speak the wind’ 2015–22, pigment photographic print, 80 x 100 cm © Hoda Afshar, image courtesy the artist and The Conversation.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>The title of the exhibition was inspired by lines in a poem by <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/kaveh-akbar" target="_blank">Kaveh Akbar</a>:</p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p style="text-align: left;"><i>a curve is a straight line broken at all its points so much of being alive is breaking.</i></p></blockquote><p>Hoda Afshar’s work addresses conflict, injustice, mobility and the often fragile state of being alive. It reminds us that dominant powers can be challenged by exposing truth and envisioning something new.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Hoda Afshar: A Curve is a Broken Line is at the Art Gallery of New South Wales until January 21 2024.</i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>Via <a href="https://theconversation.com/" target="_blank">The Conversation</a></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-51632185077802746452023-08-20T13:52:00.003+01:002023-08-20T13:52:53.548+01:00How female photographers are making their voices heard in Iran<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYnieyY4kClipqh2Z940TCjfw9s0m5tyOvZGfWaZaZSgDm1U8_-OS79w8YtG6HIgVrNMMCEkbGSEoH_9t_22J7U59Y000B-xDNHo1KDRGBGK77TdRTothYmzkZh4LNmarGOsIRvzyVY8_JPliwBqMpZeOazYF9_SRaa_6HSWlSiqvVyBkmDDP7p6QrOj4/s1223/Untitled%201.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="719" data-original-width="1223" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYnieyY4kClipqh2Z940TCjfw9s0m5tyOvZGfWaZaZSgDm1U8_-OS79w8YtG6HIgVrNMMCEkbGSEoH_9t_22J7U59Y000B-xDNHo1KDRGBGK77TdRTothYmzkZh4LNmarGOsIRvzyVY8_JPliwBqMpZeOazYF9_SRaa_6HSWlSiqvVyBkmDDP7p6QrOj4/w640-h376/Untitled%201.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Imaginary CD Covers," from Newsha Tavakolian's series "Listen," 2010. Courtesy Newsha Tavakolian/Magnum Photos and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p><br /></p><p>by Zoe Whitfield, <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/" target="_blank">CNN</a></p><p>On September 19, 2022, three days after Mahsa Amini died after being sent to a “re-education center” by Iran’s morality police for allegedly infringing the country’s strict dress code, photographer Yalda Moaiery was arrested, beaten and jailed. She had been taking pictures of the resulting protests in the capital Tehran, part of a wider, women-led movement that erupted across the country following 22-year-old Amini’s death.</p><p>Moaiery was released on bail in December, reportedly pending a summons to begin a six-year prison sentence on anti-state charges. In January, a <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CnEnEYVI-7y/" target="_blank">video of Moaiery</a> was posted to her social media: dressed in an orange uniform, she sweeps the street and announces her sentence.</p><p><br /><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKENCN2UbjG5qJkHo9jggLzYvYlaySpQO_NvewQFAINME4FSQ55EayE8txHA032AVVJ4bTulCD_xLrirfWxgjbRaIaEXuduTNU7meyyPlD2CID0Qb0QmckfP494GGPx_STcG2qBsLU8aSOBSP-HbU7uJm5EhH-zlRFCVCcUS1bgMIY-Ewfpw15zt-JcM/s1280/230725093716-06-iranian-women-photographers-moaiery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqKENCN2UbjG5qJkHo9jggLzYvYlaySpQO_NvewQFAINME4FSQ55EayE8txHA032AVVJ4bTulCD_xLrirfWxgjbRaIaEXuduTNU7meyyPlD2CID0Qb0QmckfP494GGPx_STcG2qBsLU8aSOBSP-HbU7uJm5EhH-zlRFCVCcUS1bgMIY-Ewfpw15zt-JcM/w640-h640/230725093716-06-iranian-women-photographers-moaiery.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photographer Yalda Moaiery captured this shot of women screaming while being arrested by Iran's morality police in 2007. Courtesy Yalda Moaiery and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Sixteen years earlier, Moaiery had been granted permission to shadow Iranian police operations targeting women who weren’t observing the country’s compulsory hijab laws. Some of those images — of women looking fearful and angry, or shielding their faces with their hands as they’re put into police vans — appear in the timely new photography book “<a href="https://thamesandhudson.com/breathing-space-iranian-women-photographers-9780500027158" target="_blank">Breathing Space</a>,” edited by Iranian art director and gallerist Anahita Ghabaian Etehadieh.</p><p>“The women were arrested for different reasons: a veil considered to be badly placed, make-up considered too conspicuous, or clothes deemed to be too tightly fitting,” explained Ghabaian Etehadieh of Moaiery’s photographs, which were taken in 2006 and 2007.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5BvGbJmmig3kaC2Rp97R7eUbn90c-a-YMemFIAbffEU1jQQne6LTIft4cJEQXSGOF3HhL5zlTJqjlbZzSroQzDiwZW3fHPuTAfm64KaAdUCFYIDBCJuyIztEQ5dnszbOaQRPa_YYlUicumiSxhUlix95Aj7OFiXxugl_3Qo5Y8VAfUOHfyh7xryyDa4/s1280/230725092633-04-iranian-women-photographers-firuzi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5BvGbJmmig3kaC2Rp97R7eUbn90c-a-YMemFIAbffEU1jQQne6LTIft4cJEQXSGOF3HhL5zlTJqjlbZzSroQzDiwZW3fHPuTAfm64KaAdUCFYIDBCJuyIztEQ5dnszbOaQRPa_YYlUicumiSxhUlix95Aj7OFiXxugl_3Qo5Y8VAfUOHfyh7xryyDa4/w640-h480/230725092633-04-iranian-women-photographers-firuzi.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 2021 photograph from the ongoing series "In the Shadows of the Silent Women." Maryam Firuzi/Thames & Hudson and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>“Breathing Space,” published by Thames & Hudson, brings together the work of 23 Iranian female photographers whose work spans three decades. Exploring a range of photographic styles and genres, the book arrives at a pivotal moment in the trajectory of contemporary Iran. It has been released within weeks of the “official” redeployment of Iran’s morality police following the widespread protests spurred by Amini’s death and the subsequent arrests and executions of many young people across the country.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Photography as a means of progression</span></h3><p>“We are living in an historic moment for Iranian women,” Ghabaian Etehadieh told CNN via email, regarding the protests. “This (time) is meaningful for me, and important for Iranian photography. When we look at the global situation, we can see that there is now much greater awareness about gender equality and other social subjects… What is important is for us to progress and move forward, both artistically and more broadly.”</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91LCMDSe1FC7j9noRmm-uW2uC9WDyXK0CbQmMnbUw-mxXQY42m9kCier3bYFF8AgW6AInnDBgHupFy5NHLj83rG3zOtbOD7nBqbgfZWbGpcZLa0hi6TJ-_SndyvbWaCOSPkuOKRRFoYk7xm7sPmxCtq4SpC21jSYOt8R-MmOHXJek50U5DvWuFDM77j8/s1280/230725093702-09-iranian-women-photographers-noshirvani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="1280" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91LCMDSe1FC7j9noRmm-uW2uC9WDyXK0CbQmMnbUw-mxXQY42m9kCier3bYFF8AgW6AInnDBgHupFy5NHLj83rG3zOtbOD7nBqbgfZWbGpcZLa0hi6TJ-_SndyvbWaCOSPkuOKRRFoYk7xm7sPmxCtq4SpC21jSYOt8R-MmOHXJek50U5DvWuFDM77j8/w640-h470/230725093702-09-iranian-women-photographers-noshirvani.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An image from Mahshid Noshirvani's series "Factory Workers," 1979. Courtesy Mahshid Noshirvani/Thames & Hudson</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>Since 2001, Ghabaian Etehadieh has run the Tehran-based Silk Road Gallery, Iran’s first dedicated contemporary photography space, where many of the book’s contributors have previously exhibited.</p><p>“Photography was very much on the margins in 2001 — even today it is difficult to claim photography is a fully accepted part of the art scene in Iran — so initially, it had some difficulty finding its place,” she noted of the gallery. “There’s a contradiction, because in Iran there are many students studying photography, and it has a large audience.”</p><p>Internationally however, the story is different, with Iranian photographers widely recognized by established institutions: Hengameh Golestan, Newsha Tavakolian and Shadi Ghadirian, who all appear in the new book, have work featured in the collections of institutions such as the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, the V&A Museum in London and Los Angeles’ LACMA.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTL5eVblja1ZiOzKrYBboj985_QZDsLQsohJGI-a8TtHV4yj1GC1thmQgXBKUphyOilQ7WxDKZ-v3CLai3g7LmeeAuNmV9FdB0WZheZrSQv2qRzqczN8NhsEbTNLGyEtXlnkZlqRqxR715tY99dQdlkeXDB1qXEnHh124pq1sUUIkxlXnBSmRYHmXM39I/s1280/230725093633-07-iranian-women-photographers-dashti.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1280" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTL5eVblja1ZiOzKrYBboj985_QZDsLQsohJGI-a8TtHV4yj1GC1thmQgXBKUphyOilQ7WxDKZ-v3CLai3g7LmeeAuNmV9FdB0WZheZrSQv2qRzqczN8NhsEbTNLGyEtXlnkZlqRqxR715tY99dQdlkeXDB1qXEnHh124pq1sUUIkxlXnBSmRYHmXM39I/w640-h428/230725093633-07-iranian-women-photographers-dashti.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 2013 shot from Gohar Dashti's series "Iran, Untitled." Courtesy Gohar Dashti and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>“Publishing this book is more important and durable than staging any individual exhibition,” said Ghabaian Etehadieh. “I am delighted that it represents a new angle on Iranian photography and is the first to bring together a collection of female artists. These women, from a range of backgrounds and fields, have created important works telling a story about Iran and contributing to its photographic history.”</p><p>“Tahmineh Monzavi’s work goes beyond artistic representation and opens a discussion about different social and gender issues,” she said, recalling the photographer’s series “Tina,” in which Monzavi tenderly records the daily life of a transgender woman she befriended.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAXh6755tBHg2tG5J3rSMLbyu43d2zBms-RgOfOD3ymsqfaYB2HAquffcShIvm1sFf0Sq39X4MSCOuyOJZZ5QF6w9ZGHQr8NfIOWLJVSjzUi3fzHDktMdCtoX1M9tk8CYWytvW5URP3zJV_ifVqtZXoZjllJs2L7141Bpdf4J5NZlPS00QCW-RPeEA1c/s1280/230725092535-02-iranian-women-photographers-monzavi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="854" data-original-width="1280" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAXh6755tBHg2tG5J3rSMLbyu43d2zBms-RgOfOD3ymsqfaYB2HAquffcShIvm1sFf0Sq39X4MSCOuyOJZZ5QF6w9ZGHQr8NfIOWLJVSjzUi3fzHDktMdCtoX1M9tk8CYWytvW5URP3zJV_ifVqtZXoZjllJs2L7141Bpdf4J5NZlPS00QCW-RPeEA1c/w640-h428/230725092535-02-iranian-women-photographers-monzavi.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From Tahmineh Monzavi's series "Tina," 2010. Courtesy Tahmineh Monzavi and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;">Shining a light on women’s everyday lives</span></h3><div><br /></div><div>Elsewhere, photos from Ghadirian’s “Like Every Day” series foreground criticism of the restrictions facing women in the domestic sphere, depicting subjects in patterned chadors with household objects obscuring their faces. “Ghadirian is one of the most influential photographers at present, continually highlighting social and cultural tensions,” said Ghabaian Etehadieh. “She emphasizes contradictions faced by women every day — between old and new, tradition and modernity — and by spotlighting these pressures, reveals an intense female objectification.”</div><p>While stylistically varied, the photographers’ work is united in its rich storytelling and exploration of themes like gender equality, the environment, nostalgia, intimacy and war. The book announces its intentions as a vehicle for women’s voices early on, introduced with images from Golestan’s “Witness ’79” series of 1979’s women’s marches: shot in black and white, her photographs document the largely female crowds that marched against the then newly-imposed hijab laws.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQ2gV52Dl_vVp8K2g8-OZZ0Jiw-tQu_aUi5kyIqaHSFovC0aOEeq-Rcub3VE0tHOoJyypFcWLALQfYyD7RUdXnm6OxlzjWjUtgkIVt_9SqKpYRKCputTXCVM2nKrEkDKSU99sOJkkWYKYd5bFD7WF16QjN9tGTLaRXuRtZhcnAGvHndc6bHN7njMiL0o/s1280/230725091453-05-iranian-women-photographers-ghadirian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTQ2gV52Dl_vVp8K2g8-OZZ0Jiw-tQu_aUi5kyIqaHSFovC0aOEeq-Rcub3VE0tHOoJyypFcWLALQfYyD7RUdXnm6OxlzjWjUtgkIVt_9SqKpYRKCputTXCVM2nKrEkDKSU99sOJkkWYKYd5bFD7WF16QjN9tGTLaRXuRtZhcnAGvHndc6bHN7njMiL0o/w640-h360/230725091453-05-iranian-women-photographers-ghadirian.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shadi Ghadirian's series "Like Everyday" depicts women in patterned chadors with household objects obscuring their faces. Courtesy Shadi Ghadirian and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>“Aesthetically, the book is not ordered chronologically or thematically. This was a choice,” asserted Ghabaian Etehadieh. “It’s about ‘going back and forth’ between generations, but also themes and styles. This dialogue shows the artistic struggles female photographers undergo simply to express themselves, to secure a breathing space.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/" target="_blank">CNN</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-42995021926608697172023-06-17T15:08:00.001+01:002023-06-17T15:08:35.005+01:00Alternative Iran: Contemporary Art and Critical Spatial Practice<h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">An interview with Pamela Karimi</span></h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjflc-RSMuUsfiPi0PNh9oagEFcisKUA9wtmR2qj0VnxTomJ8WKb2z1P6p8a-sFpgLyE1uN1S15O806MXFHMqo2q-AJOEu3GvQ1L3FtsntA_D_YEvVJVs3trcOkeSWfOd9If6mbHU3S6vWUd7HtOz731IRM6eDNroELuDllH7bQasA4tt0AS2gcWmG/s510/Karimi230523033232810~.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="510" data-original-width="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjflc-RSMuUsfiPi0PNh9oagEFcisKUA9wtmR2qj0VnxTomJ8WKb2z1P6p8a-sFpgLyE1uN1S15O806MXFHMqo2q-AJOEu3GvQ1L3FtsntA_D_YEvVJVs3trcOkeSWfOd9If6mbHU3S6vWUd7HtOz731IRM6eDNroELuDllH7bQasA4tt0AS2gcWmG/s16000/Karimi230523033232810~.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy Jadaliyya.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: center;">Pamela Karimi, <a href="https://www.sup.org/books/title/?id=26964" target="_blank">Alternative Iran: Contemporary Art and Critical Spatial Practice</a> (Stanford University Press, 2022).</p><p><span style="text-align: center;">by </span><a href="https://www.jadaliyya.com/" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">Jadaliyya</a></p><p><b>Jadaliyya (J): </b><i>What made you write this book? </i></p><p><b>Pamela Karimi (PK):</b> As an architect, I have always been captivated by the ways in which creative agents navigate diverse spatial environments, whether it be a gallery, a studio, the street, or a deserted urban landscape. However, it was my personal upbringing in Iran that served as the primary impetus for exploring how innovative individuals engage in a cat-and-mouse game with state authorities over spatial boundaries. My formative years in post-revolutionary Iran were marked by clandestine art and music lessons, held in private settings beyond the reach of government or public institutions. But as I delved deeper into investigating such spaces, I came to realize that the notion of a wholly “pure” underground was a misconception. There were, of course, some exceptions. In the 1980s, for example, many art events—especially those featuring Western music or women's vocal performances—were held under entirely covert circumstances. However, the majority of creative—even politically daring—endeavors since the 1990s have occurred in areas that are not entirely hidden but are what I call <i>loosely covert</i>. It is within these interstitial zones, such as dilapidated homes, deserted factories, and abandoned urban locations, that alternative dreams and aspirations unfold. </p><p>In 2010 I read the late Svetlana Boym’s <i>Another Freedom: The Alternative History of an Idea</i>, in which she argues that freedom is not a universal idea, but rather an ever-evolving concept that continues to shape our reality. What made it particularly poignant was the fact that, following the Islamic Revolution of 1979, many outsiders assumed that there was no freedom to be found in Iran. Yet Iranians, despite the odds stacked against them, have always been adept at carving out spaces where they can exercise autonomy.</p><p>Although the book primarily focuses on nonconforming curatorial projects, independent guerrilla installations, escapist practices, and tacitly subversive performances, it also features case studies that counterbalance the long-held presumption of a deep divide between the progressive art community and the state. Throughout the book, I identify the power of art to take a critical stance across semi-regulated and unregulated spaces, as well as regimes of appropriation and coalition.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><b>J: </b><i>What particular topics, issues, and literatures does the book address? </i></p><p><b>PK: </b><i>Alternative Iran</i> takes a unique approach to art history, eschewing the traditional focus on iconography and semiotics in favor of a narrative that uncovers the intricate, often obscured networks of spatial, economic, and political discourses that define the artistic landscape of Iran. The book argues that Iran’s alternative art scenes defy the global art economy with projects that prioritize interactions with people and sites rather than object-based work that caters to the gallery, museum, and auction circuits. Although ephemeral performances in unofficial, makeshift spaces may offer little financial reward or even no reward at all, they provide a glimmer of hope for a more democratic Iran. In alignment with the Marxist philosopher Ernst Bloch, who has expounded on the concept of “hope,” I maintain that “hope” empowers Iran's artistic labor and enables it to leave an indelible imprint on society over time.</p><p>While Iranian artists ensure the longevity of their movements through repetition of ephemeral artistic practices, they also face obstacles. The constraining factors, however, are not merely binary divisions imposed by external forces that are beyond the control of artists. For instance, some artists refuse to participate in government-run initiatives in Tehran, while keenly conforming to the rules of state-run events that showcase art from poor regions outside the capital. The boundaries between private and public and correlated economies are more complex than assumed. Some alternative art practices occasionally benefit from private sponsorships but use the money to promote a higher cause. Additionally, while alternative art practices often intend to benefit society, some critics within Iran view them as elitist. These are only a few examples to show how <i>Alternative Iran</i> avoids what anthropologists call the “romanization of resistance.” Instead, the book explores the intricate networks that underpin the production and perception of art in Iran, shaped by constantly shifting economic and political circumstances as well as diverse critical perspectives.</p><p><b>J: </b><i>How does this book connect to and/or depart from your previous work? </i></p><p><b>PK:</b> My work is interdisciplinary and takes into account the impact of economic, social, and political forces on art and architecture. My first monograph, <i>Domesticity and Consumer Culture in Iran</i> (2013), revealed that modernization in Iran extended far beyond the realm of politics and public life. As Iran teetered on the brink of modernity, the traditional tenets that had long defined the Iranian home began to erode, while the influx of new household goods gradually led to a notable shift in lifestyles. Drawing on a wealth of archival materials, the book shed light on the crucial role that private life played in the social, economic, and political contexts of modern Iran. It showed how Iranian families resisted official transformations by selectively appropriating aspects of their surroundings to assert agency. </p><p>As sociopolitical challenges escalated in the 2010s, I engaged in what I call “activist scholarship.” For example, I co-edited <i>The Destruction of Cultural Heritage: From Napoléon to ISIS</i>, a dossier of essays examining the reasons behind the destruction of cultural heritage in the Middle East. Additionally, I organized the multi-media travelling exhibition “Black Spaces Matter,” in collaboration with community stakeholders, faculty, local experts, and students at my college. The exhibition highlighted the significance of abolitionist history in New Bedford, MA. </p><p><i>Alternative Iran</i> is a continuation of my commitment to exploring pressing sociopolitical issues of our time. It delves into the intricate networks and discourses that define Iran’s art scenes, revealing that spatial constraints, political obstacles, and economic restrictions do not hinder artistic progress, but instead inspire unique artistic qualities. </p><p><b>J: </b><i>Who do you hope will read this book, and what sort of impact would you like it to have?</i></p><p><b>PK: </b>The book is intended for a variety of audiences and readers. Most of the art forms that I discuss in this book belong to the art-historical category of post-studio practices, which encompasses socially engaged art, interventionist art, participatory art, collaborative art, and community-based art. Experimental music and theater are also addressed insofar as their encounters with alternative sites are of significance. Architecture is explored when the design process is symptomatic of a search for the creation of alternative spaces for art and everyday life.</p><p>Above all, <i>Alternative Iran</i> provides a distinctive documentation of the tangled histories of art and civil disobedience in post-revolutionary Iran, which are scarcely found in official archives, and have never been consolidated into a single volume in either Farsi or English. The book employs a variety of theoretical frameworks, from critical spatial theory to affect theory and ethnographic methods; its multidisciplinary approach makes it attractive not only to scholars in the fields of art, theater, music, and architectural history but also to those interested in anthropology and urban studies. </p><p>While the freeform approach to art and community life may seem more prevalent in Western societies, I argue that it is also plausible in the global South, highlighting the ways in which traditional forms of art, such as <i>ta'ziyeh</i> passion plays, have influenced contemporary art practices. So,<i> Alternative Iran </i>will hopefully also captivate readers interested in the Islamic arts of Iran, by showing how non-traditional contemporary artists have co-opted these old practices.</p><p><b>J:</b> <i>What was one unanticipated revelation you encountered while writing your book?</i></p><p><b>PK:</b> As I delved into writing <i>Alternative Iran</i>, I was faced with the challenge of grappling with a complex phenomenon: the co-optation of the “underground” by the state. While the 1980s and early 1990s allowed for unconventional art installations and performances in independent, underground, and loosely covert art spaces, the first two decades of the twenty-first century brought about major changes in control regimes and art economics. The state and other powerful entities appropriated techniques of covertness and brought aspects of the alternative into the limelight to regulate the creative community. This paradigm shift created a range of gray zones and push-and-pull games between the state and the art community. <i>Alternative Iran</i> presents instances of the Iranian authorities granting permission and even funding formerly “underground” art projects, paralleling the <i>aggressive mimicry</i> identified by art critic Gregory Sholette in the context of Western capitalism. </p><p>Amidst these changes, I discovered that more established artists, curators, and theater experts refused to contribute or took part in limited ways, creating alternatives within alternatives. It was challenging to articulate this phenomenon, but it served as a testament to the determination of Iranian creative agents who have been producing dissident art for four decades. Through my extensive research on Iranian artists, I discovered that they possess remarkable endurance, particularly in situations where state actors attempt to co-opt their art. </p><p><b>J: </b><i>What other projects are you working on now? </i></p><p><b>PK:</b> Currently, I am working on two monographs. The first was not initially part of my plan, but I became involved due to my interest in how sociopolitical movements have affected Iranian art. The book explores the role of visual arts in this revolutionary movement through ten recurring themes or “acts,” and argues that protest art emerging from Iranian streets and public spaces is not just a pretense of protest but protest itself.</p><p>A slightly lengthier book project, tentatively titled <i>Survival by Design</i>, illuminates Iran’s role in the re-emergence of traditional green architecture during a period characterized by Iran’s oil boom and the first oil crisis in the Global North. It explores how a diverse and globally connected group of experts, including architects, planners, philosophers, and Sufi scholars, formulated a visionary plan for the future with a long-lasting impact both globally and within the architectural discourse of Pahlavi Iran and the ensuing Islamic Republic.</p><p><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Expert from the book (from the Introduction, pp. 10-12)</h3><div><br /></div><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Ethos of Iran’s Alternative Art</span></h3><p>[…] Iran has a long tradition of communal and interactive art that reaches back to premodern times. Oriented toward experience rather than objects, many of these artistic expressions materialized in the form of religious ceremonies during the lunar month of Muharram, notably the <i>ta’ziyeh</i> passion plays that narrate the tragic and heroic martyrdom of Imam Hussain, grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, in the battle of Karbala in Iraq in Muharram of 680 CE. <i>Ta’ziyeh</i> means “consolation,” implying the blessing that performers are believed to obtain by dramatizing the events that led to the persecution of the Prophet’s family. While symbolizing the spirit of resistance against tyranny, the ritual drama is also shaped by the active participation of ordinary people. Nonprofessional actors are invited to contribute as both performers and spectators, and the way the story unfolds is spontaneous and at times improvised.</p><p>Hamid Dabashi writes that in <i>ta’ziyeh</i>, “[t]he stage is not really a stage, not because [those] who stage the <i>ta’ziyeh</i> are poor and cannot afford a proper amphitheater, but because the stage must be an extension of . . . ordinary realities. . .. Non- actors can frequent the stage easily, while the actors fall in and out of character without any prior notice.” Nor was participation in artistic expression limited to religious art and rituals. <i>Naqqali</i> (storytelling), <i>Shahnameh- khani </i>(reading of verses of the <i>Shahnameh</i>), <i>roohowzi</i> (layman entertainment performances), and <i>motrebi</i> (light music played on streets and at social events) were interactive and time- based entertainment art forms that, in their delivery, resonated with religious passion plays. This collective approach even extended to the high-ranking professional (miniature) painters of the royal courts: while one mastered the portrayal of the human body, another would be an expert in depicting foliage or animals, and so on. In fact, until the modern period and increased interactions with Europe, it was rare to think of art as a solitary pursuit. </p><p>Just how Iranians kept these traditions alive is not so clear. Today, many performance artists and theater experts strongly oppose any connections with the <i>ta’ziyeh</i> while acknowledging the influence of experimental theater directors Peter Brook and [Jerzy] Grotowski, who both traveled to Iran and performed there in the late 1960s and 1970s, during the Shiraz Arts Festival, launched by the Empress Farah and held annually from 1967 to 1977. Ironically, both of those iconic directors were captivated by the dramatic possibilities of <i>ta’ziyeh</i> performances that were brought into the spotlight at the fourth festival, which revolved around the theme of the “ritual.” As Brook explained:</p><blockquote><p>I saw in a remote Iranian village one of the strongest things I have ever seen in theater: a group of 400 villagers, the entire population of the place, sitting under the tree and passing from roars of laughter to outright sobbing— although they knew perfectly well the end of the story— as they saw Hussein in danger of being killed, and then fooling his enemies, and then being martyred. And when he was martyred, the theater form became truth.</p></blockquote><p>Brook would distill his experience into an experimental theater piece, <i>Orghast</i>, performed at the 1971 Shiraz Arts Festival, which was written entirely in a language invented by his collaborator, the poet Ted Hughes. As a contemporary review in the <i>New York Times</i> notes, the use of words that had no meaning— only rhythm, texture, tone— forced “the spectator to listen to the work as they would listen to music, and to watch the action as if it were a religious experience.” Grotowski, who visited Iran four times and closely followed the Shiite rituals, also used elements from the <i>ta’ziyeh</i> tradition to bond performers and audiences. Theater historian Daniel Gerould has written of how Grotowski’s actors became “celebrant[s] for the community of spectators, inciting them to take part in the rituals.”</p><p>Often Iranian performances, some featured in this book, draw on what the German dramatist Bertolt Brecht calls <i>Verfremdungseffekt</i> (<i>distancing effect </i>or simply <i>alienation</i>), the theatrical device that intentionally distances audiences from the fictive narrative and instead engages them in real activities. With the exception of a few, Iranian performers tend to deny the connection between the Brechtian distancing effect and the <i>ta’ziyeh</i>. But several scholars, including Hamid Dabashi, have compared the dramatic value of distancing in conveying the strong moral principles associated with the <i>ta’ziyeh</i>, where performers do not “play roles” per se, but try to impersonate the protagonists and the antagonists.</p><p>This cross-fertilization—from Shiite performances, to European avantgarde theater, and back again in contemporary performances in Iran—provides an insight into the complex spectrum of influences on Iranian art. <i>Ta’ziyeh</i> props and their methods of assembly—and in particular, the temporary structures hastily assembled for the annual rituals of the month of Muharram— have also proved to be a source of inspiration. As will be shown in chapter 4, the same “rushed” building style (<i>hey’ati</i>; literally, of a delegation—referring to a delegation of devout men who quickly construct large-scale, temporary religious paraphernalia), which has become a defining feature of agitprops in Iran is also used by artists to make sarcastic commentaries on urban propaganda.</p><p>Via <a href="https://www.jadaliyya.com/" target="_blank">Jadaliyya</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-28821138955934799602023-04-22T11:06:00.001+01:002023-04-22T11:06:59.868+01:00Months of Unrest in Iran Have Made It Even Harder for Artists and Galleries to Thrive.<h1 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> Here’s How They Are Still Fighting for Ideas</span></h1><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The protests have brought new hurdles but Iranians are determined to keep the art scene alive.</span></h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sThw7VRi2kh88VT5YVkCoh2nORp1xky1GNiWawMfWNJL17xhVdQ5k0Kk-oNrqvMe5On8_W808TOXKOfrCW325T2t5E0_L6YfCtljgIC_glQKzPEuoY0MADOtiMZXMJjefw_SupBBVQ0_GM_Y--YT7jgCkz6nlJz7RWO46J2UHfDQ_zUpplLALqHq/s1024/PHOTO-2023-03-12-10-51-04-1024x683.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7sThw7VRi2kh88VT5YVkCoh2nORp1xky1GNiWawMfWNJL17xhVdQ5k0Kk-oNrqvMe5On8_W808TOXKOfrCW325T2t5E0_L6YfCtljgIC_glQKzPEuoY0MADOtiMZXMJjefw_SupBBVQ0_GM_Y--YT7jgCkz6nlJz7RWO46J2UHfDQ_zUpplLALqHq/w400-h266/PHOTO-2023-03-12-10-51-04-1024x683.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Installation view, “For Life” at Aaran Gallery in Tehran. Courtesy Artnet News.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>by <a href="https://news.artnet.com/about/rebecca-anne-proctor-1060" target="_blank">Rebecca Anne Proctor</a>, <a href="https://news.artnet.com/" target="_blank">Artnet News</a></p><p>On November 4 in Tehran, O Gallery owner Orkideh Daroodi bravely reopened her gallery’s doors after one and a half months of intense protests and upheaval following the death of 22-year-old Mahsa Amini in police custody.</p><p>Reopening the gallery and staging exhibitions was risky during a moment of unrest and violent crackdown from the Iranian government. It was also socially risky. Galleries and many other businesses initially shuttered in solidarity with the protests. When Daroodi announced her reopening on Instagram, she immediately faced backlash from some members of the art scene, who saw the return to business as lacking in solidarity with the protests. Several other galleries that reopened in November without making public announcements faced a similar situation. On the morning of the gallery’s reopening, someone splattered red paint all over the gallery door and steps. The message was clear.</p><p>“They accused us of opening at the wrong time. But when is the right time?” Daroodi told Artnet News. “Our opening coincided with the day that many people were on the streets, being killed and imprisoned, and we were cursed endlessly saying that we didn’t care about the lives of the citizens and that all we cared about was money. But in fact by being open we were showing resistance and actually living the woman, life, freedom slogan.”</p><p>While Daroodi and other Iranian gallerists have resumed staging exhibitions and selling art, some remain reluctant to hold solo exhibitions due to safety concerns, afraid of provoking the wrath of the protesters as much as attracting the attention of the oppressive Islamic regime.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0cBWP07o0hWV5KUktEk_lmE3Af5IFCh_QfaS9G9cgewYJ_Uo0ivHWsN-4g9m1-1PThAbm45l9jJrHXyLXySeP8jgi68au3Ml5wZFDP1QAEVpeoaPW0JIPvbgDsCZUgs3q7Ao57SNnBGLv5iU-Gv7533Fnhl76jQdvZjVKacFMNdYzPAlhYna_oUX/s1024/ZahraShahceraghi-after-112-1024x683.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih0cBWP07o0hWV5KUktEk_lmE3Af5IFCh_QfaS9G9cgewYJ_Uo0ivHWsN-4g9m1-1PThAbm45l9jJrHXyLXySeP8jgi68au3Ml5wZFDP1QAEVpeoaPW0JIPvbgDsCZUgs3q7Ao57SNnBGLv5iU-Gv7533Fnhl76jQdvZjVKacFMNdYzPAlhYna_oUX/w400-h266/ZahraShahceraghi-after-112-1024x683.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Zahra Shahcheraghi’s solo show “Swan’s Death” staged at O Gallery from January 20 through February 7. The artist covered the entire space in black fabric to symbolize the state of mourning. Courtesy Artnet News.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Indeed, the protesters are far from the only concern facing galleries in Iran. Aside from the fact that the businesses need to reopen to remain afloat financially, Daroodi and others believe that art also has a role to play in the crisis—and that it makes for a more powerful statement when gallery doors are kept open.</p><p>“We’ve always had issues trying to keep our doors open, fighting censorship and always fighting for freedom,” Daroodi said.</p><p>Another female gallery owner spoke to Artnet News on condition of anonymity out of concern for her security. During the peak of the protests, she used her gallery to provide shelter for protesters. Afterwards, she received repeated calls from the government threatening to close down her space. The threats have since subsided. “For now, it seems they [the Iranian state] don’t want too much noise,” she said. “However, they are now fostering submission through fear.”</p><p>Other artists and gallerists repeated her assessment that situation is calmer now, with fewer protests, but with recent incidents such as the gas poisoning of <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-64797957" target="_blank">several hundred schoolgirls</a>, many believe that further unrest is on the horizon.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;">Back to Business Amid Fear</h3><p>Most galleries in Tehran, which number around 50, are now open for business. (Assar Gallery, among several others remain closed). But what sort of business can be done?</p><p>For Dastan’s Basement, the focus is on doing business abroad. Hormoz Hematian, the gallery’s owner and director, is making the art fair circuit, most recently, showing at Frieze L.A. and Art Dubai. The gallery back home remains open but is not staging exhibitions.</p><p>For those who are fully reopening, there is clearly an appetite for art. When Tehran-based Aaran Gallery staged its first exhibition on February 24, titled “For Life” after the now famous “baraye” protest slogan, hundreds attended the opening. Gallery owner Nazila Noebashari told Artnet News that it sold works from the show in the range of $5,000.</p><p>For many, business is conducted only within Iran, as finding ways to make payments and sending money to the country remains as difficult to foreigners as it has been since the first sanctions were imposed in 1979. Thankfully, “Iranians are buying again,” said O Gallery’s Daroodi. While sales and attendance have not yet recovered to the levels they were enjoying before the protests, she said “it is picking up.” Her gallery is currently selling art in the range of 5 million to 1,200,000,000 Iranian rials which is approximately $100 to $30,000 due to current exchange rates and spiraling inflation.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyg86Cr9GWh9fYej-RauuWZFkJ5wDVwmp2lDmyDN9JPMtrqfDUVFKNAfkzRXv7cuzhRFffGJb3yaMvx-hxvMGbfgfWH6Lf6kh5tZPK0ZicN_MpdW6AuTgcIALdV7Xv-xiBHY2-AbrgHGUyLQmj2l_4zdkoH-qRS3nXoZcpAsttgftNp25uZlJQf0E/s1024/PHOTO-2023-03-10-16-05-54.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="731" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOyg86Cr9GWh9fYej-RauuWZFkJ5wDVwmp2lDmyDN9JPMtrqfDUVFKNAfkzRXv7cuzhRFffGJb3yaMvx-hxvMGbfgfWH6Lf6kh5tZPK0ZicN_MpdW6AuTgcIALdV7Xv-xiBHY2-AbrgHGUyLQmj2l_4zdkoH-qRS3nXoZcpAsttgftNp25uZlJQf0E/w285-h400/PHOTO-2023-03-10-16-05-54.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mohammed Eskandi, <i>U Turn</i> (2023). Installation view, “For Life” at Aaran Gallery in Tehran. Courtesy Artnet News.</td></tr></tbody></table><h3 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;">The Dilemma Facing Iranian Artists</h3><p>The situation for artists is different. For those who continue to actively protest and create art about the challenges around them, safety is a concern, and galleries are also wary of showing the work out of fear of government reprisal.</p><p>For many, living and creating art means contending with constant fear and uncertainty. One female Tehran-based artist told Artnet News that for the first two months of the protests, she couldn’t make any art.</p><p>“After two months, to calm myself down and pass this difficult and strange period, I made a fabric artist book, which cannot be presented inside Iran under these conditions, because it has the names of those killed and the slogan ‘Women, Life, Freedom’ on it,” she said.</p><p>Even for those whose work is not overtly political, the upheaval has meant they have lost time and opportunities to show their work at home. The escalating cost of living, of rent on studio space, and materials, has also become prohibitive for many. “The price for art materials has now increased 10 times,” said one artist based in Tehran on condition of anonymity. “For young artists it is very difficult. More established artists are now offering younger artists private classes in their studios.”</p><p>Many artists are now seeking to exhibit their work outside of the country, and Iranian work was a notable presence at the recent Art Dubai fair.</p><p>Tehran-based artist Behrang Samadzadegan recently applied for a Golden Visa, a special long-term residence granted to foreign talents to live and work in the UAE. Samadzadegan, who recently had a solo exhibition at Leila Heller Gallery in the Emirate, plans to work between Tehran and Dubai. “It’s very expensive for Iranians to live in Dubai due to our economic situation and our failing currency. But Iranians are going where there is more opportunity,” he said, adding that many Iranians who work in IT and engineering are applying for jobs in Germany.</p><p>Others have been turning to digital art, creating NFTs to earn money and gain collectors from abroad. “Collectors inside the country aren’t buying much art and to sell artwork to collectors overseas is difficult due to sanctions,” said another artist who asked to remain anonymous. “All the artists around me are thinking about leaving.”</p><p>Still, the battle wages on within the country and abroad for liberty and justice, particularly over the hijab which the Iranian regime <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/world-middle-east-65147339" target="_blank">remains determined to enforce</a>. Art, as the Iranian scene demonstrates, has become itself an act of defiance, resilience and survival.</p><p>“It is through artistic creations that Iran reveals her true self and this many believe constitutes the country’s most precious legacy,” Aaran Gallery’s Noebashari told Artnet News. Persian history, even prior to 1979, has endured continuous turmoil, she added: “No historical shock has been able to break our belief in art.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://news.artnet.com/" target="_blank">Artnet News</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-58738486897199589262022-11-03T14:36:00.000+00:002022-11-03T14:36:02.774+00:00Iranian artist's surreal paintings of women take on a new sense of urgency<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCvtSMGwuljD9CEqwBULryT8sxcLjer-q3H3_uLc85eFbCzJydGRvRcUdjDnCPS0y6rt1SaGmlN4eYM7N_nNYA_TO0vRIL9YtnOLses_wc_ZZRELuG0aWvDdwg8rknbDGQuzopiHpvli5nNzB_flx_-AHPjcO2x7o0oCvlWwUG1htUQpsLwW25cB5/s1349/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134052-04-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="1349" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCvtSMGwuljD9CEqwBULryT8sxcLjer-q3H3_uLc85eFbCzJydGRvRcUdjDnCPS0y6rt1SaGmlN4eYM7N_nNYA_TO0vRIL9YtnOLses_wc_ZZRELuG0aWvDdwg8rknbDGQuzopiHpvli5nNzB_flx_-AHPjcO2x7o0oCvlWwUG1htUQpsLwW25cB5/w640-h360/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134052-04-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of the artist/Stems Gallery and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table>by Jacqui Palumbo, <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/" target="_blank">CNN</a><p>For Iranian artist Arghavan Khosravi, depicting hair in her paintings has become charged with emotion. She posted a video on Instagram in early October that showed her sweeping a paintbrush across the canvas to create fine strands. "These days when I'm painting hair, I'm filled with anger and hope. More than ever," she wrote in the caption.</p><p>She added the hashtag #MahsaAmini to the post, the name of the 22-year-old woman who died in Iran's capital Tehran in September after being arrested by the country's morality police for allegedly not wearing her hijab properly. Amini's death has since catalyzed nationwide <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2022/09/21/middleeast/iran-mahsa-amini-death-widespread-protests-intl-hnk" target="_blank">protests</a> — many of which have seen young women and girls defiantly <a href="https://www.cnn.com/2022/09/28/middleeast/iran-hair-cutting-mime-intl" target="_blank">cutting their hair</a> — and her name has become a rallying cry on social media.</p><p>Khosravi grew up in a secular Tehran household in the aftermath of the 1979 Iranian Revolution as a new theocratic regime instated oppressive rules for women, including making the hijab, or headscarf, mandatory in public.</p><p>"At a very early age I realized that there is this contrast between your private spaces — your home — and then public spaces. At home you are free to do whatever you want," Khosravi said in a phone call from Stamford, Connecticut. "You learn to navigate this dual life."</p><p>Khosravi had her own encounter with the morality police in 2011 and was temporarily detained, she explained. Based in the US since moving in 2015 to study painting, the former graphic designer uses long, flowing hair as a symbol in her metaphor-laden works. Her surreal, dreamlike portraits of women, which appear on multi-paneled surfaces that resemble architectural facades, were influenced by the flattened perspectives and meticulous details of Persian miniature paintings.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Some of her latest works are <a href="https://www.artproductionfund.org/projects/arghavan-khosravi-at-rockefeller-center" target="_blank">currently on view</a> around Rockefeller Center in New York City through mid-November, while her first solo museum show recently ended at New Hampshire's Currier Museum.</p><h3 style="text-align: left;">Rich symbolism</h3><p>The women in Khosravi's paintings are often depicted as bound by strings or concealed behind walls, flowers or hands in what she describes as a struggle for autonomy. Yet, they possess a commanding presence. She contrasts cords and shackles with expressions of freedom such as doves. With lush colors and areas of radiance in which her subjects' body parts seem to glow, Khosravi's artworks aren't somber, but luminous.</p><p>"Contrast and contradiction is one of the main concepts that I'm exploring in my work," she said, pointing to the dichotomies of many Iranian women's lives. Red or black threads are a recurring motif in her paintings — they appear looped around her figures' fingers or wrists, sewn over their closed mouths or emerging from their eyes — sometimes as painted lines, sometimes as physical strings hanging from the canvas.</p><p>"I was thinking about my memories from Iran," she said. "There are a lot of red lines that are imposed on us by the government."</p><p>Since protests broke out in September, Khosravi has watched hair become a powerful symbol as women cut theirs, in protest or in solidarity, and burned their hijabs in the streets.</p><p>"Women cutting their hair is an ancient Persian tradition... when the fury is stronger than the power of the oppressor," <a href="https://twitter.com/AtashiShara/status/1572512342671503360" target="_blank">tweeted</a> Wales-based writer and translator Shara Atashi in late September. "The moment we have been waiting for has come. Politics fueled by poetry."</p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b>Real-world reflections</b></h3><p>In "Cover your hair!", a painting that Khosravi recently reshared on social media, a woman hangs from her torso by a long piece of red fabric, her long, dark hair wrapped tightly in the material. Stylized Persian soldiers on horses loop threads around her body in a poignant image of suppression.</p><p>"I have scenes of battlefields where soldiers attack women. And now, on the streets, we see videos of these security forces (and a) level of cruelty as they attack the protesters," she said. "I have some visual metaphors... but now they are literally happening."</p><p>But Khosravi hopes that her subjects represent not just the experience of Iranian women, but any woman whose rights are threatened.</p><p>"Something in common between all of the (women in my paintings) is that they're around the same age as me, or their hair color or features are, to some extent, similar to my own... because I am thinking about my own story and other women who have gone through the same," she said. "But at the same time, I don't want these figures to be too culturally specific. So anyone in any corner of the world can relate to their works based on their own experiences."</p><p>Now she's sketching ideas for new paintings, responding to what she hopes are turning tides in her home country.</p><p>"At some point I had lost hope that maybe things would change, but now there's this young energy, it's very fascinating and I hope it leads to fundamental change," she said.</p><p>Though the subjects in her portraits all have some degree of agency, she's working on a new set of symbols that will evoke the strength of women taking on an entire government to claim autonomy over their bodies. "In light of all that's going on," Khosravi said, "I want to give the figures more power."</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFgjJlNTEdrybef8P2vfpR2Z1aEpEzxRrz97CsNtyN23q432jIcmGVfx7kQpvWOUmPGxiooRSKbgRKkMffyrku0AEy4lYkzZecPcco7Gb1vXVbUHPLEb_iBLGunkWbPdfoK7jieoENDpbAB0PkZw-A61cfdaBIFMBXshPd1DANEMHvu6lxtF5TeZs/s838/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221026020704-01-arghavan-khosravi-surreal-painting.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="838" data-original-width="727" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFgjJlNTEdrybef8P2vfpR2Z1aEpEzxRrz97CsNtyN23q432jIcmGVfx7kQpvWOUmPGxiooRSKbgRKkMffyrku0AEy4lYkzZecPcco7Gb1vXVbUHPLEb_iBLGunkWbPdfoK7jieoENDpbAB0PkZw-A61cfdaBIFMBXshPd1DANEMHvu6lxtF5TeZs/w557-h640/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221026020704-01-arghavan-khosravi-surreal-painting.jpg" width="557" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arghavan Khosravi uses long, flowing hair as a symbol in her metaphor-laden works.Courtesy Arghavan Khosravi and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEpi_a5vr0CzCeL2Y7cwT4cfXDdxnPXOsOOrQskdWMYdGDyxM_TW_Z1iwk3DchGJ6OY66OgiRslSAEgiSiI6wCWVSdfF3YOvYfZu-m2xxEJByZueUBUAGTh1_IFX2nDJtnXoOV5ixSP1xl4j31rkxXb0gsJHGwlUmIL6qmH-vDUYHdNu2JEz9kJ8H/s727/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134108-01-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="727" height="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihEpi_a5vr0CzCeL2Y7cwT4cfXDdxnPXOsOOrQskdWMYdGDyxM_TW_Z1iwk3DchGJ6OY66OgiRslSAEgiSiI6wCWVSdfF3YOvYfZu-m2xxEJByZueUBUAGTh1_IFX2nDJtnXoOV5ixSP1xl4j31rkxXb0gsJHGwlUmIL6qmH-vDUYHdNu2JEz9kJ8H/w640-h570/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134108-01-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" width="640" /></a><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Khosravi is influenced by Persian miniature painting and her own memories coming of age in Iran. Courtesy of the artist/Kavi Gupta Gallery and CNN.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMvXj_iv1AddP5opmbPq5nCyR9BXjs9rN2NBsP2XQrIseMDoc2CeFEJYKIqRu2p8Q7_jTyPa0LeijRPCJejtkW7UMgOD2pqP-VzjT7zNJ5q__7f4GAwSmsK5Y3izLYvFtM-pzLB84hHX8W2rigvVHg2KCzawofAcUP7tsRt7feVHyD05-VNasHfFn/s815/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134206-06-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="815" data-original-width="727" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgMvXj_iv1AddP5opmbPq5nCyR9BXjs9rN2NBsP2XQrIseMDoc2CeFEJYKIqRu2p8Q7_jTyPa0LeijRPCJejtkW7UMgOD2pqP-VzjT7zNJ5q__7f4GAwSmsK5Y3izLYvFtM-pzLB84hHX8W2rigvVHg2KCzawofAcUP7tsRt7feVHyD05-VNasHfFn/w570-h640/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134206-06-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" width="570" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She contrasts symbols of oppression with those of freedom. Courtesy of the artist/Stems Gallery and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5XFRZkLMevnLwWIcgjL-3C3jb_71YvG1FixlpWt7tKEkh2NGVxS5FvUjkAes6CIuqfMXt4e74z5kAb-aGC4WJ5t-m1_bnFGvSQwKIot34HO7cLTzMEYXCODDh2E3uW5jlPh-zHHb7g3Z2xvzaT3aZeDWe7UnNuR3hPnHb9NiL43AbwdRW5aNzqWZ/s1001/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134125-05-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1001" data-original-width="727" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF5XFRZkLMevnLwWIcgjL-3C3jb_71YvG1FixlpWt7tKEkh2NGVxS5FvUjkAes6CIuqfMXt4e74z5kAb-aGC4WJ5t-m1_bnFGvSQwKIot34HO7cLTzMEYXCODDh2E3uW5jlPh-zHHb7g3Z2xvzaT3aZeDWe7UnNuR3hPnHb9NiL43AbwdRW5aNzqWZ/w464-h640/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134125-05-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" width="464" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her past works have foregrounded women with long, flowing hair — works she has revisited on Instagram in light of Mahsa Amini's death. Courtesy of the artist/Stems Gallery and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FBmW_2LbEfB9UFZmftBYLRUai5vu_PWdsYcFDfIAJa5KR03wmbueB8XWglQqNQIhmzxaH6W4SkgszO_Jl9SPb9OSH5ISTKMk0w82x3U2zW4I40UZ4GWRDz06sUznoJvPqqEf6DrLEIl6MdJQKiS7FFVQwXEr1YWq1RFxQ9x-1kB8sfv30ferHNoj/s970/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134149-03-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="970" data-original-width="727" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8FBmW_2LbEfB9UFZmftBYLRUai5vu_PWdsYcFDfIAJa5KR03wmbueB8XWglQqNQIhmzxaH6W4SkgszO_Jl9SPb9OSH5ISTKMk0w82x3U2zW4I40UZ4GWRDz06sUznoJvPqqEf6DrLEIl6MdJQKiS7FFVQwXEr1YWq1RFxQ9x-1kB8sfv30ferHNoj/w480-h640/http___cdn.cnn.com_cnnnext_dam_assets_221025134149-03-arghavan-khosravi-paintings.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I am thinking about my own story and other women who have gone through the same," she said. Courtesy of the artist/Koenig Gallery and CNN.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="https://edition.cnn.com/" target="_blank">CNN</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-86574550341127099162022-10-13T15:21:00.000+01:002022-10-13T15:21:33.630+01:00 The Many Shades of Iran’s Protest Art<p style="text-align: center;"><i>In the four decades since the Islamic Revolution, Iranian artists have used clever tactics and unconventional modes of art-making to display disobedience.</i></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiata0hSSpjJ2V-Egbg4zq71L0459AUKFAzZ3Ec6QjKif3xFahFU2Ax6jLC1C208FGELVxczSmYRK_23GaeNPWk4zNnNUiKZALspYhT5BpdZkmPR1sAsZSlxcKfYnwcd5_us365-V-426PM6UDi0aHA5DYGz9sb0h6OKeqgoHfxWogNHrDcjb_A8FK/s770/image6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="770" data-original-width="516" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiata0hSSpjJ2V-Egbg4zq71L0459AUKFAzZ3Ec6QjKif3xFahFU2Ax6jLC1C208FGELVxczSmYRK_23GaeNPWk4zNnNUiKZALspYhT5BpdZkmPR1sAsZSlxcKfYnwcd5_us365-V-426PM6UDi0aHA5DYGz9sb0h6OKeqgoHfxWogNHrDcjb_A8FK/w268-h400/image6.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katayoun Karami, <i>Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deed</i> (2013), Azad Art Gallery, Tehran (courtesy the artist and Hyperallergic)</td></tr></tbody></table><p>by <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/author/pamela-karimi/" target="_blank">Pamela Karimi</a>, <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/" target="_blank">Hyperallergic</a> </p><p>Recent weeks have seen a surge of protest art in Iran, triggered by the tragic story of Mahsa Amini, a young woman killed on September 16 by the morality police for breaching the Islamic republic’s dress code for women. Since then, civil unrest has grown in more than 80 Iranian cities, with calls for justice as well as personal and political liberties, not to mention hundreds of arrests and violence against protesters, especially young women. Internet access remains limited as the government regulates its usage. </p><p>Amid these protests, artists have played an important role in bringing their message to the fore. Shervin Hajipour’s song (#Baray-e [<i>For the sake of or Because of</i>]), recorded in his room and posted on Instagram for limited followers, was shared more than 40 million times on social media platforms in just two days. Taken from #Baraye protest tweets, Hajipour utters the grievances and hopes of Iranians, with a final emphasis on “For Women, Life, Freedom,” the main slogan of recent protests. </p><p>Art coming out of Iran (or by artists in the diaspora) has a radical and rebellious zeal, also evident in the visual arts. Consider, for example, the work of dozens of Iranian artists — many of whom are women — who have been featured by <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/765100/the-artists-amplifying-the-voices-of-irans-protesters/" target="_blank">Hyperallergic</a> and the <i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2022/oct/03/something-sparked-iranian-women-art-protest-mahsa-amini" rel="nofollow">Guardian</a></i>. Brave works with layered meanings, they appropriate concepts and imagery from earlier periods, especially those familiar to Iranians. Meysam Azarzad’s posters shared via Instagram seem to have borrowed from revolutionary themes of earlier years — found in both <a href="https://www.bridgemanimages.com/en-US/noartistknown/iran-tudeh-or-iranian-communist-party-poster-workers-of-the-world-unite-c-1979/nomedium/asset/2838833" target="_blank">leftist</a> and <a href="https://www.lib.uchicago.edu/collex/exhibits/graphics-revolution-and-war-iranian-poster-arts/visualizing-revolution/" target="_blank">Islamist</a> factions that helped overthrow the Shah’s regime in 1979. Using red, white, and black, they also seem to align the recent uprising with the visual culture of <a href="https://repository.duke.edu/dc/russianposters" target="_blank">other global revolutionary movements</a>. A filmmaker with university training in graphic design, Azarzad refutes any link to Iran’s revolutionary posters, especially those with religious iconography. Juxtaposing bold black-and-white silhouettes of fighting and fallen young women with nationalistic poetry, Azarzad instead highlights their bravery in nationalistic terms. The content of the texts appearing above the women strikes a chord with rhyming couplets from the 11th-century epic <i>Shahnameh</i> (“Book of Kings”) by the patriotic poet <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdowsi" target="_blank">Abul-Qasem Ferdowsi</a>. One poster shows a defenseless young woman raising her fist — unveiled — to rows of soldiers. The couplet praises a hero, but the typical <i>Shahnameh</i>-style male hero’s name is replaced by “a fighting girl” (<i>dokht-e jangi</i>). The other posters draw our attention to the bravery of two 16-year-old girls. Appearing like saints, Nika Shahkarami and Sarina Esmailzadeh were both beaten to death during protests. The portraits are juxtaposed with poetic lamentations over the death of a heroine, again in the style of <i>Shahnameh</i>.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Most of these works were created by graphic designers and illustrators for social media platforms; however, they represent only one of the diverse art forms being produced in contemporary Iran. In response to the current unrest, many have abandoned exhibition and performance for the “anonymous” expression of political views through graffiti and ephemeral installations. In disguise, artists have placed slogans that <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CjQo90UKsv_/" target="_blank">challenge</a> the country’s clerical leadership; in an ironic twist, many <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CjODbrfumUy/" target="_blank">parody</a> the revolutionary slogans of the Islamic republic. On October 7, an anonymous artist created “<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2022/10/08/tehran-fountains-dyed-red/" target="_blank">Tehran in Blood</a>,” dyeing fountains in important cultural centers red. In response to an attack on demonstrators at Tehran’s Sharif University, two anonymous women artists animated trees in Daneshjoo (“University Student”) Park by hanging red <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CjdTBz3KqKI/" target="_blank">nooses from branches</a>. The police swiftly removed these installations, but their pictures persisted on social media platforms and even found their way into mainstream media. </p><p>For four decades, though, Iranian art’s defiance has been subdued. Compare two posters by graphic designer Pedram Harby. The one on the left, created for recent protests, is animated by a female mouth ostensibly shouting grievances. Appearing next to a #MahsaAmini hashtag, and between the confidently rendered words “Zan” (Woman) and “Zendegi, Azadi” (Life, Freedom), the work seems bold compared to an earlier poster designed by Harby for <i>Unpermitted Whispers</i>, a 35-minute play by the Iranian theatre director Azadeh Ganjeh staged four times a night in 2012 using ordinary taxis. For each performance, three actors were picked up and dropped off in sequence. The characters in the performance were iconic women in Shakespeare’s plays, such as Ophelia whose intense love, madness, and despair were personified in the character of a woman from contemporary Tehran who spoke of conflicts between ordinary Iranians and the police forces. Despite the play’s political tone, Harby’s poster remains understated. A red traffic light affixed to a Q-tip, the ensemble indicates the threats of being blocked and unheard.</p><p>Such indirect visual language has been the dominant visual idiom of Iranian art in the past four decades, because all art has to be sanctioned by an organization that works like the “morality police.” Commonly referred to as <i>Vezarat-e ershad</i>, or Ministry of Guidance (shorthand for the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, hereafter MCIG), the organization has censored the arts since the early 1980s. Iranian artists of all branches have had to improvise to flout this organization’s rules. While the MCIG has tried to suppress artistic expression, however, it has inadvertently pushed artists to be more inventive. Rather than self-censoring, artists have long employed clever tactics for presenting disobedience. While visual artists like Harby use subtle and perplexing iconography, performance artists, like Shahab Fotouhi, draw on what the German dramatist Bertolt Brecht calls <i>Verfremdungseffekt</i> (alienation), the theatrical device that intentionally distances viewers from the fictive narrative and instead engages them in real activities, such as mock performances that look like fully sanctioned political roundtables in Iran and yet somehow challenge the ideals and ideas of the regime. </p><p>In my book <a href="https://www.sup.org/books/title/?id=26964" target="_blank"><i>Alternative Iran</i></a>, I highlight another important strategy: spatial tactics employed by artists of all genres as well as the curators and architects who team up with them. Such strategies include going literally underground along vertical blocs, even when MCIG permission is granted; distancing oneself from the “official” centers of art production and growing, instead, along horizontal axes; creating ephemeral installations; deploying spatial camouflage; and negotiating the limits of the permitted and the forbidden by manipulating art venues or gallery spaces. Using these spatial strategies, artists have flouted MCIG laws, showcasing politically sensitive art without getting into trouble. </p><p>Restrictions imposed by the MCIG have also given form to unconventional modes of art-making, not meant for official venues. Instead, these art forms appear in derelict buildings, leftover urban zones, and remote natural sites. Following the Iran-Iraq War (1980–88) and starting in the 1990s, a few exhibitions in rundown and ready-to-renovate homes (<i>kolangi</i>) revived forms of conceptual art (<i>honar-e mafhoomi</i>), performance art (<i>honar-e ejra’ie</i>), and ephemeral art (<i>honar-e mira</i>). Many works were site-oriented rather than site-referenced or site-specific; that is, the site’s shape, history, socioeconomic conditions, and sociopolitical connotations were less important than the fact that the location provided opportunities for freedom of expression that were unavailable in conventional art spaces. However, on the eve of former Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s election in 2006 and the imposition of further restrictions on journalists, the abandoned headquarters of the most prominent state-run newspaper, <i>Ettela’at</i>, became a platform for a monumental installation by Farideh Shahsavarani. </p><p>Titled <i>I Wrote, You Read</i>, Shahsavarani’s work commented on censorship of the journalistic freedom that had reached its peak after eight years under President Mohammad Khatami. Some newspaper pages were encased in barbed-wire stands; some covered the walls, windows, and ceilings; others appeared in videos accompanied by the sounds of typewriters and sirens. The exhibition also devoted a small room to the memory of journalists who had been arrested and detained. This <i><a href="https://www.theartstory.org/definition/gesamtkunstwerk/#:~:text=The%20German%20term%20Gesamtkunstwerk%2C%20roughly,create%20a%20single%20cohesive%20whole." target="_blank">Gesamtkunstwerk</a></i> engaged multiple human senses, affirming a form of art viewing that depends not only on our eyes but also on our bodies. Shahsavarani, who did not secure permission from MCIG for her site-specific project, ended up taking it down after one week. </p><p>Another spatial technique used for the purpose of subduing protest art has been camouflaging. On August 5, 2013, when President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was sworn in for a second term, the police attacked crowds who had gathered outside parliament to protest, arresting many. Against such chaos, Ahmadinejad called for national unity and quoted from Article 121 of the Iranian constitution, vowing to dedicate himself “to serving the people and . . . spreading justice and refraining from any dictatorship.” Artist Katayoun Karami, who took part in the protest, was angered by these deceitful proclamations. Four years later, for the next election day, she created an installation with curator Rozita Sharafjahan at Tehran’s Azad Art Gallery. Titled <i>Good Thoughts, Good Words, Good Deeds</i>, an ancient Zoroastrian motto, the project “trapped” visitors as they explored the gallery. Karami had laser-cut the words of Article 121 from mats coated with adhesive from rat traps. The mats covered the floor so visitors could not escape the sticky mess; this was a metaphor “for always being caught in the political predicaments,” Karami reminded. At first, the words were hardly visible to the visitors and the MCIG staff who issued permission; however, after many visits, the sticky pads became dark and decipherable. The visitors, in turn, reluctantly carried home some adhesive on their shoes. Karami, who is from a generation that has seen it all (i.e., the revolution, Iran-Iraq war, Green Movement), believes that engaging visitors’ bodies conveyed the collective discontent with Iran’s political system.</p><p>Another prominent artist in the category of camouflage is Pooya Aryanpour, who has been using the trick to subtly tease social and political restrictions within Iran. Relying on traditional mirrorworks, his art ironically exudes a religious air. Mirrorworks are used in Shi‘ite shrines of Iran, covering entire walls, arches, vaults, and ceilings with fragments of mirrors so fractured that one’s reflection is skewed, with an urgency drawn from the teachings of the highest-ranking Shi‘ite clerics that proscribe praying in front of portraits, including one’s own image. Noteworthy among Aryanpour’s camouflaged projects is a 2022 installation of a suspended fabric-like structure whose surface is animated by mirrorwork. Executed in collaboration with curator Maryam Majd and Dastan Gallery, <i>Gone with the Wind </i>hangs in the dark, alluding to several cultural signifiers, from the black banners that commemorate a religious holiday or death of an imam or martyr to the ideal veiling for women, the black chador. The site was an abandoned sugar factory in Kahrizak, a formerly booming industrial area in southern Tehran. The choice for the site, Aryanpour explains, was tied to the work’s meaning — signifying the dark and bright aspects of the Islamic republic at once. Once a site of production, the factory is now nothing more than a vacated space left to decay, a metaphor for the country as a whole. On the <a href="https://dastan.gallery/exhibitions/413/" target="_blank">Dastan Gallery</a> website, a text by Majd describes it as “beautiful, yet lost,” and that which “directly makes references to us and our lives”, amounting to an “aesthetic allusion” to the “incomplete, contradictory, and unstable situation[s] experienced” by the Iranian people.</p><div><div>The few examples of art with tacit political messages presented here attest to a lineage of subtle strategies since the post-revolutionary period that has allowed artists to defy the MCIG. In other words, the recent protest art was set in motion earlier than this September. Indeed, oppositional voices escalated with the election of hardliner President Ebrahim Raisi and the new regulations enacted by his cabinet. In August 2021, when Mohammad Mehdi Esmaili, the newly appointed minister of Culture and Islamic Guidance under President Raisi, issued a new “program” (<i>barnameh</i>) for revamping MCIG’s rubrics to further “Islamicize” the arts, every faction of the arts community published open statements scrutinizing the new “program.” On Instagram, artist Alireza Amirhajebi wrote: “So far, we have shown elasticity (<i>en’etaf</i>) as much as we could. But now it is time for disobedience (<i>sarpichi</i>)….” Thus what we see today is a continuation of what surfaced after a near decade of relative flexibility under President Hassan Rouhani. The brave language of art today, which goes as far as challenging the supreme leader himself, will undoubtedly set a new tone for Iranian art in the months and years to come. </div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEnuO7Iz-xwSU0QWBXhQYa2fkaVbYJvWxu4jafD9_cyhMaGh0CoR8S9SVi-gPQ6OiSI7adGpODv5ErmwEXXjuaAkDqfC49pq0tKTz9gozmOjzrZeSawEgD4qJI0ozoKDbPxHmEmW1MAGiiVQXTmvDaX1k5az4nGf4hPwj2qVnC3CYTQZ8I7Hjd98y/s1466/image.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1466" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVEnuO7Iz-xwSU0QWBXhQYa2fkaVbYJvWxu4jafD9_cyhMaGh0CoR8S9SVi-gPQ6OiSI7adGpODv5ErmwEXXjuaAkDqfC49pq0tKTz9gozmOjzrZeSawEgD4qJI0ozoKDbPxHmEmW1MAGiiVQXTmvDaX1k5az4nGf4hPwj2qVnC3CYTQZ8I7Hjd98y/w328-h400/image.png" width="328" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iranian artist Meysam Azarzad's protest message: "As Iranians saw her face, they rubbed their own faces to the ground." (courtesy the artist and Hyperallergic, translated by Pamela Karimi)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttpJg7FZLeQoNX4hZz_sfiGCSQw_cS0WHVZvuwwG6GALj7HvRayISyYxjhIfNnNJAffFMsExQMmkLqMjAzvWZ5UeSnCUYHtHHACb-5VSPoXTE7Una3ummIi4HJ9-S-n-s4ih7BC5Tc5ojb6_l0XMzIHDFeTZS6UJ2XZ5X6R-Lr1nsfzUT5SGqALKK/s1199/image%20(1).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="1199" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhttpJg7FZLeQoNX4hZz_sfiGCSQw_cS0WHVZvuwwG6GALj7HvRayISyYxjhIfNnNJAffFMsExQMmkLqMjAzvWZ5UeSnCUYHtHHACb-5VSPoXTE7Una3ummIi4HJ9-S-n-s4ih7BC5Tc5ojb6_l0XMzIHDFeTZS6UJ2XZ5X6R-Lr1nsfzUT5SGqALKK/w400-h241/image%20(1).png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Artist Meysam Azarzad‘s protest art uses phrases from the 11th-century epic <i>Shahnameh</i> (“Book of Kings”). The poster on the left reads: “Once my father realizes that you’ve slain me, he will seek revenge.” On the right: “This massive army is useless. Indeed, a single fighting girl is worth hundreds of thousands of them.” (images courtesy the artist and Hyperallergic, translated by Pamela Karimi)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gmG1k7yXiyDzZqMp9FzbadIZGp3amwYuDaEStqOy8w06Z-VYgiRutw8CCMfo8BmgEXNDTSyNKF3NTR5aNxvsj3cQ97PGgGLUrzSob5bJgZ2XHRPLLioPCOtlM5GEOVRmLXEmpFRnrooruwxBWJhoZ_OoeuFyYUixweIekdsZW9T8_oEi8PChOdHb/s1200/image%20(2).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1200" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1gmG1k7yXiyDzZqMp9FzbadIZGp3amwYuDaEStqOy8w06Z-VYgiRutw8CCMfo8BmgEXNDTSyNKF3NTR5aNxvsj3cQ97PGgGLUrzSob5bJgZ2XHRPLLioPCOtlM5GEOVRmLXEmpFRnrooruwxBWJhoZ_OoeuFyYUixweIekdsZW9T8_oEi8PChOdHb/w400-h270/image%20(2).png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left: Pedram Harby, “Woman, Life, Freedom” (2022) (courtesy the artist and Hyperallergic); right: Azadeh Ganjeh, "<i>Unpermitted Whispers</i>" (2013), poster designed by Pedram Harby (courtesy Hyperallergic, Azadeh Ganjeh and Studio Harby)</td></tr></tbody></table><div><p><br /></p></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMs4zVsWnoA7aq7imnouJ-0nY4V-CSUIiVUGJTtM8KfufrMYujMnd_TN5NPBIdEm90caZk-8CFViMWoOEhqqd49QilWF17dcMh2dW8xS0_khOAwMsI1dUk8_SkCMdBlt21AiriImZKwwYUBlnmq86kwvquRvijgDLnBhp3AyGOSl9DFqPP2bWtnMW/s864/image9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="864" data-original-width="788" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAMs4zVsWnoA7aq7imnouJ-0nY4V-CSUIiVUGJTtM8KfufrMYujMnd_TN5NPBIdEm90caZk-8CFViMWoOEhqqd49QilWF17dcMh2dW8xS0_khOAwMsI1dUk8_SkCMdBlt21AiriImZKwwYUBlnmq86kwvquRvijgDLnBhp3AyGOSl9DFqPP2bWtnMW/s320/image9.jpg" width="292" /></a> </td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Installation view of Pooya Aryanpour, Gone with the Wind (2022) (courtesy Hyperallergic, Dastan Gallery and the artist)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGTa3dZ67H9A_XiskPGk5BpcjFxpKFI_t6R-7vY1Ya0ZLRUCQ9K6sQku9Qo1nfvSIJ438kv6CLRzGzjTEcwUdIAvq8XH7a1qnwaU5CGXiJzzn8CG67O0h6lA_eTFWeeY8BaOFTzyQeIj4a2vRhFVKDm0cuVjkZKPwUHe7RzJgneJGEbrPDGG1xE3d/s1009/image10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1009" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGTa3dZ67H9A_XiskPGk5BpcjFxpKFI_t6R-7vY1Ya0ZLRUCQ9K6sQku9Qo1nfvSIJ438kv6CLRzGzjTEcwUdIAvq8XH7a1qnwaU5CGXiJzzn8CG67O0h6lA_eTFWeeY8BaOFTzyQeIj4a2vRhFVKDm0cuVjkZKPwUHe7RzJgneJGEbrPDGG1xE3d/s320/image10.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Details of Pooya Aryanpour’s Gone with the Wind (2022) (courtesy Hyperallergic, Dastan Gallery and the artist)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/" target="_blank">Hyperallergic</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-58462713011899281422022-08-04T13:30:00.001+01:002022-08-04T13:30:26.054+01:00The Iranian Art Scene<h1 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> The Cofounder Of Paris’ First Asian Contemporary Art Fair Speaks About The Iranian Art Scene</span></h1><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5Cl7W-u8z0tbM85BrKmoXVI5xrQ79orJHEs5Y0Qjzk2fayUu-MZUBc-TOb-xwWzxwHTknlzpA_ZpOaa3TI5CFjL12B_YaGCywx_imOuBuqTra3WxTqEc1vhctQMAK5lfgNannyb27j0MgWp9snCL6UGqPnl5gc6jaP2ORD3pUG_hhggJWywPAHLx/s959/960x0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="959" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic5Cl7W-u8z0tbM85BrKmoXVI5xrQ79orJHEs5Y0Qjzk2fayUu-MZUBc-TOb-xwWzxwHTknlzpA_ZpOaa3TI5CFjL12B_YaGCywx_imOuBuqTra3WxTqEc1vhctQMAK5lfgNannyb27j0MgWp9snCL6UGqPnl5gc6jaP2ORD3pUG_hhggJWywPAHLx/w640-h426/960x0.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arash Hanaei's works explore the urban issues he has witnessed in Paris since he immigrated to this city. PHOTO COURTESY OF AB-ANBAR GALLERY and Forbes.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Contributor <a href="https://www.forbes.com/sites/yjeanmundelsalle/" target="_blank">Y-Jean Mun-Delsalle</a>, <a href="https://www.forbes.com/" target="_blank">Forbes</a></p><p><a href="https://www.asianowparis.com/" target="_blank">Asia Now</a>, Europe’s first Asian art fair, will return for its 8th edition in Paris from October 20 to 23, 2022, at the same time as Paris+, the first-ever Art Basel fair in the French capital. Welcoming 60 international galleries presenting artists from Asia and its diaspora including Almine Rech, Danysz Gallery, Jeanne Bucher Jaeger, de Sarthe Gallery, The Columns Gallery, Perrotin, Yeo Workshop, Galerie LJ and A2Z Art Gallery, Asia Now is moving from the Right Bank to the Left, to the prestigious <a href="https://www.monnaiedeparis.fr/en/" target="_blank">Monnaie de Paris</a>, and will continue its exploration of the West and Central Asian art scenes, after its focus on Iran last year. Alexandra Fain, co-founder and director of Asia Now, shares her thoughts on the Iranian art scene.</p><p><b>How would you describe the Iranian contemporary art scene and how has it evolved over the past decade?</b></p><p>I’m not an expert in Iranian art yet the few I know, the more I wanted to discover. Also I can listen to the art market here and what collectors want. And what they were screaming somehow was to learn more about the Iranian art scene. The Iranian contemporary art scene is rich, dense, diverse and, over the past decade, it has certainly moved to become one of the most interesting art scenes in the world. After having challenged themes of revolution and war, it naturally focused on a form of introspection that raises awareness of different issues, such as the environment or gender, through mixed media practices including sound, as we featured this in Tehran Now last year. We naturally gathered some of the most insightful insiders of the Iranian art scene to bring to Paris Tehran Now, a selection of emerging and more established artists coming from Iran.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><b>When you decided to expand the scope of Asia Now to welcome artists who live and work in Iran for the first time, was it because of growing interest in contemporary Iranian art in Europe?</b></p><p>From a geographical perspective, the fair expanded its scope to include Western Asia, welcoming artists who live and work in Iran to Paris for the first time. The Iranian art scene was already in the spotlight of Chinese and Persian Gulf collectors, and it seemed natural to expand its reach to the European scene. This only proves the intrinsic quality of such a buoyant art scene that deserves the attention of the savviest collectors from all around the world! Our mission is to showcase a selection of the Iranian art scene, which might still be too isolated from the rest of the world, not on the radar yet, while the local Iranian scene is probably one of the most vibrant in the world. Hormoz Hematian from Dastan in Tehran, Mohsen Gallery, Bavan Gallery or Salman Matinfar from Ab-Anbar in London, just to name a few of them, have been fighting hard for this to happen and we wanted to contribute to this unveiling process in Paris. The fact that many of the international galleries like Perrotin, Nathalie Obadia and Praz Delavallade also included Iranian artists in their propositions is also very meaningful and telling of their serious consideration of Iranian artists as part of their international programs.</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh042mGby5v29dFe_vz59fv6z4Z3ax4SzXXVvlOl2YSh_zcRxbb6v8v2hbvaEetsP0MoRUa7G4ezfFzszW0gnY3DLGo0ydtli5n8Kgp0Ctw5Pw5u25EvD1QorKXD7SNd9dDMc7eQfWHKfrBiZ7sWHMxb6kWHjAhIqHr5UWYw9SV3sakRW2bRkDDMwe1/s1318/960x0%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1318" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh042mGby5v29dFe_vz59fv6z4Z3ax4SzXXVvlOl2YSh_zcRxbb6v8v2hbvaEetsP0MoRUa7G4ezfFzszW0gnY3DLGo0ydtli5n8Kgp0Ctw5Pw5u25EvD1QorKXD7SNd9dDMc7eQfWHKfrBiZ7sWHMxb6kWHjAhIqHr5UWYw9SV3sakRW2bRkDDMwe1/s320/960x0%20(2).jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shahpour Pouyan, Untitled (Bangladesh), 2017, glazed stoneware ceramic, 13 25/32 x 7 3/32 x 6 11/16 in. PHOTO BERTRAND HUET / TUTTI IMAGE. COURTESY OF THE ARTIST AND GALERIE NATHALIE OBADIA PARIS/BRUSSELS and Forbes.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><b>Is the international art community finally turning its long overdue attention to Iran, or is there still some ways to go before buyers recognize its value?</b></p><p>The focus on Iran for the seventh edition of Asia Now was therefore completing its role since its inception of bringing to the forefront the work of visual artists who are already part of the international art scene or still under the radar yet ready to be part of the global conversation. It is all about an unveiling process to the international art community here in Paris. The selection of artists was done by the most cutting-edge galleries on the Iranian contemporary art scene. It was therefore natural that they all excelled! At the same time, Iranian artists continue to participate in international shows: a number of them were included in the exhibition “City Prince/sses: Dhaka, Lagos, Manila, Mexico City and Tehran” at the Palais de Tokyo in Paris, in the Iranian Pavilion at the 2019 Venice Biennale or most recently in the exhibition “Rebel, Jester, Mystic, Poet: Contemporary Persians – The Mohammed Afkhami Collection” at the Asia Society Museum in New York City. As a result of sanctions, Iranian artists, gallerists and collectors must navigate a complex labyrinth of global transactions in order to receive money for their art. Artists with foreign bank accounts, meanwhile, struggle to cash checks abroad with Iranian passports. It is still a bit of a battle each time to show their art outside Iran and to make transactions possible out of this.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig78ENJ-OBR0d7R4YrA2lmpDoH3t8T8WN2fQ3GpvCHXWW7s2oDKijqt-dSjnlnSci4Q9WOn7fCuo_dYKFo6Yxjyc9Ea0j2eO5dpG_21g4_LMlyGH2qXBa1PnMV6mWjxKStBcQwwpzUHxU0xuH1EHc9BLMf-oe1uFt6GCmUzxUSRNhAIwweylIinHGx/s1276/960x0%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1276" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig78ENJ-OBR0d7R4YrA2lmpDoH3t8T8WN2fQ3GpvCHXWW7s2oDKijqt-dSjnlnSci4Q9WOn7fCuo_dYKFo6Yxjyc9Ea0j2eO5dpG_21g4_LMlyGH2qXBa1PnMV6mWjxKStBcQwwpzUHxU0xuH1EHc9BLMf-oe1uFt6GCmUzxUSRNhAIwweylIinHGx/w301-h400/960x0%20(1).jpg" width="301" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mimi Amini, Hidden Landscape, Zone Zero of Creation, 2020, mixed media painting, gold leaf, collage, sewing and cut-out on industrial fabric and wood, 178 x 134 x 4 cm. PHOTO COURTESY OF ETEMAD GALLERY and Forbes.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>How was the response to the Iranian platform at Asia Now? How well have the Tehran-based galleries performed, which categories or themes of contemporary Iranian art registered the most interest from collectors, what were the most significant sales by Iranian artists at Asia Now and who were the collectors?</b></p><p>The response to the Iranian platform was really positive, both from French and international collectors, as well as from the public! This was due to the amazing work of our advisory board, including Odile Burluraux, curator at the Museum of Modern Art of the City of Paris, who proposed an outstanding program focusing on female Iranian video artists, and Jean-Marc Decrop, a contemporary art expert specializing in emerging talents throughout Asia, on the proposition of Tatiana Gecmen-Waldeck and Anahita Vessier. The great success of the platform was also due to the amazing staging and graphic design of Studio Kargah. The overall effect of this very specific platform was to experience a sense of the dominant kenophobia, or “fear of the void”, that seems to be ubiquitous in Iran’s capital city. It helped to put all of the works of art in a familiar contextual environment that made all of the galleries perform very well! Sales met their expectations accordingly and they had the opportunity to meet up with senior curators of major institutions in Paris and Europe, as well as serious collectors.</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://www.forbes.com/" target="_blank">Forbes</a></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-16486458355142443892022-07-28T11:18:00.002+01:002022-07-28T11:18:31.769+01:00The Iranian Poet Who Became an American Action Painter<p>A new book introduces two Manoucher Yektais: the stateless, anti-historical Modernist painter and the poet writing narrative verse exclusively in Farsi [Persian].</p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSi2TLfUWYpjBr-zh9Trb0b4Cq2dzGKa7T0scaZ5Q60T7IOYvcj7KOdFcpLR8aT_b8-uuASe4Kg4kJDHlrQZJEYnzv6bOpMvmMqDRZSUx--yINFn76cSGCua_urIwnsiXBsNUUkp8JA0bokI_CHnjIcaopdhIvDm_zFf36efxcLAyExKKr-PqaZy3/s4000/76.193_01_P02-Large-TIFF_4000-pixels-long.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3046" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSi2TLfUWYpjBr-zh9Trb0b4Cq2dzGKa7T0scaZ5Q60T7IOYvcj7KOdFcpLR8aT_b8-uuASe4Kg4kJDHlrQZJEYnzv6bOpMvmMqDRZSUx--yINFn76cSGCua_urIwnsiXBsNUUkp8JA0bokI_CHnjIcaopdhIvDm_zFf36efxcLAyExKKr-PqaZy3/s320/76.193_01_P02-Large-TIFF_4000-pixels-long.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manoucher Yektai, "Tomato Plant" (1959), collection SFMOMA, gift of Louis Honig (© Manoucher Yektai, photo by Katherine Du Tiel). Courtesy Hyperallergic.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>by <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/author/tim-keane/" target="_blank">Tim Keane</a>, <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/" target="_blank">Hyperallergic</a></p><p>How did the Iranian-born artist Manoucher Yektai — a narrative poet and still-life painter who died in 2019 at the age of 98 — end up lumped in with American Abstract Expressionism and its subspecies, famously termed “<a href="https://www.moma.org/collection/terms/action-painting" target="_blank">action painting</a>”? </p><p>Answers to this question emerge in the biographical and critical essays in <a href="https://bookshop.org/a/539/9781949172683" target="_blank"><i>Manoucher Yektai</i></a> (Karma Publications, 2022). Its contributors wrestle awkwardly with these counterproductive art historical labels while setting the record straight about the Iranian-American poet and painter who won critical acclaim among New York’s avant-garde of the 1950s — Harold Rosenberg was a fan, as was Mark Rothko — before Yektai slid out of favor, even as he continued to write poetry and paint well into this century. </p><p>Featuring hundreds of color reproductions of Yektai’s work (he trafficked almost entirely in oil paint on canvas) along with personal photographs from a long life, Karma’s catalogue reveals a painter with a signature style refined across 70 years of disciplined output. Its hallmarks are deeply saturated colors, hyperactive impasto (often applied with a trowel and even a whip), and an all-over picture plane — he routinely painted standing over canvases placed on the floor, producing the illusion of aerial perspectives on the imagery. He applied these strategies to an early phase of pure abstraction and then to buoyant semi-abstract still lifes, developing that repertoire further to include portraiture, interiors, and landscapes. <span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Occasioned by last fall’s terrific retrospective on Yektai at Karma Gallery — along with a representative artwork, “Tomato Plant” (1959), on display throughout this year at SFMOMA — this new catalogue adds further fuel to the artist’s posthumous revival. “Tomato Plant” exemplifies how Yektai honed a deceptively naïve technique that yields an aesthetic with a doubling effect: his paintings convey manic immediacy and expressive nuance at once.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeKxw88C540XwEpCq_8-Uzdenhr5s4J5KD8cEJToZti4D-xGOD75Y3gbk4mHaAu4nc5VJHQ2J2Uso1aukYRPiknQJ7ZEiVcOhjK6qzvt3gSvnU0dEgmUjEkjiD4R1MbTopdgJotYKTvpod-S-tVp7I6AGI58d6i8ECt8zhuqyrgtHAurvCtcLA4WF/s1400/370290102.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="987" data-original-width="1400" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoeKxw88C540XwEpCq_8-Uzdenhr5s4J5KD8cEJToZti4D-xGOD75Y3gbk4mHaAu4nc5VJHQ2J2Uso1aukYRPiknQJ7ZEiVcOhjK6qzvt3gSvnU0dEgmUjEkjiD4R1MbTopdgJotYKTvpod-S-tVp7I6AGI58d6i8ECt8zhuqyrgtHAurvCtcLA4WF/w400-h282/370290102.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manoucher Yektai painting in Sagaponack, New York, 1979 (image courtesy the Manoucher Yektai Estate and Karma, New York, and Hyperallergic).</td></tr></tbody></table><p>As is the case with Yektai’s explicitly representational paintings, the viewer can read “Tomato Plant” as a visual poem communicated through self-contained calligraphic and multi-toned greens, blues, and whites. At the same time, its horizontal and vertical brushwork maps vegetal textures and unruly growth — sunlight, stalks, leaves, and fruit dramatized in spontaneous ecological interaction.</p><p>How did Yektai arrive at this reconciliation between realism and abstraction? According to the catalogue’s biographical narratives, he was born in 1921 to an upper-middle-class land-owning family in Tehran and, in the early 1940s, studied art at the city’s Western-influenced Fine Arts Academy, supplementing that training with Cubist Amédée Ozenfant at Paris’s École des Beaux-Arts. In 1945, he and his first wife, painter Monir Shahroudy Farmanfarmaian, landed in New York via California — decades before subsequent waves of Iranian immigration to the US. And though Yektai returned to France for short periods of study, his roots in New York grew deeper through classes at the Art Students League and showing at Grace Borgenicht Gallery and Poindexter Gallery (helped by introductions made by his Woodstock-based mentor, Milton Avery).</p><p>As a painter who wrote poetry in his native Farsi [Persian], he appears in the catalogue as both within and apart from New York’s postwar cultural milieu. In fact, although his hard-driving, dense applications of paint reflect the uninhibited theatricality of American gestural abstraction, his art integrates so many cross-cultural influences that it defies such critical categorization. By his own acknowledgment, his vibrant palette owes much to the long tradition of miniature painting — especially the Timurid-era Persian artist Kamal al-Din Behzad — but Yektai’s lyrical heat seems inspired by the French Fauvists and Pierre Bonnard’s feverish chromatic interior scenes. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEYoROmfafsPznRN173FbhXWcZtweZCZAsK9gt5-NCogUNucuTk5PcvvgpY4IDf7i71aKqVBqsdo8I03LPWd1ezMipD-xfITKwWC2XVOZh_TebaOT-h0v9M9ZYlinAoCHG9D78-VTphqzCskcZLlbXeiSwlo8cS5z26nmwWyXiqpiD0EVr1NCU2cW/s713/Untitled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="713" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKEYoROmfafsPznRN173FbhXWcZtweZCZAsK9gt5-NCogUNucuTk5PcvvgpY4IDf7i71aKqVBqsdo8I03LPWd1ezMipD-xfITKwWC2XVOZh_TebaOT-h0v9M9ZYlinAoCHG9D78-VTphqzCskcZLlbXeiSwlo8cS5z26nmwWyXiqpiD0EVr1NCU2cW/w400-h321/Untitled.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manoucher Yektai, “Blue Table” (1960), oil on canvas, 24 x 30 inches (image courtesy the Manoucher Yektai Estate and Karma, New York, and Hyperallergic).<br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p>So while Yektai enjoyed attention from the New York scene, he was, we learn, aloof to the point of “arrogance,” and impervious to their compulsive demand for newness. Like many of his contemporaries, he fell out of favor as Pop and Minimalism dominated in the mid-to-late 1960s. His adaptable, ever-changing New York peer Larry Rivers once asked the taciturn Yektai if he’d ever break from still life and paint, say, an airplane. Echoing Cézanne’s boast that he would “astonish Paris with an apple,” Yektai retorted, “I want to paint an apple until it flies!” as if to underscore how Modern still life aims to capture the interplay between the seeing subject and the precipitously seen object within the instant of its apprehension. </p><p>But such an ingrained aspiration is ill-suited to a marketplace easily swayed by flash and fads. Declaring “styles are meaningless,” Yektai — sustained in no small measure by a second marriage to the daughter of a Greek shipping magnate — resettled on Long Island’s East End, where he carried on working in relative obscurity for half a century. In fact, prior to Karma’s 2021 show, his work hadn’t appeared in a one-person Manhattan show in four decades. </p><p>Still, his story is local and <i>global</i>. The fact that Yektai remains well known in his native Iran as a published poet as well as a painter adds a compelling plot twist to the book. Unable to focus on poetry and painting at once, he took months and years off from one vocation to attend to the other. According to the book’s contributors, that creative bifurcation in a sense produces two Yektais: the stateless, anti-historical Modernist painter and the poet writing narrative verse exclusively in Farsi [Persian], attentive to Iran’s social and political traditions and undercurrents.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfkCIwtPQQhO2AcLwlUu0P_80aJN70yzmTpPZJdhZeRkp-8FlrrsXcKbvzjs8G4KJUcWhQlBYKGQzREVXj_RUBQZYr3VfMqptx28qipmofyUELqaiI1oz2KHLbrLDtzkwJ6W_5AnyS93xNJLWJONbQzUWrbX6hfgojVUaMUZvrbeYJIet17Hc38Q4E/s580/Untitled2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="546" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfkCIwtPQQhO2AcLwlUu0P_80aJN70yzmTpPZJdhZeRkp-8FlrrsXcKbvzjs8G4KJUcWhQlBYKGQzREVXj_RUBQZYr3VfMqptx28qipmofyUELqaiI1oz2KHLbrLDtzkwJ6W_5AnyS93xNJLWJONbQzUWrbX6hfgojVUaMUZvrbeYJIet17Hc38Q4E/w376-h400/Untitled2.jpg" width="376" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manoucher Yektai, “Strawberries” (1982), oil on canvas, 15 x 14 inches (image courtesy the Manoucher Yektai Estate and Karma, New York, and Hyperallergic).</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Though a few of his poems have been translated into English, his opus, the book-length <i>Falgoosh</i> (originally published in Iran in 1970), was a decade-long project that earned significant readership in his native country. Taking its title from a Farsi [Persian] name for a ritual of seeking personal omens from listening in on strangers, the poem is described as being built on “idiomatic Persian and medieval poetic syntax.” Its narrative turns urban eavesdropping into an occasion for befuddled Iranian men to glean their futures — mostly in vain and in turns of “absurdist humor” — within an Iran pulled in conflicting directions by modernity. </p><p>While Iran’s Islamic Revolution shook the world, Yektai remained firmly rooted in the United States. And though the catalogue includes his 1961 commissioned portrait of the Shah, he never returned to Iran aside from brief one-off visits in the pre-Revolution era. As a result, establishing meaningful thematic or semantic links between his poetry and painting will require the critical labor of an unlikely scholar fluent in Farsi [Persian], educated in Persian poetic forms, and knowledgeable about Euro-American Modernism.</p><p>For now, it’s worth turning Yektai’s oeuvre away from the hair-splitting rhetoric of cultural histories. Instead we might understand the artist’s paintings as a nonverbal, universal form of poetry. The paintings are composed through a formalist, syntactic structure; each cultivates intimate disclosure about their objects and persons, as happens in lyric verse. Their extreme angularities and jump-cut perpendiculars find counterpoint in curved contours, culled from natural settings, and in domestic objects — fruits and cakes, curtains and coffee pots, windows and roses. Negative spaces invite reflective pauses amid the otherwise compacted imagery. Like a poem’s spontaneous yet precise language, Yektai’s action paintings draw voluminous meanings from impossible stillness.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyec5XDfpOGqbry8Cd_vXFnMrD2pZJpRudy7I8ZpdzXlh_wjP6hUvKd2TLphc43353Q2_oH-mbICA49WtuUV582bClo4kDAcCGcKIuwQUuULjyqPFT6rw_p3IbwD7IAloc3ih3bDei7YQK1Ym4CJcbCD-jTcCeNkUygewWwgBULD6bXZuwQ-gVx-zg/s2000/fe4f2c58-6334-4e7a-b1bc-467249fabfa2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="1898" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyec5XDfpOGqbry8Cd_vXFnMrD2pZJpRudy7I8ZpdzXlh_wjP6hUvKd2TLphc43353Q2_oH-mbICA49WtuUV582bClo4kDAcCGcKIuwQUuULjyqPFT6rw_p3IbwD7IAloc3ih3bDei7YQK1Ym4CJcbCD-jTcCeNkUygewWwgBULD6bXZuwQ-gVx-zg/w380-h400/fe4f2c58-6334-4e7a-b1bc-467249fabfa2.jpg" width="380" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Manoucher Yektai, “Striped Vase” (2002), oil on canvas, 16 x 15 inches (image courtesy the Manoucher Yektai Estate and Karma, New York, and Hyperallergic).</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p><i><a href="https://bookshop.org/books/manoucher-yektai/9781949172683" target="_blank">Manoucher Yektai</a> (2022) is published by <a href="https://bookstore.karmakarma.org/product/manoucher-yektai/" target="_blank">Karma Publications</a> and is available online.</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://hyperallergic.com/" target="_blank">Hyperallergic</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-12915280548213237562022-05-10T13:50:00.000+01:002022-05-10T13:50:28.550+01:00Shocking the Bourgeoisie With Iran’s Misunderstood Modernist<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrKsSmw0e-wGuxqbeyQlOLgq7cCddnKBIVfHuDTYzGlm5ISyZLMRb6u4-z-R8wmQwNWt-y7RrIqVMsX_GtxQ-TYCP8Cei8QEQNVJGv1pdspsVXbjBMWUklaT1Rs8vQIVSm63cuSibc2SiDUfsONUFikkiGiYQiBtXwdQPhAWXEorc_VIyvNqfg6pSO/s412/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="297" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrKsSmw0e-wGuxqbeyQlOLgq7cCddnKBIVfHuDTYzGlm5ISyZLMRb6u4-z-R8wmQwNWt-y7RrIqVMsX_GtxQ-TYCP8Cei8QEQNVJGv1pdspsVXbjBMWUklaT1Rs8vQIVSm63cuSibc2SiDUfsONUFikkiGiYQiBtXwdQPhAWXEorc_VIyvNqfg6pSO/w230-h320/images.jpg" width="230" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Iranian writer Sadeq Hedayat (1903-51). Courtesy New York Times.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>by Amir-Hussein Radjy, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/" target="_blank">New York Times</a></p><p>In April 1951, the police in Paris called on my great-grandfather, Prince Mohamed-Hussein Firouz, to identify a dead body. It was that of Sadeq Hedayat, who is today eulogized as Iran’s great literary modernist. Days before, Hedayat had sealed up the apartment on Rue Championnet where he was staying and opened up the oven’s gas valve before lying down on the kitchen floor.</p><p>In Tehran, Firouz had known Hedayat, the son of aristocrats who moved in the same courtly and literary circles. An army officer who was educated in czarist Russia and fastidious about his dress, Firouz carried a trim mustache and tortoiseshell eyeglasses, and read Le Figaro daily. While men like Firouz easily found their place under Iran’s army-led monarchy, Hedayat did not.</p><p>In the early 20th century, Iranians of their class proudly appropriated European culture, wore Sulka cravats and sprinkled their Persian with French expressions — as Hedayat did in letters when describing existentialism in France as démodé, or praising Henry Miller and James Joyce for their originalité. Among the last interloping foreign words of his published Persian letters is psychose. “They diagnosed me with psychosis and granted me leave for two months of recovery in France,” he writes, after a visit to the doctor in Tehran.</p><p>“As long as Hedayat was alive no one understood him,” the intellectual Jalal Al-e-Ahmad said of his literary mentor months after Hedayat’s death. “Perhaps no one took him seriously.” Today Hedayat is spoken of not only as Iran’s first modern writer but also, as one critic suggests, the first “modern Iranian” tout court. His biography has become almost entirely entwined with his most famous work, BLIND OWL (Penguin Classics, 87 pp., paper, $14), which arrives in a new English translation this year. Posthumous Persian editions carried a cover with an owl wearing Hedayat’s signature round eyeglasses, or the author’s head growing into the form of the nightbird. Two years after the author’s death, Roger Lescot published a French translation that André Breton praised as a masterpiece of surrealism. The novel, its Parisian publisher said, was “the curse of a dream that creeps into reality.”<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>Hedayat is a legend, but he is still misunderstood. A story that is told by a bedridden man drifting between hallucinations and toward his own death, “Blind Owl” (1936) has been given vastly different readings over the decades — as an allegory of political repression in Iran, or as a personal testimonial of Hedayat’s depression. The book defies criticism, others have said. In a sense, it is nothing more than a grim jeu d’esprit that shows signs of having been published in a hurry, as the first copies of the handwritten volume — which Hedayat distributed in Bombay during his year in India — included not a few spelling mistakes. The new Penguin Classics edition provides a much-needed and clear translation by the Iranian American scholar Sassan Tabatabai, but its introduction does little to settle the place of Hedayat or his puzzling masterpiece.</p><p>Hedayat was born in 1903 into the family of the 19th-century courtier Reza Qoli Khan, who was the last great Persian littérateur of the medieval tradition. But Hedayat was given a modern, French-language education before being sent abroad to study in France and Belgium, where he wrote his first essay, “Death,” in 1926 and cultivated his lifelong interest in Sasanian antiquity and Persian folklore.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W4nl6EAsEmdXcCPDJZvawQJZtzEct33aVDtElz5taPAr7WhAo0tQk3Fcp1ddk6hm9R7Ys2m0tdQLg2or1KdbVDaBL0T0TKqJ2AFHt3e78GKDUl64fOQARwtL2gh_q6Kn45QVIZm3AdxPJ6PunX5AtFdhPIF3bw84mOG_ijhClbJIHBDEs6bQf8tj/s500/0143136585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4W4nl6EAsEmdXcCPDJZvawQJZtzEct33aVDtElz5taPAr7WhAo0tQk3Fcp1ddk6hm9R7Ys2m0tdQLg2or1KdbVDaBL0T0TKqJ2AFHt3e78GKDUl64fOQARwtL2gh_q6Kn45QVIZm3AdxPJ6PunX5AtFdhPIF3bw84mOG_ijhClbJIHBDEs6bQf8tj/s320/0143136585.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy New York Times.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Back in Tehran, Hedayat carried on writing while making a poor living as a clerk and unsuccessful civil servant. He scoured weeks-old editions of Le Figaro for articles about Iran, cutting out any he found and forwarding them to a local newspaper to translate. He lived like a “hunted animal,” he writes in his correspondence with Hasan Chahid-Nourai, an Iranian diplomat in Paris. The left denounced Hedayat as a “pessimistic aristocrat” while he scorned the country’s conservative establishment. He carefully prevented “Blind Owl,” written when he was 33, from appearing in Iran until the 1940s, after press restrictions were briefly relaxed in the country. Even then, it was censored and published in installments.</p><p>The first time I read “Blind Owl,” I couldn’t finish it, though it’s less than 100 pages. I had what was until the 1990s the standard English translation by D. P. Costello. Years later, as a graduate student of Iranian history, I read it in Persian with my tutor, the poet Fatemeh Shams, and was taken away by Hedayat’s language — the rhythm of its almost-spoken style and its worn simplicity. I read the novel as a work of kill-the-father literary anxiety against the overwhelming corpse of Persian classicism.</p><p>The novel is a bizarre mise en abyme in which a painter keeps painting the same scene: a woman under a cypress by a stream, alongside an old man. The woman appears to him as an angelic beloved, but when he tries to pour a flask of wine into her mouth, he realizes that her teeth are clenched and she is dead. All of it reads like an opium-induced sendup of the tropes of old Persian poetry — wine, the mysteries of the beloved, almond-shaped eyes, even the title’s deathly owl, which takes the place of the sweet nightingales of tradition. (This iconoclasm finds its echo in Hedayat’s letters to Chahid-Nourai: He mocks the cant of poets, declares he can’t stand the droning of Persian music and sarcastically calls Iran “the country of roses and nightingales,” though it is mired in poverty.)</p><p>“Blind Owl” ends with the narrator murdering his wife in a final hallucinatory act. Throughout, he is haunted by the figure of the old man, who appears to take the form of a peddler, a butcher, a gravedigger and the narrator himself, who chops up and buries the figure of his angelic beloved. That woman too is the shattered, shape-shifting reflection of his mother, a temple dancer from India. Hedayat’s fiction often carried the pattern of arabesques that drew the form of one character into that of another, but for its sheer and confounded strangeness, “Blind Owl” stands apart.</p><p>In his introduction, the translator of this edition cites the “misogyny” of the narrator while withholding judgment on the author, unlike an earlier wave of criticism that denounced Hedayat for the novel’s violence against women. Many of those objections in the Iranian yellow press were rolled into accusations that Hedayat, like his narrator, was addicted to opium, though his nephew later countered that no one in their quiet, patrician family dared to touch drugs, let alone “smoke a cigarette in front of his mother or father.”</p><p>There isn’t any easy explanation for the violence of “Blind Owl,” but certainly its women are not characters in the conventional sense but figments of the narrator’s “sick” mind and his ugly hatred for his wife. Shams, my tutor, pointed out that the novel’s brutishness could be read in terms of European Surrealist paintings of the 1930s, which used violence against the body to shock and disrupt old conventions — pour épater les bourgeois, as Hedayat and many avant-garde French artists before him said. Still, like those paintings, the novel stands on its own aesthetic merits — as does the classical Persian poetry of which “Blind Owl” is a Baudelaire-like inversion. In a way, Hedayat was both a French and an Iranian writer; perhaps that’s why he’s been so often lost in between.</p><p>In 2005, Islamic Republic functionaries banned “Blind Owl.” Before the monarchy’s overthrow, revolutionaries like Al-e-Ahmad wanted to rewrite Hedayat as a dissident intellectual, but unlike them he didn’t reduce his art to political pamphleteering. His fiction, like that of the best writers, eschewed any clear conclusions and gave off endless reflections, like a mirror turned on a mirror. Perhaps that is, and will remain, the difficulty of “Blind Owl”: The novel takes on the form of a myth and a wild allegory, while the flickering hatreds of the narrator retain a verisimilitude and appear anchored in a disturbing reality.</p><p>Chahid-Nourai’s daughter later remembered Hedayat as a “somber and sad man with a funny little mustache” but faultless manners, who would visit with gifts of Wedgwood ashtrays and old Persian hats. It’s odd to think of this man as the author of “Blind Owl,” but it was Hedayat’s trick to turn his despair into a view of the human condition, as his letters show. “Adieu, you cows, pigs!” he wrote to another friend in Paris. “All the better! At least there’ll be no more illusions. All is as clear as day.”</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Amir-Hussein Radjy has written for The Associated Press, Foreign Policy, The London Review of Books Blog and The Times Literary Supplement.</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/" target="_blank">New York Times</a></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-64060870367542242922022-05-10T13:21:00.000+01:002022-05-10T13:21:34.122+01:00Turn our dark night into bright dawn<p style="text-align: center;">Reem Kelani's "The Singer Said: Bird of Dawn"</p><p style="text-align: center;">Singer-songwriter Reem Kelani's latest release – "The Singer Said: Bird of Dawn" – pays tribute to Mohammad Reza Shajarian. The two-song EP features Kelani's unique take on a famous Shajarian anthem and a second track symbolic of the iconic Iranian singer's life. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9u5UYxd1-AZ-cbzwF_G3mBFW17GrznH5HejX3kIoqEwzG1gM6aMkLafWAmLEEC9Ft1b_JIQ18NYs-64Eg_mEnQLHeTnCDBJq4IdWXFjfMJKmowPhEq2UvAGKrw0urNpg72wMz5cTFZM85OVC6Y-Z8THBkxdEfcktOtDYwhGp7EPe-kGnc9W99Fm4/s365/the-singer-said-cover_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP9u5UYxd1-AZ-cbzwF_G3mBFW17GrznH5HejX3kIoqEwzG1gM6aMkLafWAmLEEC9Ft1b_JIQ18NYs-64Eg_mEnQLHeTnCDBJq4IdWXFjfMJKmowPhEq2UvAGKrw0urNpg72wMz5cTFZM85OVC6Y-Z8THBkxdEfcktOtDYwhGp7EPe-kGnc9W99Fm4/s320/the-singer-said-cover_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Palestinian-British singer-songwriter Reem Kelani pays tribute to the great Iranian vocal virtuoso Mohammad-Reza Shajarian (1940-2020): included with her latest release is a detailed and comprehensive trilingual booklet (Arabic, English & Farsi) featuring musicological notes, literary translations and a detailed glossary. The EP forms part of Kelani's ongoing project "This Land is Your Land", focusing on the music of the various communities with whom she lived in Kuwait, and with whom she now lives in the UK. Reem and her international band recorded their parts separately – in the UK and the U.S. – during lockdown in 2021. Courtesy Qantara</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div>by <a href="https://en.qantara.de/authors/richard-marcus" target="_blank">Richard Marcus</a>, <a href="https://en.qantara.de/" target="_blank">Qantara</a></div><div><br /></div><div><div>Outside the Persian diaspora, <a href="https://en.qantara.de/content/interview-with-mohammad-reza-shajarian-humanity-is-what-art-is-all-about" target="_blank">Mohammad Reza Shajarian</a> is little known. Yet, to Iranians around the world, Shajarian remains one of the most beloved and popular voices ever to have graced their country's music scene. He also carries the distinction of having actively protested against both the Shah of Iran's government and the new post-Islamic Revolution state. He didn't wait for them to ban his songs, either; he simply refused to allow either regime to play recordings of his music on state radio.</div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">The voice of "dust and trash"</h2><div>As a star of Iran's popular music scene, this was no small matter. A supporter of the <a href="https://en.qantara.de/content/nader-hashemi-and-danny-postels-the-people-reloaded-the-green-movement-and-the-struggle-for" target="_blank">Green Movement</a> – a popular uprising that followed the 2009 election, triggered by the conviction that hardliner Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stole victory from reform candidates for the presidency Mir-Hossein Mousavi and Mehdi Karroubi – he found it hard to stomach what the mullah regime was doing to his people. When President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad subsequently referred to the people protesting against the stolen election as "dust and trash", Shajarian proudly referred to himself as the voice of dust and trash.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://youtu.be/9fsDxFje9Vs" target="_blank">"The Singer Said" (Qala al-Mughanni)</a>, the opening song, features lyrics penned by <a href="https://en.qantara.de/content/mahmoud-darwish-building-bridges-with-arabic-poetry" target="_blank">Mahmoud Darwish</a>, whom <a href="https://en.qantara.de/content/portrait-reem-kelani-palestinian-blues" target="_blank">Reem Kelani</a> refers to as the national poet of Palestine. It was chosen for its thematic connection to the life and ethics of Shajarian. The song addresses the struggles of an anonymous singer, making it a fitting choice to represent Kelani's subject.<span><a name='more'></a></span></div></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Written in the 1920s by one of Iran's most famous poets, <a href="https://www.britannica.com/biography/Muhammad-Taqi-Bahar" target="_blank">Mohammad-Taqi Bahar</a>, the second track "Bird of Dawn" is arguably the song most Iranians associate with Shajarian. Although Bahar was nominated poet laureate by those in power, that didn't stop him from joining the pro-democracy movement in the early days of the 20th century, when Iranians first began struggling to gain some sort of representational parliament.</div><div><br /></div><div>Bahar and Shajarian shared similar backgrounds, the former had been a cleric and the latter had learned tajwid, a means of reciting the Koran. Both men were heavily influenced by their spirituality, which in turn informs the underlying passion of the lyrics to "Bird of Dawn". Although Shajarian wrote neither the music nor the lyrics, his interpretation is what lives on in the collective consciousness of the Iranian people.</div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">A loving tribute</h2><div>The lyrics (Kelani supplies them in an accompanying pamphlet in English, Arabic and Farsi) read very much like a prayer: "The tyranny of tyrants and the cruelty of hunters/Have blown my nest to the wind/Oh God! Oh Heaven! Oh Mother Nature!/Turn our dark night into bright dawn".</div><div><br /></div><div>Alhough written a hundred years ago, these words are obviously <a href="https://en.qantara.de/content/reassessing-the-islamic-republic-did-the-iranian-revolution-deliver" target="_blank">still relevant in Iran</a> and around the world. In her interpretation, Kelani infuses the lyrics with a passion that brings the emotional content of the piece to life. Even if you don't understand the words as sung, knowing their English meaning and hearing her voice, the intensity is overwhelming.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kelani's talent lies in being able to infuse her work with a high level of emotion without falling into the trap of becoming melodramatic. She understands that she's not only interpreting another person's lyrics, but also another singer's trademark piece. While another vocalist might have been intimidated, or even tempted to try to outshine the original version, Kelani offers us a loving tribute – both to the song and the original artists.</div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">No regrets</h2><div>"The Singer Said" is wholly different. It tells the story of a someone who has been worn down by life. "He said to those around him:/Anything...but regret/This is how I died...standing/Standing...I died like the trees/This is how rain falls/This is how trees grow/This is how trees grow."</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a kind of world-weary fatality to those lyrics, but also an acceptance of the world around him. You can almost visualise the lean, weather beaten visage of the person saying these words. A face carved by the elements and a body bent by the years – much like the rocks and trees he has moved through all his life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yet, as Kelani's interpretation makes clear, we are not to pity him. He has no regrets about his life and his choices. Once again, Kelani, who also composed the music for this piece, does a masterful job of bringing someone else's words to life. We hear the fatigue of a person who has lived a full life. It may not have been easy, and it may even have been very hard at times, but it was the life he chose for himself.</div><div><br /></div><div>With The Singer Said: Bird Of Dawn, Reem Kelani has given us a mini biography of famed Iranian singer Mohammad Reza Shajarian. The two songs on the EP and the accompanying booklet provide an intellectual and emotional introduction to a performer who deserves to be even more well known. Hopefully this short album will encourage listeners to seek out more of his work – and hers.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Via <a href="https://en.qantara.de/" target="_blank">Qantara</a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-575363256944944562022-04-12T13:54:00.000+01:002022-04-12T13:54:31.977+01:00Graphic design in Iran: <p></p><h2 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /> A journey of evolution and practices shaping the future</span></h2><div>A review of the outstanding graphic design studios in Iran whose works are enriched by the country's long visual history and diverse contemporary life.</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFLK3HpCZTyKfeGmgZQYea3eituH2rk1pTrHOVWc3tq5XdZc4_jlXy0VhHsjKqBFvNjbB8bUdv1cTOFslKCVwC3uSRaqo9elCD3Yixtq4Tq7UIg95Y5LpyQZ_k5rw6Z85u8moWDZ6PZiqIulEk_Wa9zj0TdJtVk9QA6EWZ8boVud-yzT-MAJYd8xW/s1920/morteza-momayez-poster-designs-graphic-design-iran-stirworld-220406034323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNFLK3HpCZTyKfeGmgZQYea3eituH2rk1pTrHOVWc3tq5XdZc4_jlXy0VhHsjKqBFvNjbB8bUdv1cTOFslKCVwC3uSRaqo9elCD3Yixtq4Tq7UIg95Y5LpyQZ_k5rw6Z85u8moWDZ6PZiqIulEk_Wa9zj0TdJtVk9QA6EWZ8boVud-yzT-MAJYd8xW/w640-h360/morteza-momayez-poster-designs-graphic-design-iran-stirworld-220406034323.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morteza Momayez poster designs, right: 1976/ left: 1991. Image: Courtesy of Momayez Foundation and STIRworld. </td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>by <a href="https://www.stirworld.com/author-afra-safa" target="_blank">Afra Safa</a>, <a href="https://www.stirworld.com/" target="_blank">STIRworld</a></p><p>Delving into contemporary Iranian graphic design is impossible without studying its context first. A civilisation at the crossroads of the East and the West, where cultures collide, <a href="https://www.stirworld.com/tags-iran" target="_blank">Iran</a> has been culturally enriched by both; each ethnicity adding something to this cultural melting pot. Through centuries, this diverse cultural unit has delivered an outstanding visual legacy. Crafts, miniatures and illustrations have left an everlasting impact on the Iranian visual culture, one that is still strongly present today.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNVNSYFFFQFk12bn5pjN_8-X4XlSczEyw-9wM5WXAUZtZLNV6mngcSGs3a-jeGSxQM9gDOXAQkYRzysWULa7Dupr1Z_NEdp1buNIcNxMJf7x6iNqSIf9HGj47SBVeGJMgV54fM-plB9NXYJLmxS2E8pmuDmK82EdJTVHmWbEOntQMajsRxN0JoKRY/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="1920" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilNVNSYFFFQFk12bn5pjN_8-X4XlSczEyw-9wM5WXAUZtZLNV6mngcSGs3a-jeGSxQM9gDOXAQkYRzysWULa7Dupr1Z_NEdp1buNIcNxMJf7x6iNqSIf9HGj47SBVeGJMgV54fM-plB9NXYJLmxS2E8pmuDmK82EdJTVHmWbEOntQMajsRxN0JoKRY/w640-h262/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Illustrations for the Wonders of Creation by Zakariya al-Qazwini, 1750/ Image: Courtesy of Afra Safa and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Although illustrations and design have always been a part of Persian art and crafts, the dawn of the contemporary Iranian graphic design genius goes back to the 1960s, when in the rapidly reforming country, modern graphic design programmes were offered in the cutting-edge University of Tehran by key figures such as Morteza Momayez, the prodigy whose creations are forever printed on the national memory of Iranians.</p><p>As the cultural sphere rapidly developed in the 1970s by the direct support of the monarchy state, Momayez along with Ghobad Shiva, Sadegh Barirani, Behzad Hatam and Farshid Mesghali constituted the pioneers of graphic design in Iran. Though the impact of western artistic discourses is apparent in the general practice of most of these graphic designers, an ever-present search for an Iranian identity in graphic design was already prominent in their works. These graphists would come to impact the entire graphic design practice of Iran in the following decades.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eAh_FGuuj_zEN9B-kzoXa74RaxJ5jlqLNVc3hBsAC-Vjw50LCMt7OOZ5yZkQO42DbHLlPSweNBBslG_fIfxmHOETRonaFmzmuYDdEC3UtWHtLrIxP29EymdVBNZlK5L7csTWoaJPQ8LUwWxoE1NO3TWwDy4SG8SDg5tkbA9_Rna7nUQ8wNPyNdf5/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="689" data-original-width="1920" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4eAh_FGuuj_zEN9B-kzoXa74RaxJ5jlqLNVc3hBsAC-Vjw50LCMt7OOZ5yZkQO42DbHLlPSweNBBslG_fIfxmHOETRonaFmzmuYDdEC3UtWHtLrIxP29EymdVBNZlK5L7csTWoaJPQ8LUwWxoE1NO3TWwDy4SG8SDg5tkbA9_Rna7nUQ8wNPyNdf5/w640-h230/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to Right: Sadegh Barirani poster design for Don Giovanni Opera in Roudaki hall, 1970s; Behzad Hatam Poster design for the Barber of Seville Opera in Roudaki Hall, 1976; Ghobad Shiva poster design for Shiraz Festival of the Arts, 1970; Farshid Mesghali book design, 1970s. Image: Courtesy of the artists and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The 1979 Islamic Revolution changed the game, and backward policies brought years of stagnation to the arts. However, like a phoenix rising from her ashes, by the 1990s a new generation of young Iranian graphic designers entered the scene. They rediscovered their rich past that was marginalised by the extremist state; but also began a prevailing search for their own independent Iranian identity in design that was yet to be achieved by their precedents and was temporarily lost during the Islamisation of the country. </p><p>In the following passage, the work of a number of Iranian graphic designers and studios whom we believe have been significant in shaping the identity of this domain in the post-revolution era has been reviewed.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Reza Abedini</h2><p>Efforts to efficiently organise design and use the scripts of Persian language or Farsi were few and far in between before Reza Abedini (1967). Thus, he is known to be the first graphic designer to make it his mission to work on the aesthetics of Farsi typography and to effectively bring it into the Iranian graphic design discourse.</p><p>An ever-present challenge for Abedini is turning concepts and words into images. In his world scripts, words and letters leave their ancient role of conveying meanings and turn into forms accompanied by elegant layouts and images that carry another sort of meaning; a meaning that mere language fails to shoulder; the knowledge and lived experience of a long-lasting culture hidden in every curve and line of designed letters. Text is not to be read in his work, but is something that has to be looked at like a work of art. The complexity of Persian typography in Abedini’s works is used to say that which is not supposed to be said explicitly in the oppressive environment of post Islamic Revolution.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlMymnPxonvDJzobcDO6HuIdOIpDkSrQ8XejKftjTYujzecAoe85yYHkWbJ2TU8LtSDLU7b3f3yTyyGBc-KHHjBowFr4iMXTMqz7Ly4vM9vGGut8DnvIIuEuF_28p8jVX-Eew8oO1i3iiuUVv3okxugk-4pGXi_J47lj6mkU01mpMXE5LBCVxOA-D/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="1920" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlMymnPxonvDJzobcDO6HuIdOIpDkSrQ8XejKftjTYujzecAoe85yYHkWbJ2TU8LtSDLU7b3f3yTyyGBc-KHHjBowFr4iMXTMqz7Ly4vM9vGGut8DnvIIuEuF_28p8jVX-Eew8oO1i3iiuUVv3okxugk-4pGXi_J47lj6mkU01mpMXE5LBCVxOA-D/w640-h286/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reza Abedini poster design. Image: Courtesy of Afra Safa and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Reza Abedini is the first Iranian graphic designer whose name entered the Meggs History of Graphic Design. </p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Abbasi</h2><p>It is safe to claim that many brands in various industries owe their successful presence in the Iranian market to the memorable designs of Studio Abbasi.</p><p>Over two decades, Studio Abbasi has made many Iranian brands, institutions, businesses and services accessible, memorable and more effective through its unique designs based on simple geometric forms and the power of colour. Through its impressive body of works, this studio has used graphic design as an unmatched visual and communicative tool.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf2sIDVwu0QXOCpSohHYhoWXGR1fhQUuON7x9lGE-A3eJ9OUst4a4ish5ecoXO4dKSX6rsE11YXl7FGPqENIfzGsG3eaF6XXe8nEN96gOFPYEJz2o4mU29d8WW3jdU7ovzBJr5D7LO5rwdvEeqDLzeDX8Xt9728Ha3SkTlFFXKCuey16cj3l1oTft/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="1920" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf2sIDVwu0QXOCpSohHYhoWXGR1fhQUuON7x9lGE-A3eJ9OUst4a4ish5ecoXO4dKSX6rsE11YXl7FGPqENIfzGsG3eaF6XXe8nEN96gOFPYEJz2o4mU29d8WW3jdU7ovzBJr5D7LO5rwdvEeqDLzeDX8Xt9728Ha3SkTlFFXKCuey16cj3l1oTft/w640-h296/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_4.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Abbasi design for publications. Image: Courtesy of Studio Abbasi and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Studio Abbasi’s activities also cover a wide range of designs for cultural institutions such as book covers for Cheshmeh - one of Iran’s biggest publications, posters and catalogues for Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art, and different journals.</p><p></p><p>Majid Abbasi (1965), the founder of Studio Abbasi, who is recognised internationally, has also been a key individual in educating young graphic designers. Since 2010, he has been the Editor-in-chief of Neshan Magazine, the most significant graphic design journal of the Middle East.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Kargah</h2><p>Studio Kargah began its life in 2001 and today is the most renowned graphic design studio in the culture and art sector of Iran.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQQYIJQuiVwHgM-KpEpywnftT02XxISNjWcff31-GstGTSTV_IstAsAoDIbO_G0qvwazu109dYTQ2J6HNo7N8mMPOK6db0NDpJcngj8Hot7W6YkukaH06Ck835jbaXuTzFQM-OTeoEfK2IDtcMVSmp-7D53NFPEx_UYOR9Nm9MeoAZhzcZLF-CacX/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="1920" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQQQYIJQuiVwHgM-KpEpywnftT02XxISNjWcff31-GstGTSTV_IstAsAoDIbO_G0qvwazu109dYTQ2J6HNo7N8mMPOK6db0NDpJcngj8Hot7W6YkukaH06Ck835jbaXuTzFQM-OTeoEfK2IDtcMVSmp-7D53NFPEx_UYOR9Nm9MeoAZhzcZLF-CacX/w640-h478/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Kargah design with city as concept. Image: Courtesy of Studio Kargah and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>Kargah returns to the original ideas, following certain concepts in most of their designs; the city explores Tehran as an ever-changing megalopolis; Tales is a concept under which they discover the literature and oral history of the Iranian people; and Kenophobia, a characteristic historically attributed to Persian artists and artisans. Thus, Studio Kargah uses the capacities of art history, literature, visual culture and the diversity of the urban sphere of contemporary Iran to create a signature visual language.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwliZYmpLJvlBHxPmMlJCsphSb6i8rA-L2087SA6iKtyLcpd8bYwIlI-FWadv27TPhwZ43DBqMZg8YSrb4O0DmqjeD5aqJunrHqswCt4S9ula6lmEcwSRULx9OzswNMqcQ0qkNme9Ovgh9acde_8Q4K-G1_01pz1vgcqsrnqJIFTVZLh28kt4rj-Pe/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1252" data-original-width="1920" height="418" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwliZYmpLJvlBHxPmMlJCsphSb6i8rA-L2087SA6iKtyLcpd8bYwIlI-FWadv27TPhwZ43DBqMZg8YSrb4O0DmqjeD5aqJunrHqswCt4S9ula6lmEcwSRULx9OzswNMqcQ0qkNme9Ovgh9acde_8Q4K-G1_01pz1vgcqsrnqJIFTVZLh28kt4rj-Pe/w640-h418/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_13.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Kargah design with tales as concept. Image: Courtesy of Studio Kargah and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Moreover, Kargah carries out a vast archival project. They collect, classify, archive and curate the documents of Iran’s graphic design history to prevent them from being forgotten. Karnameh: Visual Culture of the Iranian Children, Roudaki Hall: Graphic Design, Architecture and Everything, and Red Paper: Ideological Publications by the Soviet Union were among the most significant and successful archival exhibitions of the recent decades in Iran.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Homa Delvaray</h2><p>Delvaray is one of the only female voices with this scale of significance in the Iranian graphic design domain. An artist, designer and art director, her works blur the lines between graphic design, art and illustration and she has no fear of gliding freely between fields and mediums and mastering them all.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l9FfvDaq07q5F0LElisWW2NeXDmIGENfm8xDtWVLs72MUHeNpOcEv4VnKUiO0aX1Y2tBv20DroaBX7l5M2e-W6rvsUFIoFT7RzxCkVtX9cDJHzMkPNlxe3C5Jk5KoQdjzWt8PyXwRDJZAs9BZMSszsHdBuMBR3TJOohiWVJnhMy5wA--mxkTwXvg/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1920" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6l9FfvDaq07q5F0LElisWW2NeXDmIGENfm8xDtWVLs72MUHeNpOcEv4VnKUiO0aX1Y2tBv20DroaBX7l5M2e-W6rvsUFIoFT7RzxCkVtX9cDJHzMkPNlxe3C5Jk5KoQdjzWt8PyXwRDJZAs9BZMSszsHdBuMBR3TJOohiWVJnhMy5wA--mxkTwXvg/w640-h304/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_6.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Delvaray's posters pay homage to the culture, traditions and arts of the women of her country. Image: Courtesy of Afra Safa and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>A true student of Reza Abedini, she has developed an important Farsi font with a contemporary approach to Kufic script. Her creations are signified by 3D typography, unique personal illustrations and an exceptional set of radiating colours. Her knowledge and skill over Persian/Farsi typeface, Iranian ancient symbols and visual heritage as well as contemporary art discourses has allowed her to add her own one-of-a-kind dialect to the Iranian graphic design language.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyTgncDavk5Bin4oVOeiOLAYL_eXZQNWrWqch_He5v56bGQn_WbSiysEA-Nze1dhAl2Z_7WyBI6dIP8w6JTCTqfpg7W0DaZKA9WvCcZ1_sX8UCAFVBTMoPBJu42o8-kFhvVMN5LcQZ0Bwx0KBxfHIEVtcfVf86Md_21r36n16i7WyjO6Px98Z2Rba/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="911" data-original-width="1920" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyTgncDavk5Bin4oVOeiOLAYL_eXZQNWrWqch_He5v56bGQn_WbSiysEA-Nze1dhAl2Z_7WyBI6dIP8w6JTCTqfpg7W0DaZKA9WvCcZ1_sX8UCAFVBTMoPBJu42o8-kFhvVMN5LcQZ0Bwx0KBxfHIEVtcfVf86Md_21r36n16i7WyjO6Px98Z2Rba/w640-h304/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_11.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Homa Delvaray poster design. Image: Courtesy of Afra Safa and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p>Due to her familiarity and knowledge of female cultural heritage of Iran, she has been able to create artworks and designs that are a homage to the culture, traditions and arts of the women of her country. Her works are unapologetically feminine in the male dominant graphic design sphere of Iran.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Harby</h2><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CvvBjS9TIVSuizIPhw5Pv8gCdQ61nlWPadKy_rbEsHkIa5-lwnXwUKsQ_wVj3RZ-3BC2p_PV46_f6Uy6O1dySXeSpxqKPQ-3D33VWtuBl0ggF_2e8BxZoUZxAk4AOmqIyZLRde-3vhga0SA19j-lyuVWNcUaedcI9u5WOvE37dBgoD4G-p5QlJAH/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="1920" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0CvvBjS9TIVSuizIPhw5Pv8gCdQ61nlWPadKy_rbEsHkIa5-lwnXwUKsQ_wVj3RZ-3BC2p_PV46_f6Uy6O1dySXeSpxqKPQ-3D33VWtuBl0ggF_2e8BxZoUZxAk4AOmqIyZLRde-3vhga0SA19j-lyuVWNcUaedcI9u5WOvE37dBgoD4G-p5QlJAH/w640-h288/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_7.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Harby poster design. Image: Courtesy of Studio Harby and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>A witty sense of humour has always been a significant part of Pedram Harby’s (b.1977) works, in other words Studio Harby does not take itself too seriously but that does not mean we shouldn't too. Studio Harby might have a smaller share of fame despite its impressive body of works; but it is quietly brilliant.</p><p>Whether a design for a poster or a book, Studio Harby utilises graphic design in full service of the subject. It conveys its message fast and direct, a characteristic that separates it from many of the post-revolution Iranian designers who prefer indirectness to explicitness; due to cultural backgrounds and closed political environment.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhSAZcaQd4wADNx8WM3VIDrSgm7tdZ1eJtvOAk9yLkenH8PpwSdLQ2N0dDwNIXKHNiM2ZwTGnkajD3LJnQavfaGcbCA9pIxkY5yECCDvkKYajc8yBIXzeF60LwSgsT5wCu_miMe7uBg7kN39Ho-BUd2KCAtEniDFGQXXUCXH1QaiQh6QZOAaSTnsp/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="1920" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhSAZcaQd4wADNx8WM3VIDrSgm7tdZ1eJtvOAk9yLkenH8PpwSdLQ2N0dDwNIXKHNiM2ZwTGnkajD3LJnQavfaGcbCA9pIxkY5yECCDvkKYajc8yBIXzeF60LwSgsT5wCu_miMe7uBg7kN39Ho-BUd2KCAtEniDFGQXXUCXH1QaiQh6QZOAaSTnsp/w640-h212/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_12.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Studio Harby utilises graphic design in full service of the subject. Image: Courtesy of Studio Harby and STIRworld.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>Studio Harby is best known for poster designs of various Iranian theatre plays and book covers for important Iranian publications.</p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Fa</h2><p>Mehdi Fatehi (b.1982), the founder of Studio Fa, is among the designers who believe graphic design can and should go beyond its initial role. Known most for his poster designs for theatre performances, visual art exhibitions and cultural events, he treats poster design as a tool for documentation of cultural history.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_CEUTBJDUyEEn1eWgsUB4oPl-I9ewSF68G9lY5QNnu9xfJ7dmuXFwb0YTe_9nlkKkZe1ZC8dqfhHM9FtlSuisIkuX5FrEZmwt0UTC-ymFyzsSqw9Luj13LbejitW6QYtyHGXszzby7WMYtly1Sh6mSQkkd4gY0V2dLNPr4uXge0-9ty3Bw4yiBa_-/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1769" data-original-width="1920" height="590" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_CEUTBJDUyEEn1eWgsUB4oPl-I9ewSF68G9lY5QNnu9xfJ7dmuXFwb0YTe_9nlkKkZe1ZC8dqfhHM9FtlSuisIkuX5FrEZmwt0UTC-ymFyzsSqw9Luj13LbejitW6QYtyHGXszzby7WMYtly1Sh6mSQkkd4gY0V2dLNPr4uXge0-9ty3Bw4yiBa_-/w640-h590/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_8.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Fa poster design. Image: Courtesy of Mehdi Fatehi and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>He still widely uses silkscreen print and manual techniques. This self-inflicted limitation has added a certain visual dynamism to his works that is reminiscent of the posters of the 1970s. Limited use of colours, selective forms and attention to the cultural and social context of the subjects has made Fatehi’s design outstanding in their simplicity. Fatehi also has a strong body of works of logo and book designs.<p>Following his belief in documenting visual history, Studio Fa is currently running a program to reprint limited editions of posters from the Iranian masters of graphic design, namely Morteza Momayez, Behzad Hatam and Ghobad Shiva. </p><p><br /></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Melli</h2><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7NnzbSNy1kgmWSvwXT6h5o72LNYh244tN4E42GuwT24SzAWuCshVE-GOD7LYaWuZZJjKBZj1cAX9Niy0cPfK__BRDsUejceaGiaXDaqp5txuGXBMmklplU9g_S7e1h62-ATRNUsZv26k7thM8wbZP_N0taOx45hEVcMSd5nuo3Khf5-Izof9DBSl/s2120/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2120" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ7NnzbSNy1kgmWSvwXT6h5o72LNYh244tN4E42GuwT24SzAWuCshVE-GOD7LYaWuZZJjKBZj1cAX9Niy0cPfK__BRDsUejceaGiaXDaqp5txuGXBMmklplU9g_S7e1h62-ATRNUsZv26k7thM8wbZP_N0taOx45hEVcMSd5nuo3Khf5-Izof9DBSl/w484-h640/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_9.jpg" width="484" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Melli's Persian poster calendar. Image: Courtesy of Afra Safa and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>Founded by Mahsa Gholinejad and Omid Nemalhabib, Studio Melli is the youngest graphic design studio on our list. Perhaps it is soon to judge the entirety of their practice, however in the short span of their activity they have found themselves a solid foothold in the main discourse of the Iranian graphic design.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Persian/Farsi language, “melli” literally means national, or something belonging to the nation. Following this idea, Studio Melli leans on the aesthetics of Persian typography, poetry, visual culture and even science. With its focus mostly on identity design, Studio Melli uses a kind of typography that is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time and juxtaposes it with soft colours. The gentleness of Studio Melli’s design language is a feature that distinguishes them from other Iranian designers. The smart use of contemporary typography makes their works very attractive to a non-Iranian audience.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfSQEHRlwSkzhnKbQlJ7TsYBFP-7n19rI2G69Nayr9ZsaiuC7hTJrp7g7vUfPH8hpS8EuozjlsiesDPiWXKMJV7qE2Ri4BC4F6PkHLN1kui1BtcXct5Qs-kZu0QDa2E8oxrsVZC7mFSS_D3O2Lb6xzAsseNXboNuc05YurMN4WMy3pte-9eveQpBVb/s1259/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1259" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfSQEHRlwSkzhnKbQlJ7TsYBFP-7n19rI2G69Nayr9ZsaiuC7hTJrp7g7vUfPH8hpS8EuozjlsiesDPiWXKMJV7qE2Ri4BC4F6PkHLN1kui1BtcXct5Qs-kZu0QDa2E8oxrsVZC7mFSS_D3O2Lb6xzAsseNXboNuc05YurMN4WMy3pte-9eveQpBVb/w458-h640/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_14.jpg" width="458" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div>Studio Melli poster for Kurdistan Diaries exhibition. Image: Courtesy of Studio Melli and STIRworld.</div></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div><br /></div><div>Though we must wait to see how the practice of Studio Melli would develop further, they seem to have a bright future ahead in the graphic design sphere of Iran.</div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">Studio Shizaru</h2><div><br /></div><div>Founded in 2009, Shizaru is also considered one of the younger generations of graphic design studios of Iran. Yet in the decade of its activity, they have managed to grow from a mere graphic design studio into a multidisciplinary design atelier that addresses multiple layers of social, digital, communicative and commercial issues. Shizaru designs identities, products and immersive spaces.</div></div><div><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WQZKYfyUZRDlvoienulC7CquoADM1MS15bTg-_Nk2n1LvG-TMjOB0Ckf0Hui0a5yOP1lj4s_Mj6SyIXUchaFfGBcmnJP-hwO0OSkFK1Jb9i0rNUPYNf_N7nPdRgPIPxy3V6oBGcSj88uzoHZA5sssbYrShXijKosAz_e5iD4sEcS4SDCI89MN3M-/s1920/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1907" data-original-width="1920" height="636" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7WQZKYfyUZRDlvoienulC7CquoADM1MS15bTg-_Nk2n1LvG-TMjOB0Ckf0Hui0a5yOP1lj4s_Mj6SyIXUchaFfGBcmnJP-hwO0OSkFK1Jb9i0rNUPYNf_N7nPdRgPIPxy3V6oBGcSj88uzoHZA5sssbYrShXijKosAz_e5iD4sEcS4SDCI89MN3M-/w640-h636/3296_IranianGraphicDesign_10.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Studio Shizaru design for Zeeen. Image: Courtesy of Studio Shizaru and STIRworld.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Studio Shizaru developed at a time when the wide use of internet and relative wealth has softened the hardcore values of the Islamic government and with a coy openness towards the world, many luxury brands, goods and spaces enter the Iranian market. In answer to this new lifestyle, studios such as Shizaru create a different discourse from the severe language of post-revolution graphic design of Iran. Their designs are joyful, witty, engaging and full of colour.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">What makes Shizaru unique is that their work is less concerned with the exoticisation of Persian/Farsi script but is more about the power of illustration; it benefits from a continuous study of Iranian legends, stories, symbols and arts.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This list does not come close to covering all the bustling going on in the Iranian graphic design domain, but it might give a gist of what it looks like. From rapid westernisation, the severity of a religious revolution, a long war and then a timid return to the global sphere, the Iranian contemporary graphic design has come a long way; a journey of rediscovering the legends of the past, the uniqueness of their language and script and a long heritage of imagery. The graphic design sphere in Iran has achieved a unique powerful language; a language that is strictly Iranian with great bonds to its recent and ancient past; but is one that is contemporary, is constantly renewing itself and is a language with which it can speak to the world beyond its borders.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Via <a href="https://www.stirworld.com/" target="_blank">STIRworld</a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><br /></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-51249367883542303972022-04-05T14:36:00.000+01:002022-04-05T14:36:05.052+01:00“To Know No Nation Will Be Home”:<p style="text-align: center;"> A Conversation with Solmaz Sharif</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7QchN62KMUtNjpVgBD6m275_hVDL3MvJOn0JkJXeEkCp43A90W27mIF_szaB0_7hIBR5Netf3hWwUOPIoOOAGjUBROvxWn59TusOtxPM0BFgPf6zKaFnMBZRf8dIfN9B32o0vBaTTFGpb-ypH7NuLzJe21fYLjhSL1ghefDfnXjPc3kPrQAh-jfJ/s1468/solmaz-sharif-look-book-cover-a5db71b9b9e2c86cf8acd8b9da73a45183ed9d35.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="1468" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7QchN62KMUtNjpVgBD6m275_hVDL3MvJOn0JkJXeEkCp43A90W27mIF_szaB0_7hIBR5Netf3hWwUOPIoOOAGjUBROvxWn59TusOtxPM0BFgPf6zKaFnMBZRf8dIfN9B32o0vBaTTFGpb-ypH7NuLzJe21fYLjhSL1ghefDfnXjPc3kPrQAh-jfJ/w400-h300/solmaz-sharif-look-book-cover-a5db71b9b9e2c86cf8acd8b9da73a45183ed9d35.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p>by <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/contributor/natasha-hakimi-zapata" target="_blank">Natasha Hakimi Zapata</a>, <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/" target="_blank">LARB</a></p><p><i>“I HAD / TO. I / learned it.” So begins “America,” the opening poem of Solmaz Sharif’s breathtaking second collection, </i>Customs<i>. The fragmented confessional poem prepares the Iranian American poet’s readers for a shift from her first book, </i>Look<i> — which redeployed US military language to highlight the country’s crimes in the post-9/11 era — to a more intimate exploration of exile in a deeply broken America. </i>Customs<i>, as the title suggests, also examines poetic traditions (often showing us the customs only to break them) at the same time that it introduces readers to aggressive customs officers at the US border. The collection considers the cost of making a life as a woman of color in a country founded on white supremacy.</i></p><p><i>Unapologetically political and deeply lyrical, Sharif’s second book illustrates why her voice is one of the most illuminating in poetry today. I recently caught up with Sharif to talk about her poetic journey, as well as why she couldn’t write much in the Trump years, and whether poetry can ever become a home to the displaced.</i><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="text-align: center;">¤</p><p><b>NATASHA HAKIMI ZAPATA: You wrote your first published poem, which appeared in A World Between: Poems, Short Stories, and Essays by Iranian-Americans, when you were 13 years old. What inspired you to write verse from such a young age? </b></p><p><b>SOLMAZ SHARIF:</b> I have always just loved language. When I was a kid and before I could write, I would doodle what I thought was cursive and I’d hold it up to my mom and be like, “Am I saying anything?” I wanted to know how to be able to communicate, and to communicate in a way that would be recorded and would not be interrupted. Writing just always felt like a really important and lucky endeavor, and then poetry in particular, because I just loved the ability to break a line. I was no longer held back by grammar and syntax and diction. I could say whatever I want, and then I could say it doubly or triply just by ending it where it’s not supposed to end and starting it where it’s not supposed to start. So it felt like a more wild space for me. It also just felt so immediately and viscerally emotional. These are the reasons that I found myself drawn to it, but more simply, too, my mom is a big reader and read poems to me often. It was this honorable and accessible calling in our house. So I just found myself gravitating toward it.</p><p><b>What were some of the forms that you first experimented with?</b></p><p>Oh, I never liked forms. I went through that phase where it seemed like everything was supposed to rhyme, so I wanted to rhyme every line, but I always felt really frustrated in forms. One of the first poems that really took the top of my head off was Gwendolyn Brooks’s “We Real Cool.” It was a form in a way, but it was a form that she had invented. There was a closedness, but she had invented the parameters of that music and of that closedness, and it sounded alive and familiar in ways that most inherited forms just didn’t for me.</p><p><b><i>Look</i>, your first book, was published in 2016, a year in which the United States seemed to lurch further right than it had previously with the election of Donald Trump. And yet your book, which put a light on American atrocities that are often sublimated in the public sphere — a denial that some link to the rise of the far right — was a finalist for the National Book Award and the PEN Open Book Award, as well as the winner of the 2017 American Book Award for poetry, among other honors. Were you surprised at all by how <i>Look</i> was received?</b></p><p>Most simply, yes. In part because I had been working on it for so many years and I was really trying to get it published, and, more anecdotally, because the atmosphere in which <i>Look</i> was written and “American letters” writ large at that point felt pretty hostile to work that would be considered overtly political. And this thing happened in 2016 that cracks me up, which was, there was a kind of almost panic by some critics that had been pretty disdainful toward political writing and political poetry. The panic was, “What do we do now? And who are our poets? And what do we say?” It is like they weren’t trained for this moment. Whereas for me, it’s not that 2016 is a non-event, it’s just that 2016 is an inevitable result of the Obama era, which is an inevitable result of W’s reign, and on and on and on — it’s a direct line.</p><p>There’s a way that <i>Look</i> in fact was written predominantly during Obama’s presidency. So there’s something actually about the chill of that kind of liberal civility that I respond to and against. That is where I feel more disturbed. And we feel a return of that a little bit with the Biden administration, I’d say. The buttons have been buttoned up again. It is in that atmosphere that I feel even greater discomfort, strangely enough, than in the Trump administration. You would think that that would be the time where I would talk about the nonsense of political language, but I found my work actually gets really quiet because when it got so clear and so obvious, and when the crisis is so pronounced and so noisy, there isn’t really much I felt I needed to do as a poet. I’m trying to actually name the things that aren’t necessarily being named at that moment.</p><p><b>While <i>Look</i> overflows into both the public and personal with the shrapnel of war language, <i>Customs</i> offers an often vulnerable look at life in diaspora, in displacement. Do you see the two books as a continuation of one poetic journey or as two distinct projects?</b></p><p>It’s absolutely the continuation of one poetic journey. So much of what <i>Look</i> could and could not do has informed what <i>Customs</i> does and does not do. As I mentioned, I found my gaze moving inward as the external public world grew louder. I was surprised to find that happening, but it happened. Also, as <i>Look</i> was received and as I entered the literary world, for lack of a better term, and as I discovered that, similar to what I’ve been saying about the Biden administration or the Obama administration, that actually there are ways that this power is very clearly operating within the customs of the literary world that must be named and addressed. The more I saw that, the more I found that I couldn’t not write about it.</p><p>I am really invested in diagnosing and naming power and all the ways that it malforms and obliterates our lives. But whereas <i>Look</i> was about a single kind of state-sponsored agency as a locus of power, <i>Customs</i> is actually about all the other, more quiet ways that power is operating on us, whether it’s through self-help books and manuals or it’s the actual machinery of publication. And the core of both of these books and the core of the gaze of both has been one of exilic wandering and longing.</p><p><b>Edward Said once wrote,</b></p><p></p><blockquote><b>Much of the exile’s life is taken up with compensating for disorienting loss by creating a new world to rule. It is not surprising that so many exiles seem to be novelists, chess players, political activists, and intellectuals. Each of these occupations requires a minimal investment in objects and places a great premium on mobility and skill.</b></blockquote><p></p><p><b>Does this resonate with you?</b></p><p>That resonates so deeply. There is something about my commitment to poetry that’s born out of my awareness of a precarity and that there are times and ways that a life gets stripped down to all one can carry. There are times that one is not allowed to carry anything, and so one can’t even carry a novel in that moment; one would be lucky to have memorized some poems for the road, and one would be lucky to be able to compose those poems in one’s head. It just so happens that the music of poetry is easier to memorize in that way. Having grown up in a feeling of that precarity, having spent my life wondering anytime I purchase an object, if I’m willing to move it, thinking about the box that I will have to find that could possibly fit the thing, has maybe made me predisposed to poetry.</p><p><b>Can poetry become a sort of home? And is there such a thing as “The End of Exile,” as one of your poems is titled? </b></p><p>I don’t know that poetry itself is a home. I don’t know that anything’s a home, to be honest. I’d be lying if I said I felt at home anywhere. Maybe that’ll evolve over the course of my life, maybe I’ll find a sense of it. When I’m not in the kind of “woe is me” nostalgic trap of exile, what I feel is a sense of the greater truth of having of living on the other side of loss and being reduced down to the things that remain, which end up being not much. Poetry is one of them, because language is one of the things that remains. But even that I know to be incredibly fleeting. So I’m freed from the belief in ever being at home; I think it’s an illusion, and when I’m in a good place, I think how fortunate it is for me to be disillusioned.</p><p><b>One of the lines about exile that I’ve been carrying with me from <i>Customs</i> for a couple of months now is, “To walk cemetery after cemetery in these States and nary a gravestone reading Solmaz / To know no nation will be home until one does.” It made me consider how, for generations, my mother’s family was in Mexico and my father’s family was in Iran, and how my American life is never going to emulate theirs in any way. It feels like this thread has been broken, and I am caught between these cultures in the US, which, for me, has become a never-ending liminal space, not exactly home.</b></p><p><b>Several poems in <i>Customs</i> also take place in liminal spaces, such as on national borders where a bureaucracy based on white supremacy reigns supreme. Do you see poetry as a site of resistance, as in your poem “He, Too,” which is a dialogue between a US immigration official and a poet?</b></p><p>There have been days in my life where I would answer yes to that question. I would answer yes immediately. But it’s been a while now where I don’t think it is. A lot of my poetry is born of defiance or even just petulance sometimes. I don’t know that poetry is a site of resistance itself. To me, it feels more like a kind of anguished record of what’s happening. That’s because so much of my writing is invested in a kind of more diagnostic mode of being, so I just want to name what is: like here is an individual conversation between the speaker and a customs officer, and here’s how it goes. And the poem can offer a space that exists outside of that exchange.</p><p>There’s something about interrogation in particular. It’s one of the most isolating moments that you have. You are facing a badge and you have to respond to anything that is asked of you, and there are no witnesses, so to speak — there’s no one on your side. In that way, poetry can offer a nice escape, or a kind of future orientation. I can record something far beyond this room, beyond this time, and imagine an event and create an audience that would be as infuriated by this moment as I might be. I think I resist calling it a site of resistance, because a site of resistance would quite literally and materially do something to that moment instead. For whatever reason, I want to keep these two things apart.</p><p><b>In your breathtaking poem, “The Master’s House,” you redeploy the language of American slavery to connect the dots between the oppression the United States is founded on to the cruelties it imparts at home, in Iran, and around the world. Why was it important to you to establish this link? </b></p><p>It was important to establish the link because it’s also important to establish my own complicity and what it is that I participate in and that we participate in when we come to the US or when we’re in the US. I’m hoping that within the accurate naming of these various complicities and the ways that they overlap, I also am naming the ways that the violences might overlap as well. That just seemed really important to do.</p><p><b>It was one of the poems that really connected your two books, that built a bridge between them for me. Can you tell me a bit about where one of your poems starts for you?</b></p><p>Often with an irritation; a thing that’s not right and won’t leave me, keeps nipping at me; a thing that collapses when I try to say it in regular speech. Sometimes it comes as a single image. Sometimes it comes as a word that’s the green that everything pearls around. And sometimes I’m lucky and it comes as an entire sentence. With <i>Look</i>, there was a lot more wanting to decide what a poem was and was going to be, and then setting out to write that poem. And with <i>Customs</i>, there’s more of actually just following the poems themselves and seeing where they take me.</p><p><b>What’s your relationship to the city of Los Angeles, which appears in both of your books, and what does it represent in your work? </b></p><p>I hadn’t really noticed that Los Angeles figures in both books, because, if you ask me, I would say that I don’t write about place often, or much of my work is kind of placeless. I move face to face and room to room. I can see interior spaces. Maybe I can see the stretch of a single block, but never a city. And I never think of the city and I never want to take the temperature of the city, in large part, because it is the most immediate, painful reminder that I am not living where I’m supposed to be living in some way, which also means how I feel I’m supposed to be living. Place reminds me of my displacement, and it reminds me of all the ways that I’m alienated.</p><p><b>What differences do you find between expressing yourself in Farsi or English (for example, you have a line about how “in Farsi the present perfect is called the relational past, and is used at times to describe a historic event whose effect is still relevant today, transcending the past”)?</b></p><p>I write in English and English exclusively. I translate sometimes from Farsi and I thought I would publish those, but I have decided against it because translation oddly felt more private than my own writing does. What drew me to translation was that I want to be able to experience the poems that I’m reading in Farsi with that same immediate kind of visceral response that I experience poems when I’m reading them in English, and I was wondering, “Can I give that to myself somehow?” My command of Farsi is not strong enough to hear a poem aloud for the first time and have my hair stand up. I have too many questions first, and then I have to hear it again. That tie feels very much severed for me and it’ll never grow back, I don’t think. English means a way of signaling the impossibility of actual return, so that even if I physically go back to a place that I’m supposedly from, without a number of things, language chief among them, I won’t actually have returned. It signals my ostracization from what my taproot is. In that way, every time I speak in English, I am choosing and delimiting an audience, and it’s not necessarily an audience I would choose. It’s just an audience that I’ve been forced into, and there’s a sense of defeat in that, too. There’s just this sense of vacancy. To be in English and to speak in English, it just doesn’t feel like I have very many people with me; it feels like a very lonely endeavor, even though I know that’s not true. I know it’s the language that rules the world, but there’s this way that it feels very lonely.</p><p><b>I’m struck by the fact that you don’t want to publish the translations you’ve been working on. You have the poem “Into English,” which is a rumination on translating the work of the modernist Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad — whom you refer to, intimately, by her first name, describing the work as “private.” It’s not easy to come by translations of Farrokhzad’s poetry in English, and, selfishly, I would love to specifically read your translations because I sense you’d bring a vital perspective to them. Are you still translating her work even if you’re not planning on publishing it? If so, why are you still translating her work? </b></p><p>Because it’s for me. Maybe at some point in the future, something will come of it. It’s a deep and private correspondence with a poet, that’s not like correspondences I have with poets in the English language that I don’t necessarily share with people either. There are a lot of translators I really love. I rely on translation. I love translation. I just can’t talk myself into doing it for anyone other than me.</p><p style="text-align: center;">¤</p><p><i><a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/contributor/natasha-hakimi-zapata/" target="_blank">Natasha Hakimi Zapata is an award-winning journalist and university lecturer.</a></i></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p>Via <a href="https://lareviewofbooks.org/" target="_blank">LARB</a></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-20358342093727979512022-02-14T13:10:00.004+00:002022-02-14T13:10:35.743+00:00Women living "life without a life"<p style="text-align: center;">Iranian artist Farzaneh Khademian's "Peephole"</p><p style="text-align: center;">In her latest exhibition in Japan, Farzaneh Khademian depicts figures who seem detached from their surroundings. In interview with Qantara.de, the Iranian photographer and painter explains the impact of photography, migration and gender-based inequality on her paintings.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZRw7bVXf7_pm0se2vOmpVBrB9opz7n69yy36_eQM5dNILjycsMUzTXTmZoncZ06a6jYaBEWTu3TASLbJ1sJ_7sir6Y-uqgcaCRdMQHmiEdGVcC88wXsfwop2OqQ_G3CqSxkvhMrqkLFjNdVfZ6g7-bu8DAEENXLl-h-M3gJGC8IPQ7rK2VBOYXYw_=s730" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="730" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgZRw7bVXf7_pm0se2vOmpVBrB9opz7n69yy36_eQM5dNILjycsMUzTXTmZoncZ06a6jYaBEWTu3TASLbJ1sJ_7sir6Y-uqgcaCRdMQHmiEdGVcC88wXsfwop2OqQ_G3CqSxkvhMrqkLFjNdVfZ6g7-bu8DAEENXLl-h-M3gJGC8IPQ7rK2VBOYXYw_=w640-h454" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting from the "Peephole" series by Farzaneh Khademian (photo: Farzaneh Khademian. Courtesy Qantara).<br />In November 2021, Khademian's second exhibition in Japan, called "Peephole", opened in Tokyo, displaying naked, faceless figures. In the introduction to her exhibition, she wrote: "Peephole is a small opening through a door allowing the viewer to look from the inside to the outside in the same way that a camera lens does. In this series, I tried to look at my surroundings through this lens".</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="text-align: center;"> </span><div>by <a href="https://en.qantara.de/authors/changiz-m-varzi" target="_blank">Changiz M. Varzi</a>, <a href="https://en.qantara.de/" target="_blank">Qantara</a><p>In 2016, acclaimed Iranian photojournalist and painter Farzaneh Khademian emigrated to Japan and entered a world fundamentally different from her home country, Iran. Khademian was born and raised in the capital Tehran; she was seven years old when the Islamic Revolution changed all aspects of life in Iran. She belongs to a generation of photographers who graduated from art universities, but decided to use their cameras to document social and political themes.</p><p>In 1995, she entered Azad University Art School, where she studied photography. Immediately after her graduation, at the height of the late 1990s reform movement in Iran, she was one of the pioneering photographers who covered the 1999 students uprising, the assassination of senior reformist theorist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saeed_Hajjarian" target="_blank">Saeed Hajjarian</a>, and many protests in support of the then-president Mohammad Khatami.</p><p>At the same time, she focused on documenting women’s life in Iran. One widely acclaimed project was about female passengers on the women-only section of public city buses in Tehran. In another, she took photos of women athletes when covering women sportspersons was still a taboo in Iran. She also covered various topics in Lebanon, Afghanistan and Pakistan for international outlets.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw1sXMRIKXiWVJ_P1it_yID4-oNRv6roXFRklSY7RjgjLgu9CN_DaP_XnGShN28BL36DB3VFPR8gF5Jw7I6t7kKda2vRKBVlZZWdWHbS-XC7MHTYRAWbFXT8Q90JmveV43qdsQXOhGpPWtSixR9hiOD9fUGlwU4t3U1Eh_a8wbXQUy57eq-VMfaZ9v=s730" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="489" data-original-width="730" height="429" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw1sXMRIKXiWVJ_P1it_yID4-oNRv6roXFRklSY7RjgjLgu9CN_DaP_XnGShN28BL36DB3VFPR8gF5Jw7I6t7kKda2vRKBVlZZWdWHbS-XC7MHTYRAWbFXT8Q90JmveV43qdsQXOhGpPWtSixR9hiOD9fUGlwU4t3U1Eh_a8wbXQUy57eq-VMfaZ9v=w640-h429" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Women travelling in the women-only section of a Tehran bus (photo: Farzaneh Khademian.Courtesy Qantara).<br />Photography as social commentary: Farzaneh Khademian began her career in Iran as a photojournalist, documenting the life of women in the Islamic Republic in particular. One widely acclaimed project was about female passengers on the women-only section of public city buses in Tehran. In another, she took photos of women athletes when covering women sportspersons was still taboo. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><b>New aspects of gender inequality</b></h3><p></p><p>When Khademian moved to Japan, she discovered new aspects of gender inequality and sexism in a modern country. Among the developed countries, Japan has one of the worst records of discrimination against women. It was a prime topic for Khademian to get her teeth into. This time, however, the Iranian artist used brush and canvas, rather than a camera to depict what she saw.</p><p>On 20 November 2021, her second exhibition in Japan, called "Peephole", opened in Tokyo, displaying naked, faceless figures. In the introduction to her exhibition, she wrote: "Peephole is a small opening through a door allowing the viewer to look from the inside to the outside in the same way that a camera lens does. In this series, I tried to look at my surroundings through this lens."</p><p><i>The first thing that is striking about your latest works is a vigorous exposition of nakedness. What inspired this bold presence of sexuality and nude figures in your latest works?</i></p><p><b>Farzaneh Khademian:</b> I created all the works displayed in this exhibition under the influence of Japanese culture. In this series, I don’t see any impact from Iran or my experience of living there. If you look at the figures in this collection, you see that no life exists in these characters, and this is how I feel about many people’s lives in Japan: a life without life.</p><p>For example, the figures have no face because, because here in real life, I can’t see people’s true faces; I can’t see their feelings or emotions. I can’t get close to people more than on a certain level. It is difficult to understand if people are really happy or sad in this society. People cover their feelings behind a mask. A human being is sometimes happy, sometimes sad, tired, or full of energy, but here you can’t see these feelings being shown to others.</p><p>Moreover, how women are treated in society shaped my ideas about the figures I painted. Full-size rubber sex dolls are common in Japan, and some people even live with those dolls as if they lived with a real partner. Sometimes in Japan, I feel that women are treated as dolls and not as human beings with a soul. I got to know many women who economically have good lives, but are empty of vivacity. That is because, in this mechanical lifestyle, you become invisible: no one sees you. This also happens to men, but as a woman, I realised that through losing my identity as a woman in this system, I would forget my femininity.</p><p><i>Are you saying that in Iran, with all the restrictions imposed on women, you did not have this feeling?</i></p><p><b>Khademian:</b> No, I didn’t have the same feelings in Iran. Those restrictions are different from being emptied of your personality. Here in Japan, despite social and political freedoms, people cannot easily express their viewpoints. Social and cultural traditions do not even let women laugh openly. People avoid talking about serious topics, which I think is very dangerous. When you live for an extended period in this atmosphere, you forget how life is outside this bubble; you fail to talk about important social and political matters.</p><p>I am not saying that I face more limits in Japan than in Iran. In Japan, I have never encountered disrespect for being a woman. But I feel the respect I receive is more because I am a customer in a shop or a client in an office.</p><p><i>When did you decide to put these naked figures at the centre of your paintings?</i></p><p><b>Khademian:</b> The collection came together over about two years. It was not a conscious move initially, but the idea formed little by little based on my experiences in Japan. For example, after participating in life drawing sessions in three different galleries, I realised the naked models were always women. I asked why they didn’t have any male models. They were surprised by the question.</p><p>It is not the first time I have painted faceless figures, however. You can also find figures without a face among the works I painted in Iran, but those were different. In Iran, my works were expressive. I chose a different technique in Japan, and the excitement and vivid colours disappeared from my paintings. This was directly influenced by the new environment I am now living in.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoIQ5Zxsv_K-5dbB0mzbkdSvGew25rED6bQDtFxLRU0_y3jcLLma7HyACU9daIVYSznxSax0Sp55NvBZdVbOP7tYdl0ByTnhJ2px7rIybcX0SPbppKNG_miSFPY0wanfYDP4-5yL6Pu8oNzqeap62tqP1XaJdDEhh7eGw8DeNhVgdIc8snDKN2k3fe=s730" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="730" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoIQ5Zxsv_K-5dbB0mzbkdSvGew25rED6bQDtFxLRU0_y3jcLLma7HyACU9daIVYSznxSax0Sp55NvBZdVbOP7tYdl0ByTnhJ2px7rIybcX0SPbppKNG_miSFPY0wanfYDP4-5yL6Pu8oNzqeap62tqP1XaJdDEhh7eGw8DeNhVgdIc8snDKN2k3fe=w640-h472" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting from the "Peephole" series by Farzaneh Khademian (photo: Farzaneh Khademian. Courtesy Qantara) <br />"How women are treated in Japanese society shaped my ideas about the figures I painted. Full-size rubber sex dolls are common in Japan, and some people even live with those dolls as if they lived with a real partner. Sometimes in Japan, I feel that women are treated as dolls and not as human beings with a soul. I got to know many women who economically have good lives, but are empty of vivacity. That is because, in this mechanical lifestyle, you become invisible: no one sees you".</td></tr></tbody></table><p><i>In contrast to your figures, the objects surrounding them are full of colour and life. Why have you underlined such a big difference?</i></p><p><b>Khademian:</b> That's the impact of what I see here in my daily life: all those flowers on the streets, the walls covered with the plants and the colourful objects I see everywhere. I began by drawing the figures, then I thought of them as a more serious project and added the colours. Afterwards, I added the objects I see in daily life around me.</p><p><i>What impact has your background in photography had on your work as a painter?</i></p><p><b>Khademian:</b> For me, these paintings are a continuation of my work as a photographer. With a camera, I capture the moments that I witness in society. In these pieces, I have chosen certain moments of people’s lives from the new culture I live in and have used painting as a medium to depict those moments.</p><p>When I take a photo, I rarely crop my frame because I consider all the details before pushing the shutter button and think of everything in my frame. When I paint, I go through the same process. First, I witness and see all the details before me, and then I choose what I want to paint.</p><p>The other similarity that I see between photography and painting is the presence of people. Social documentary photography and photojournalism are the fields I have worked in, and when I paint, I look for similar social issues that I highlight in photography. That is why people are always present in my paintings. </p><p><br /></p><p><i>Interview conducted by <a href="https://en.qantara.de/authors/changiz-m-varzi" target="_blank">Changiz M. Varzi</a></i></p><p>Via <a href="https://en.qantara.de/" target="_blank">Qantara</a></p></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-27342248674679299192022-02-03T10:17:00.001+00:002022-02-03T10:18:14.044+00:00How Oscar-tipped Iranian drama A Hero nails social media fallout<h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The film by Asghar Farhadi is a rare example of capturing how social media influences our postures offline, while barely engaging with the internet itself</span></h3><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1dAnkSkXvedPs7sG8q-WfiOQHJVS1CKzIGljYXQTET9BKvGB0GgR8E2b-OnHHAXgMiRPsFS5gCi5g14cBC2U7HIMdAtcoMt5pWBJHgTqeUDIhvcWvRi-9klBerID1v2A1q5YOsvRpTereFMqjnMgKI2FPW3LtXJIo6ypvTpORhHTmrX6IIDVoDtYv=s620" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1dAnkSkXvedPs7sG8q-WfiOQHJVS1CKzIGljYXQTET9BKvGB0GgR8E2b-OnHHAXgMiRPsFS5gCi5g14cBC2U7HIMdAtcoMt5pWBJHgTqeUDIhvcWvRi-9klBerID1v2A1q5YOsvRpTereFMqjnMgKI2FPW3LtXJIo6ypvTpORhHTmrX6IIDVoDtYv=s16000" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sahar Goldoust and Amir Jadidi in A Hero. Photograph: AP. Courtesy The Guardian. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>by <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/profile/adrian-horton" target="_blank">Adrian Horton</a>, <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/" target="_blank">The Guardian</a></p><p>A Hero, a tense, mazy drama from the Iranian writer-director <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/asghar-farhadi" target="_blank">Asghar Farhadi</a>, centers on a figure familiar to anyone who’s attuned to the ebbs and flows of internet celebrity: the social media Main Character, the subject of an internet backlash. Rahim (Amir Jadidi, endearing yet inscrutable), is a man imprisoned for debts in the city of Shiraz, who becomes a local hero for an act of charity of ambiguous motivation. His girlfriend, Farkhondeh (Sahar Goldoust), found 17 gold coins who she says were left in a purse at a bus stop, but instead of paying toward his freedom, Rahim contacts a bank and arranges a return to their owner. Within days, on furlough from jail, he’s the feelgood story of the moment.</p><p>I’ve <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/2021/may/19/overshare-are-there-any-good-films-about-social-media" target="_blank">written before</a> about how there are few films which successfully capture the internet and/or social media without tipping into flat moralism, obsolescence or laughable facsimiles. (Social media and the internet are of course not the same thing, though in today’s climate of platform consolidation, to refer to one is basically to refer to the other, especially in the context of film and television.) This is partly because text phrasing, online references and digital interfaces change so quickly – at a much faster pace than the production of a film, let alone its distribution – that including it in text messages or social media references can jarringly distract from the story at hand; timestamped phone and computer screen risk locking the story into a tight, hyper-specific timeline that can constrain narrative, filming location or cultural references.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/zAJ6_lmr_HQ" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></p><p><br /></p><p>The few good internet films convey genuine human emotion through depictions of phone-lit characters consumed by the infinite scroll (Eighth Grade, Sweat, Ingrid Goes West) or confined to movement within a desktop (the so-called “screen-life” films produced by Timur Bekmambetov – Profile, Searching and Unfriended – and the 2020 movie Spree). A Hero, available to stream on Amazon, is a rare exception to both of these trends. The two-hour feature is one of the sharpest films about how the online influences our postures off it, evoking a real-time turn of the timeline’s tide, while barely engaging with the internet itself.</p><p>Farhadi rarely shows a screen, but you can feel the churn of the internet behind Rahim’s rapid celebrity, recorded in heartwarming newspaper articles arranged by his prison, mentions of things seen on social media, and an award from a local charity that collects donations to pay off his debt. And as with anything popular online, there are quickly detractors and doubters. A fellow inmate praises Rahim’s ability to fool everyone with icy contempt. A hiring manager pokes holes in Rahim’s story that he struggles to plug up with evidence. Did he and Farkhondeh really just find gold coins? Who was the skittish woman who collected them, nowhere to be found?</p><p>Rahim is handsome and ingratiating, a natural charmer, but how much do we trust his story as more reports of his unreliability surface? “I didn’t lie,” he tells his sister Malileh (Maryam Shahdaei), when the deluge of bad optics begins to erase his good fortune. “But you didn’t tell the truth,” she retorts. In Farhadi’s film, as it can be online, both are simultaneously correct and unmoored, swimming in conflicting takes, narratives and hidden motivations.</p><p>Characters need only reference things seen on social media or “what people are saying” for audiences to fill in the virtual background. The kind of celebratory online attention that Rahim has received and then reaped tends to be corrosive; very, very few things on the internet age well, especially if it goes viral. Popularity engenders backlash, which platforms then amplify. Main characters are revealed to have complicated, maybe unsavory backstories. Pile-ons careen out of control, context or scope. (To cite two prominent examples from just the past two weeks on US social media: the furor over <a href="https://slate.com/culture/2022/01/west-elm-caleb-tiktok-explained.html" target="_blank">West Elm Caleb</a> and the <a href="https://newsletters.theatlantic.com/galaxy-brain/61eefb8bdc551a0020852bf1/too-much-information/" target="_blank">curdling</a> of Wordle fandom.) Anyone interested in maintaining their two days of fame or parlaying it into something else must participate in an increasingly hollow and cringey game of self-promotion, one even influencers themselves – the ones who make actual money off of producing content on big platforms – appear <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2022/jan/08/hype-house-netflix-series-shows-the-depressing-side-of-tiktok-fame" target="_blank">exhausted with</a>.</p><p>One can imagine smaller versions of this happening simultaneous to the action in A Hero, which mostly sticks to Rahim’s confused, soured IRL perspective. It’s there in the way charity officials titter about returning their donations, caught in the difficult position of backing a controversy. It’s implied when the daughter of Rahim’s creditor, Nazanin (Sarina Farhadi), whose dowry was spent to cover Rahim’s loans, takes out a phone to film a physical altercation. It haunts scheming by Rahim, Malileh and brother-in-law Hossein (Alireza Jahandideh) to restore Rahim’s reputation. It frames concerns of “authenticity” in the filming of Rahim’s innocent, scared son Siavash (Saleh Karimai), who has a severe speech impediment, as a ploy for sympathy.</p><p>Farhadi has traced dense thickets of ethics and motivations before, in his two Oscar-winning pictures A Separation and The Salesman, and A Hero applies the same scrupulous vision to characters besieged, directly or adjacently, by the whims of public discourse out of one’s control. When Rahim learns that an unflattering video of him, one that he fought to keep hidden, has been posted online, we do not see the comments, takes, explainers, hate messages. It’s all there on his face, which has the pall of a real death. It’s unclear what he mourns most – his reputation, his ego, any prospect of controlling the narrative, his dignity, possibly his freedom from debtor’s prison.</p><p>A Hero is one of the best films on social media by playing on what we already know, refracting familiar, repetitive dynamics into a taut psychological drama that muddies the internet’s preferred lines of good and bad. You do not have to see the explosion or know its real cause to understand the fallout. Social media waves rise and fall, crest and repeat, forgotten in a day but leaving real wreckage behind. We know that but tend to forget it – behind all of these screens are fragile, complicated humans. A Hero puts that truth first, offering a model for future internet-adjacent films to come.</p><p>Via <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/" target="_blank">The Guardian</a></p><p><br /></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-23463107435010919492022-01-20T13:35:00.000+00:002022-01-20T13:35:07.259+00:00A new home for digital scholarship in Iranian poetry and cinema<p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBAXm2l8fpfAmlAUWptYOERxwbiyGkDwlZCyhS1sOB2TVM_JPvoIm_nsCbw37ROBULQ5hymtYLgkUwEbz-OKMzV6nqOYCf0P5O7-5s7KOLKq6RiyYH0UhoMBgtsL_UxQt2qOSqV1fEO9qQPxuAhqCtV7otMEReawzdkYaQV6Ed8Ot5ViTwbDBlmX-A=s370" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBAXm2l8fpfAmlAUWptYOERxwbiyGkDwlZCyhS1sOB2TVM_JPvoIm_nsCbw37ROBULQ5hymtYLgkUwEbz-OKMzV6nqOYCf0P5O7-5s7KOLKq6RiyYH0UhoMBgtsL_UxQt2qOSqV1fEO9qQPxuAhqCtV7otMEReawzdkYaQV6Ed8Ot5ViTwbDBlmX-A=s16000" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whether contemporary or classical, Iranian artists regularly command the world’s attention. Courtsey A&S News.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>by <a href="https://www.artsci.utoronto.ca/news-author-term/1481/cynthia-macdonald-news" target="_blank">Cynthia Macdonald</a>, <a href="https://www.artsci.utoronto.ca/about" target="_blank">A&S News</a></p><p>Iran is home to some of the world’s oldest and richest artistic traditions. Painting, literature, film and music all continue to play important roles not only as sources of pleasure, but of social and political influence in both the country and its worldwide diaspora.</p><p>Recently, an innovative multiyear partnership was signed between the University of Toronto and the <a href="https://www.iranicaonline.org/" target="_blank">Encylopedia Iranica Foundation</a>. The latter was established in 1990 with the ultimate aim of publishing a reference work that covers all aspects of Iranian history and culture. Under the partnership, researchers will gather and share a wealth of information on projects exploring two important artistic topics: Iranian women poets and Iranian cinema.</p><p>The principal investigator on both projects is <a href="https://www.utm.utoronto.ca/historical-studies/people/mohamad-tavakoli-targhi" target="_blank">Mohamad Tavakoli-Targhi</a>, a U of T professor of <a href="https://www.utm.utoronto.ca/historical-studies/people/mohamad-tavakoli-targhi" target="_blank">Historical Studies</a> & <a href="https://www.nmc.utoronto.ca/people/directories/all-faculty/mohamad-tavakoli-targhi" target="_blank">Near & Middle Eastern Civilizations</a>. Tavakoli-Targhi is also the inaugural director of U of T’s <a href="https://www.artsci.utoronto.ca/news/u-t-receives-us6-million-establish-elahe-omidyar-mir-djalali-institute-iranian-studies" target="_blank">Elahé Omidyar Mir-Djalali Institute of Iranian Studies</a>, which opened last year.</p><p>“In the past decade, the University of Toronto has emerged as the most important site for the study of Iran,” he says. “The new institute has over 20 faculty with twice as many graduate students, and there is a vibrant Iranian community in Toronto and Canada, all linked to sources of intellectual and artistic creativity. So it has been rather timely for the University to initiate a project like this.”</p><p>The Encyclopedia Iranica will publish the digital research compendia on both subjects via its website, and the material will be freely accessible to anyone — not just academics, but those who may wish, for example, to organize readings or film festivals.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><p>The first project, formally titled Iranian Women Poets, will shine a bright light on writers whose work has often been overshadowed by that of better-known male counterparts such as Rumi, Hafez, and Omar Khayyam.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP7NMbv7O_jTbjVJd6zCR74Fe7ksOE49cGpMlWs_EVC3QuA5OdGkKM1S5GFOsN1WL9-P9DvQNDEQdL_r24yCuUhYlcwCMIxwGTYcIV9vbXxUoCVBqczrkaDv3b4De9LPs-eSn0oJ8d2eBECK5uPChYNGMOPce8jTdyFWoWhyeFPSlErHu4sw8JkpDX=s350" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgP7NMbv7O_jTbjVJd6zCR74Fe7ksOE49cGpMlWs_EVC3QuA5OdGkKM1S5GFOsN1WL9-P9DvQNDEQdL_r24yCuUhYlcwCMIxwGTYcIV9vbXxUoCVBqczrkaDv3b4De9LPs-eSn0oJ8d2eBECK5uPChYNGMOPce8jTdyFWoWhyeFPSlErHu4sw8JkpDX=s16000" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Iran boasts a powerful tradition of poetry by women writers such as Tahereh Qurrat al-’Ayn (L) and Forough Farrokhzad. Illustration: I, <a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d6/Poet_Tehereh_-_Tahirih.jpg" target="_blank">Stefan Back, Public domain</a>, via Wikimedia Commons. Courtsey A&S News.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>Tavakoli-Targhi notes that poetry remains an important part of everyday life in Iran. While people in many other countries pay little attention to their own poetic traditions, Iranians frequently recite poetry and seek ethical guidance from it.</p><p>“Until recently,” he says, “the general academic understanding was that Iranian literature has been exclusively the domain of men. But because of work done in the past 40 years by literary scholars, it is now known that women have been writing poetry since as early as the 10th century.”</p><p>Significant figures here include Rabi‘ah Balkhi, a 10th-century poet; Mahasti Ganjavi (born circa 1089); Tahereh Qurrat al-‘Ayn, a 19th-century writer who was not only a poet but also a women’s rights activist and theologian; and Forough Farrokhzad, whose courageous work has been revered by many since her untimely death in 1967.</p><p>The second digital compendium, Iranian Cinema, is related to the first in that both women and poetry have played key roles in the development of Iranian cinema.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqxsl-6-cP7ccwa5Hx3WhMKBtLdiu1UUhpV4R0ZsUfo8AeDUpKUvXJr4D8C8RR3W4tWqi_FspJWHoYZ1Mxd4vVq19qFk2WAhbND3ZqsjwrtY4fO4D7dSMCdApgFVmLM4iRHVv-jpp6ivUGfd4-PywVkI8I1UzYigNHVCifVPmXdgedFM43svTqiJq_=s750" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="325" data-original-width="750" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjqxsl-6-cP7ccwa5Hx3WhMKBtLdiu1UUhpV4R0ZsUfo8AeDUpKUvXJr4D8C8RR3W4tWqi_FspJWHoYZ1Mxd4vVq19qFk2WAhbND3ZqsjwrtY4fO4D7dSMCdApgFVmLM4iRHVv-jpp6ivUGfd4-PywVkI8I1UzYigNHVCifVPmXdgedFM43svTqiJq_=w400-h173" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Filmmakers Rakhshan Banietemad and Abbas Kiorastami have earned international acclaim. Photos: <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Rakhshan_Bani_Etemad_03.jpg" target="_blank">Tasnim News Agency, CC BY 4.0</a>, via Wikimedia Commons and Pedro J Pacheco, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons. Courtsey A&S News.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>“Iranian cinema has distinguished itself from the cinema of the rest of the world, because it is informed by poetry,” says Tavakoli-Targhi. “And some of my colleagues have argued that in the past several decades, cinema has replaced poetry as a form of Iranian self-expression. What is also interesting is that in Iranian cinema, women directors, producers, actors and so on are gaining more public attention. They’re following what one of my colleagues has called the ‘cinema of empathy’ — a kind of cinema where women are emerging as the universal subject, as someone the audience would want to be like. Because they are caring figures: attending to family, and also to their community and nation.”</p><p>In recent years, filmmakers such as Rakhshan Banietemad and Abbas Kiorastami have become known to western audiences. But as Tavakoli-Targhi notes, the field has a long history. “In the early decades of the 20th century, Iran became a site for creative artists from Russia and Eastern Europe to come and do really good work. You saw them coming and creating, in the same way that European immigrants to the United States created Hollywood,” he says.</p><p>Tavakoli-Targhi is excited that the new resource projects will be truly international, with contributions not only from the many linguistic and cultural groups found within Iran, but also through the variety of researchers studying these topics abroad.</p><p>He is currently convening a Canadian Society for Iranian Studies, and has organized a regular Friday seminar series that has attracted close to 4000 attendees. An event planned for Nowruz (Iranian New Year) in late March will also highlight women poets.</p><p>Tavakoli-Targhi celebrates the recent surge in cultural knowledge exchange that is fueling these new initiatives and is poised to give rise to others.</p><p>Says he: “I often think of the COVID age as the simultaneity of spring and fall, because you have the withering away of all these community networks that we used to have — but also the blooming of a new kind of connection.”</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://www.artsci.utoronto.ca/about" target="_blank">A&S News</a></p><div><br /><a href="https://www.utm.utoronto.ca/historical-studies/people/mohamad-tavakoli-targhi" target="_blank">Historical Studies</a></div>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-46632582362228030432021-10-28T15:32:00.000+01:002021-10-28T15:32:59.865+01:00Burning Wings <h3 style="text-align: center;">Odile Burluraux on Iranian Women Artists</h3><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTftEa5aOXhheCj9Q6TMOkHzyHQo5eALoQYamaebDW1_-9PPkE3JjHk_hnV_eRFGLhyphenhyphenBqEjVnmJcNGg4zPkLDIEyQkTKn362sD5mrb0H2R70VQakEa1C78J4TgIv9mI8-dNm9LXKN3cdA/s956/Screen%252BShot%252B2021-09-22%252Bat%252B9.43.12%252BAM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="956" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTftEa5aOXhheCj9Q6TMOkHzyHQo5eALoQYamaebDW1_-9PPkE3JjHk_hnV_eRFGLhyphenhyphenBqEjVnmJcNGg4zPkLDIEyQkTKn362sD5mrb0H2R70VQakEa1C78J4TgIv9mI8-dNm9LXKN3cdA/w640-h295/Screen%252BShot%252B2021-09-22%252Bat%252B9.43.12%252BAM.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samira Eskandarfar, <i>I am here </i>(2012). 5 min 47 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>In Conversation with <a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/contributors/sherry-paik/" target="_blank">Sherry Paik</a>, <a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/" target="_blank">Ocula Magazine</a></p><p>As curator at the Musée d'Art moderne de <a href="https://ocula.com/cities/france/paris-art-galleries/" target="_blank">Paris</a> (MAM) since 1990, Odile Burluraux has organised solo and group exhibitions at the museum and beyond to bring compelling and rarely seen examples of contemporary art to France.</p><p><i>The Power of My Hands</i> (19 May–22 August 2021), among Burluraux's latest exhibitions at the MAM, was organised in collaboration with Angola-based independent curator and writer Suzana Sousa to show works by 16 women artists living on the African continent or in the diaspora. Including Stacey Gillian Abe, <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/gabrielle-goliath/" target="_blank">Gabrielle Goliath</a>, <a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/conversations/senzeni-marasela-my-work-is-rooted-in-johannesburg/" target="_blank">Senzeni Marasela</a>, and <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/portia-zvavahera/" target="_blank">Portia Zvavahera</a>, it considered the various explorations of concerns that have long followed women's lives, such as the female body, self-representation, sexuality, motherhood, beliefs, and empowerment.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQEG5-PByqiUCKsvDhTwGdRGTR27iqq6Y5MiKnpkFi_Gkmq4EA1WD2G0AwexqXOw1_Auvqnzc_z_0oxQLshwgEVlFnBE03HfyU-U8-b56BUAWozjuzT8wH76R-b0Cu9spOIAtK8oFj3g/s720/Untitled+1.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQEG5-PByqiUCKsvDhTwGdRGTR27iqq6Y5MiKnpkFi_Gkmq4EA1WD2G0AwexqXOw1_Auvqnzc_z_0oxQLshwgEVlFnBE03HfyU-U8-b56BUAWozjuzT8wH76R-b0Cu9spOIAtK8oFj3g/w400-h267/Untitled+1.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibition view: <i>The Power of My Hands</i>, Musée d'Art moderne de Paris (19 May–22 August 2021). Courtesy Musée d'Art moderne de Paris. Photo: Pierre Antoine. Courtesy Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Burluraux was also behind <a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/insights/hans-hartung-and-art-informel/" target="_blank">Hans Hartung</a>'s major retrospective exhibition <i>La Fabrique du Geste</i> in 2019, a project with assistant Julie Sissia, that brought together 300 works by the artist for the first time in Paris since 1969.<span><a name='more'></a></span><p></p><p>In 2009, Burluraux organised a major exhibition that showcased MAM's video collection overseas. Produced in partnership with the French Institute of China in<i> Chengdu, Entre Temps, L'artiste narrateur – Une décennie d'art français vidéo dans les collections du Musée d'Art moderne de la Ville de Paris</i> focused on the art of the past two decades with works by <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/adel-abdessemed/" target="_blank">Adel Abdessemed</a>, <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/kader-attia/" target="_blank">Kader Attia</a>, <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/christian-boltanski/" target="_blank">Christian Boltanski</a>, Julien Discrit, Dominique Gonzalez-Foerster, Douglas Gordon, <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/camille-henrot/" target="_blank">Camille Henrot</a>, and <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/philippe-parreno/" target="_blank">Philippe Parreno</a>, among others. The exhibition travelled to São Paulo, Rio de Janeiro, St Petersburg, and Shanghai, before completing its journey in Chengdu in 2014.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhez-0KnRvHUb9Havx2EZah-vWa8usYR-FG46V5rzxK5-WL5Gnr26ukRocDuxlfTq03Yy4WBWaVIyeM4-VDup27IorvVKEL9snqXRKtAu0MUwp2P0_wNIQXNxcALj2UpYoYmzrPqFZ6TyY/s720/Untitled+2.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhez-0KnRvHUb9Havx2EZah-vWa8usYR-FG46V5rzxK5-WL5Gnr26ukRocDuxlfTq03Yy4WBWaVIyeM4-VDup27IorvVKEL9snqXRKtAu0MUwp2P0_wNIQXNxcALj2UpYoYmzrPqFZ6TyY/w400-h267/Untitled+2.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibition view: <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i> – Iran 1960–2014, Musée d'Art moderne de Paris (16 May–24 August 2014). Courtesy Musée d'Art moderne de Paris. Photo: Benoit Fougeirol. Courtesy Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The year 2014 also saw Burluraux co-curate <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i> <i>– Iran 1960–2014 </i>alongside Catherine David, Morad Montazami, Narmine Sadeg, and Vali Mahlouji, first shown at the MAM and later at Rome's MAXXI – National Museum of 21st Century Art, that surveyed paintings, films, and photographic works from artists who were active in mid-century Iran and younger generations of Iranian artists. <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i>, which included Morteza Avini, Mazdak Ayari, Bahman Kiarostami, and Tahmineh Monzavi, followed another exhibition of modern and contemporary Iranian art—titled <i>Iran Modern</i>—that took place at New York's <a href="https://ocula.com/institutions/asia-society-museum/" target="_blank">Asia Society</a> the previous year.<p></p><p>Since then, Burluraux has engaged with contemporary Iranian galleries and artists. In 2020, she was on the selection committee for the third edition of the Teer Art Fair, a recent arrival in Tehran dedicated to the promotion of modern and contemporary Iranian art. This was followed by <i>Video at Large</i>, a presentation of 12 video installations and projections from the collection of the Musée d'Art moderne, Paris, shown at Argo Factory, <a href="https://ocula.com/institutions/pejman-foundation/" target="_blank">Pejman Foundation</a>, Tehran (2 July–16 September 2021).</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggaZZTQ1orwcOwwCk3_Xmuxchtp4c23rnEnNfPV67K-V9_PCmz0hiaYYnxuLEGYmOVO4D_ScfskdnEpe4FAqCoSP7fZC_ySxJGSS9Eo0g6EpRV0rMauVt9F3TvU70119IokTSpYq9LceU/s720/Unedited-History-3_720_0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggaZZTQ1orwcOwwCk3_Xmuxchtp4c23rnEnNfPV67K-V9_PCmz0hiaYYnxuLEGYmOVO4D_ScfskdnEpe4FAqCoSP7fZC_ySxJGSS9Eo0g6EpRV0rMauVt9F3TvU70119IokTSpYq9LceU/w400-h266/Unedited-History-3_720_0.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibition view: <i>UNEDITED HISTORY – Iran 1960–2014</i>, Musée d'Art moderne de Paris (16 May–24 August 2014). Courtesy Musée d'Art moderne de Paris. Photo: Benoit Fougeirol. Courtesy Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />This year, with <a href="https://ocula.com/art-fairs/asia-now-2021/pre-reg/" target="_blank">ASIA NOW</a> (21–24 October 2021) featuring galleries from Iran for the first time, Burluraux has curated a special programme of video works by ten women artists from Iran (Atousa Bandeh Ghiasabad, Samira Eskandarfar, Parisa Ghaderi, Elika Hedayat, Anahita Hekmat, Shiva Khosravi, Tahmineh Monzavi, Melika Shafahi, Rojin Shafiei, and Sanaz Sohrabi). Entitled <i>Burning Wings</i>, it examines the artists' approaches to subjects of identity, migration, and female subjectivities, as well as history and power structures through the medium of film.<p></p><p>Among the works on view are Tahmineh Monavi's documentary films centred on the young generation of women in Iran and Anahita Hekmat, whose works explore the relationship between the site and memory. In this conversation, Burluraux discusses <i>Burning Wings</i>, her engagement with Iranian art, and her past projects and collaborations.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOUHwjPsA2QoTg8bIY_tqGro3qGYaKL43snAssrAloPsflmnREBG8DdDBpcoHlt70nxNVBt73-4WQAMjsUTCbmhC9w6xzS7JuNw-qIBVcxz2IuDIWtFPsd-eQTjrEJibwmISR-6SWcec/s720/Burning-Wings-1_720_0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOUHwjPsA2QoTg8bIY_tqGro3qGYaKL43snAssrAloPsflmnREBG8DdDBpcoHlt70nxNVBt73-4WQAMjsUTCbmhC9w6xzS7JuNw-qIBVcxz2IuDIWtFPsd-eQTjrEJibwmISR-6SWcec/w400-h266/Burning-Wings-1_720_0.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Atousa Bandeh Ghiasabadi, <i>My own 1000 square meters</i> (2006). 13 min 37 sec. Courtesy the artist. Courtesy Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>SP</b> How did you come to be curator? What was the first exhibition that you curated?</p><p><b>OB</b> I grew up in a family that loves art and I always wanted to work in a museum. I started as an intern at the Musée d'Art moderne de Paris and became involved in exhibitions right away. The first exhibition I curated by myself was in 1995 with the musician Arnold Schoenberg's paintings.</p><p><b>SP</b> What would you say have been the defining differences between curating for MAM and art fairs such as ASIA NOW?</p><p><b>OB</b> Curating wherever you are invited to do it means conceptualising a way of bringing together works of art and contributing to the public's reception of them. It needs to be made with respect for the artists and with concern for viewers' access to them.</p><p><b>SP</b> How did <i>Burning Wings </i>come to be? You had previously curated Around <i>Chinese Animated Films</i>, a special programme of animated films by Chinese artists for ASIA NOW 2018; organised <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i> at MAM, and worked with the Teer Art Fair. How did your experiences working with Iranian artists and galleries feed into <i>Burning Wings</i>?</p><p><b>OB</b> I was invited by the director of ASIA NOW to do a programme with video artists from Iran, as I had done for Chinese animation artists and also for Korean video artists. The main difference is that the programme is running in a specific space on loop, which is a great opportunity to watch ten videos in a row.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EY40lhq0w4yO7P9C0XFrXFENN7_08zEo3Wulsy5Ch3QVv7YTrw5FTNo57O0T2m5PI9CPKlVd0Cf_unmSIeEmRw7e44IKTUTv3WJW2SaCOC2xudYTuSt1l4bVrSWBjPvjIQKuIV-BJWI/s400/Untitled+4.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="190" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EY40lhq0w4yO7P9C0XFrXFENN7_08zEo3Wulsy5Ch3QVv7YTrw5FTNo57O0T2m5PI9CPKlVd0Cf_unmSIeEmRw7e44IKTUTv3WJW2SaCOC2xudYTuSt1l4bVrSWBjPvjIQKuIV-BJWI/s16000/Untitled+4.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parisa Ghaderi, <i>Still</i> (2015). 5 min 27 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b>SP</b> <i>Burning Wings</i> is dedicated to Forough Farrokhzad, who was an Iranian poet as well as a film director. What is her significance to the programme?</p><p><b>OB</b> I thought I would dedicate this programme to her memory, as I learned about her in 2013 when I was travelling to Tehran in order to prepare the exhibition <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i> at the Musée d'Art moderne.</p><p>I found out about her incredible life—her rebellion, writings, and profound poems that echo with today's situations. Her strong and powerful film <i>The Dark House</i> (1962), which is about a house for lepers and their conditions of life, is striking.</p><p>While she is a feminist hero in Iran, she is not so well known in France. Recently, I also discovered her position on women's emancipation and empowerment, and I would like more people to know about her short but inspiring career.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp9gvjhC9iKj16K6NRK-oB9fbKWhNliU9P9AWfz58zwlV24anPZ29wWHB8BdY6Vs5H-SnZAei1YE-Y5oLIc5jqbEcL_O1YpIw4b5aFJry8oarue2yT_n2f6Wg4Ebcb8VBYMNuzJgqH8E/s400/Untitled+5.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp9gvjhC9iKj16K6NRK-oB9fbKWhNliU9P9AWfz58zwlV24anPZ29wWHB8BdY6Vs5H-SnZAei1YE-Y5oLIc5jqbEcL_O1YpIw4b5aFJry8oarue2yT_n2f6Wg4Ebcb8VBYMNuzJgqH8E/s16000/Untitled+5.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elika Hedayat, <i>Sans avoir vu</i> (2010). 16 min 44 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><b><br /></b><p></p><p><b>SP</b> Could you please discuss some of the artworks in the programme and why they were selected? What were the considerations for selecting an artwork?</p><p><b>OB</b> After having watched videos by a great number of artists, I only selected a few of them, as the programme couldn't be too long unfortunately. The women artists living in Iran or in the diaspora address in their video works a trend of personal and intimate narratives that takes on a more militant tone over time.</p><p>They seek to record fragments of their thoughts, memories, feelings, and contradictions. They confront history, the evocation of exile, transgression, and the question of relationships to power or to social and religious norms.</p><p>Some artists are living in the diaspora and the exile can sometimes be heavy to bear. Others live in Tehran and adapt their production to their context, others travel a lot and live between places and also need to make sure they remain free in their displacement.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUAPUrKUfBAm2JCiq9XdCW2SzhxZi3rUJn9uST3BQpffrXkrSZZBO6yBLH7GKFu6HwubJ0aVhcbCNe1thwMTxuSZhwsIEgCsSIRrgiA2x4DB2g9IjPPgLj16c1uqTLaq26C1zTMwaiSuo/s400/Green-Home_400_0.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUAPUrKUfBAm2JCiq9XdCW2SzhxZi3rUJn9uST3BQpffrXkrSZZBO6yBLH7GKFu6HwubJ0aVhcbCNe1thwMTxuSZhwsIEgCsSIRrgiA2x4DB2g9IjPPgLj16c1uqTLaq26C1zTMwaiSuo/s16000/Green-Home_400_0.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Anahita Hekmat, <i>Green Home</i> (2019). 8 min. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>SP</b> <i><a href="https://www.asianowparis.com/en/burning-wings-2021-en-homepage" target="_blank">Burning Wings</a></i> is, as it says on ASIA NOW's website, in part an effort to address the comparative lack of in-depth studies on video in Iran. What would be some of the historical and contemporary examples that the audience might benefit from prior to or after viewing the works?</p><p><b>OB</b> I don't think it is meant to point to the fact there is no study on photography or cinema in Iran, because there are numerous incredible art historians or art critics who did study and publish on those subjects.</p><p>On the contrary, what is lacking is more research on video in Iran or by Iranian artists. Viewers will certainly understand the personal situation of the artists and the context in which they produce their works.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBks4ue24GeqHlaxRyX9Jj2IxuNfnmTl_OUor2eUZOfeztLCga3RZQoAGlXWlSCsSMKRAcg1YB9QCFg-tdb73msCiq8qnaUk0EWbAbdBJFYr2c8Y6-p_qxPODRSesCGq-gvmoDA4u2Bc8/s400/Untitled+6.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBks4ue24GeqHlaxRyX9Jj2IxuNfnmTl_OUor2eUZOfeztLCga3RZQoAGlXWlSCsSMKRAcg1YB9QCFg-tdb73msCiq8qnaUk0EWbAbdBJFYr2c8Y6-p_qxPODRSesCGq-gvmoDA4u2Bc8/s16000/Untitled+6.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shiva Khosravi, <i>Une histoire parmi tant d'autres</i> (2015). 5 min 52 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>SP</b> What do you feel is the significance of showing Iranian galleries and their presentations at ASIA NOW in 2021?</p><p><b>OB</b> It is a very important moment for ASIA NOW to not only look at East Asia, but to other parts that people don't necessarily consider as part of Asia.</p><p>Galleries are very active in Iran. They organise exhibitions, publish books, open windows for discussion and spaces for reflections and dreams, and so on.</p><p><b>SP</b> How does the curation of Burning Wings compare to that of <i>UNEDITED HISTORY</i>, which was back in 2014? What expectations do you have in terms of audience reception?</p><p><b>OB</b> The exhibition was a huge enterprise gathering several curators, all with links to Iran: Catherine David, Morad Montazami, Narmine Sadeg, and Vali Mahlouji.</p><p>The curation was complicated because of lack of time and information. We tried to access some archives and it was fascinating. The consequences of the show were impressive for the artists and their visibility. It changed some artists' lives, as it created opportunities for them.</p><p>For this programme, the main hope is to give visibility to the artists and to open a discussion on their works.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqooE_hkp1plgKMTO6BpdPYS6R-JCg4o3V9j7umhNFftxVqJdGyxR0ZB75Y9yp2saq9IH-6tO7XraCseBcpZKMKc7jS-aMK-nmrIqEp7qfmG5zrx4FcH1s2xIiFnY2PO1PH3fHY68v_E/s400/Tahm_400_0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="400" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqooE_hkp1plgKMTO6BpdPYS6R-JCg4o3V9j7umhNFftxVqJdGyxR0ZB75Y9yp2saq9IH-6tO7XraCseBcpZKMKc7jS-aMK-nmrIqEp7qfmG5zrx4FcH1s2xIiFnY2PO1PH3fHY68v_E/s320/Tahm_400_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tahmineh Monzavi, <i>Lullabies</i> (2016). 2 min 56 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><b>SP</b> You have previously collaborated with other curators on exhibitions, including Suzana Sousa for <i>The Power of My Hands</i>. How did it come about and how did you and Sousa approach the project in the midst of an ongoing pandemic?</p><p><b>OB</b> Working as a duo was a great experience. We did not know each other at all before I invited her to co-curate the exhibition in the frame of the Africa 2020 season. We spent a lot of time talking on Zoom and WhatsApp.</p><p>We did the installation without her in January 2021, and she followed the most important moments of the hanging of the works online. It was a very productive and fruitful collaboration. There is a lot of mutual respect as well as a desire to enrich one another.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ru9lNCYSHSji8pGSGGb1Ql5Q9p_NW6Uk3mlor-BZXT4LFngvFeMuUKK4M102MSUvx2JREkj_f6-c1pvfhcvhkvDxIetipdGY0iQTb-8WKSmLq6LD0p0aFuiyEsFS7FR1g1jEloJS_T8/s400/Untitled+7.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ru9lNCYSHSji8pGSGGb1Ql5Q9p_NW6Uk3mlor-BZXT4LFngvFeMuUKK4M102MSUvx2JREkj_f6-c1pvfhcvhkvDxIetipdGY0iQTb-8WKSmLq6LD0p0aFuiyEsFS7FR1g1jEloJS_T8/s320/Untitled+7.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Melika Shafahi, <i>Lapin – Tavsan – Rabbit – Khargoush</i> (2012). 3 min 2 sec. Courtesy the artist.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>SP</b> How do you feel about the advent of video-based social media, such as TikTok and Snapchat, and their relationship with more recent video art?</p><p><b>OB</b> Artists are always showing new ways of making art. In the new technological developments, they are able to see what can be done and developed. I am always admiring how they can leave a comfort zone to explore new territories.</p><p>Concerning TikTok or Snapchat, I have not followed their developments very precisely, but I do not feel it will be so relevant for artworks as it has been for general attitudes. Making art is also about giving space to time.</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZChpSb2pI1TyKKaRx5d9OfC-BTLtBBZ_yAV4kF0AnHo9OgHuge4aPUtHmlTdYbnDMZftgPzGR_UdiUsXVsb9DZAl1hAn9j-4l2acKufSrPAaALleJrQP1D83LxtYAAaYxIYbPfp-_g2o/s400/Screenshot-2021-10-14-at-141544_400_0.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="224" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZChpSb2pI1TyKKaRx5d9OfC-BTLtBBZ_yAV4kF0AnHo9OgHuge4aPUtHmlTdYbnDMZftgPzGR_UdiUsXVsb9DZAl1hAn9j-4l2acKufSrPAaALleJrQP1D83LxtYAAaYxIYbPfp-_g2o/s16000/Screenshot-2021-10-14-at-141544_400_0.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rojin Shafiei, There (2021). 7 min. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><b>SP</b> Reflecting on your years at MAM, what are some of the milestones for you and the institution? What initiatives and changes might we expect to see in the near future?</p><p><b>OB</b> I think major video exhibitions like <a href="https://ocula.com/artists/matthew-barney/" target="_blank">Matthew Barney</a>'s in 2002 or Ryan Trecartin's in 2011 were big steps for the museum, in terms of showing video art in overall environments. Steve McQueen's solo show in 2003 was also clearly an important moment.</p><p>Concerning the history of exhibitions at MAM, I would mention <i>L'hiver de l'amour</i> in 1993, which brought new ways of showing art and living an exhibition, <i>Passions privées</i> in 1995 which was dedicated to private collectors, or <i>Histoires de Musées</i> in 1989, where artists were invited to invade any space of the museum and relate to the collections. There are so many...</p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwN9nqh2JxNpMM6zGTeFNPtkn20Z3etUkJZL-copY7tTqCzmJ4EhkHKgeoR_0RmBv6Uik2ZHi0YVKgU8jUmxswuQIEQtjPpaLwiI2R3NOgAnzoZAcwOYnhsqrl3uLcf8KcrLIGFW0pYo/s400/Untitled+8.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiwN9nqh2JxNpMM6zGTeFNPtkn20Z3etUkJZL-copY7tTqCzmJ4EhkHKgeoR_0RmBv6Uik2ZHi0YVKgU8jUmxswuQIEQtjPpaLwiI2R3NOgAnzoZAcwOYnhsqrl3uLcf8KcrLIGFW0pYo/s16000/Untitled+8.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sanaz Sohrabi, <i>Imagined spaces</i> (2014). 8 min 23 sec. Courtesy the artist and Ocula Magazine.</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><b>SP</b> What's in the future for you? What is an area or period that you have not worked with extensively, but interests you?</p><p><b>OB</b> The next project is the new hanging of contemporary collections in spring 2022. I am also working on a digitalisation of the video collection while preparing a catalogue of the works.</p><p>The next big project is a co-curated exhibition on Arab modernity that will take place in 2024. I am motivated by new geographical or historical explorations and look forward to being able to travel to study archives and meet artists. —[O]</p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/" target="_blank">Ocula Magazine</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/" target="_blank"><br /></a></div><a href="https://ocula.com/magazine/" target="_blank"><br /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><br />Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-55366781006745744122021-10-10T12:13:00.000+01:002021-10-10T12:13:03.934+01:00Manhattan exhibition combats view of Iran as 'hostile anti-American state'<h3 style="text-align: center;">Asia Society group show from Mohammed Akfami collection shows 'great diversity' of Iran’s often unseen arts scene</h3><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gMVcl-iVb0GAaHuWLbRRNk_sc9pkbFXOTE3xwkd3eGH9xXf-Dze_lrOP7idmNm7jBHz3ZJw_RLnXY_6uZJbh0Tzt44jchZUWrH7XnPCXA_pAEUXNNTpbab8b_oh0kZJlMIyL_xR3wKs/s1920/4eeaee475c353ee64c6ad2bea2818d27895e8495-915x600.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1259" data-original-width="1920" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6gMVcl-iVb0GAaHuWLbRRNk_sc9pkbFXOTE3xwkd3eGH9xXf-Dze_lrOP7idmNm7jBHz3ZJw_RLnXY_6uZJbh0Tzt44jchZUWrH7XnPCXA_pAEUXNNTpbab8b_oh0kZJlMIyL_xR3wKs/w640-h420/4eeaee475c353ee64c6ad2bea2818d27895e8495-915x600.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Untitled</i> from the <i>Rapture</i> series, 1999. © Shirin Neshat. Courtesy of the artist, Noirmontartproduction, Paris, the Mohammed Afkhami Foundation and The Art Newspaper.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>by <a href="https://www.theartnewspaper.com/authors/daniel-cassady" target="_blank">Daniel Cassady</a>, <a href="https://www.theartnewspaper.com/" target="_blank">The Art Newspaper</a></p><p>Few other countries are as misunderstood as Iran. But an Iran exists beyond the headlines of authoritarian rule and theocratic Islam. It’s a country full of thriving artists — and they’re now on show in the US. </p><p><i>Rebel, Jester, Mystic, Poet: Contemporary Persians — The Mohammed Akfami Collection</i>, on view at the Asia Society in Manhattan until 8 May 2022, aims to broadening one’s idea of what Iran is, or can be, by giving a profound look at the country’s dynamic contemporary arts scene.</p><p>Of the 23 mid-career and emerging artists included in the show, all but one was born in Iran and over a third still live and work in the country. Three generations are represented, with the work touching on subjects as diverse as gender identity, politics and spirituality. The work takes multiple forms, from traditional Persian figurative painting to photography and abstract sculpture.</p><p><br /><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9Pjy9I6yTdn_Gc3d9LiWRMY3XGPOdf4Qbax5KJug-pD3zq7oOaU9t9koSI8seBDOqDdWdXqVlbtrhh0_2IQN8MsXe1KtiTBi9tyuCg7BwVpWDHv0G9GuBW9k6RqP_VNaOaUgjPxSuUs/s1920/36ad1dc5e1960fa50c3be204595759130e588463-1200x812.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1299" data-original-width="1920" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ9Pjy9I6yTdn_Gc3d9LiWRMY3XGPOdf4Qbax5KJug-pD3zq7oOaU9t9koSI8seBDOqDdWdXqVlbtrhh0_2IQN8MsXe1KtiTBi9tyuCg7BwVpWDHv0G9GuBW9k6RqP_VNaOaUgjPxSuUs/w640-h434/36ad1dc5e1960fa50c3be204595759130e588463-1200x812.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>We Haven't Landed on Earth Yet</i>, 2012. © Ali Banisadr, courtesy of Mohammed Afkhami Foundation and The Art Newspaper.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>"Iran today is perceived by ordinary Americans as a hostile, anti-American state,” says the collector Mohammed Akfami.</p><p>Each piece in the exhibition comes from Akfami's extensive collection, one built from extensive periods of time spent in Iran. “The reality is the people of Iran ultimately want nothing more than friendly relations with Americans and are by far the most pro-America populace in the Middle East," he says.</p><p>In addition to showing a side of Iran not often considered in the US, the show also dispels the myth that all women in Iran are living under despotic rule at home. "I would estimate that 40 per cent of artists working in Iran right now are female, higher than elsewhere," Akfami <a href="https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20210921-striking-photos-of-a-lesser-seen-iran" target="_blank">told the BBC</a>. "Nearly everyone I talk to in galleries is a woman. They're driving the scene in Tehran in particular. And the diversity of work is amazing."</p><p>In season four of CNN’s <i><a href="https://www.cnn.com/shows/anthony-bourdain-parts-unknown/" target="_blank">Parts Unknown</a></i>, the host Anthony Bourdain said he was shocked by the disconnect “between what one sees and feels from the people and what one sees and hears from the government.” Diversity is a key concept for the show. As Bourdain saw first-hand, Iran doesn’t exist in a vacuum. There is diversity of opinion, diversity of faith and, as viewers will see in the show, great diversity in how Iranians express themselves. Both the Asia Society and Mr. Akfami hope this show will help Americans see an Iran that exists beyond the lower third of the television screen during the evening news.</p><p><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5sm-oGGdBxIXTUXaO_RiNoAjm8qmfef72FDiJjW87pSP7orqWR5o4t0SK09EmyCcaPpDpY8y3-0KDqxtn7eKaV4SIt6yzpgNoqIKSDc2-TX1jhp-H8rgfxp_PcAW_waYpxfEY6uubM4/s1920/ac463f4599fd43c807ec658330035e1858fea756-1640x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="1920" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI5sm-oGGdBxIXTUXaO_RiNoAjm8qmfef72FDiJjW87pSP7orqWR5o4t0SK09EmyCcaPpDpY8y3-0KDqxtn7eKaV4SIt6yzpgNoqIKSDc2-TX1jhp-H8rgfxp_PcAW_waYpxfEY6uubM4/w640-h234/ac463f4599fd43c807ec658330035e1858fea756-1640x600.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Dark Sea from the Metamorphosis</i> series. © Alireza Dayani, Mohammed Afkhami Foundation. Photograph: Mah Art Gallery (Shahnaz Khonsari), courtesy of The Art Newspaper.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>“Our exhibition opens during a complex period when the relationship between Iran and the United States has become increasingly estranged,” says Michelle Yun Mapplethorpe, vice president for global artistic programs and director of Asia Society Museum in New York. “So it is now even more important to activate Asia Society’s interdisciplinary platform to celebrate Iranian culture and highlight the power of art to find common ground."</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Rebel, Jester, Mystic, Poet: Contemporary Persians—The Mohammed Akfami Collection is on show until 8 May at Asia Society Museum, 725 Park Avenue, New York City</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://www.theartnewspaper.com/" target="_blank">The Art Newspaper</a></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-63255106814376351062021-10-02T13:21:00.000+01:002021-10-02T13:21:09.315+01:00The Unseen Women of Afghanistan<p>Photographer Fatimah Hossaini spent three years trying to upend Western narratives about women in her country. She didn't get to finish her work.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_TfIvre_p2Aqs-3AQsfPEKeNPNGV1osYYqSngQljv953ugHrltZ1Uhedw9-qLjDOnWMYU0nDLHcqmD71mmtI1BuKDRkzBtfUh3JaZCIwtjSmoEAZHOEaNvdbu6d1sCxfYQ3geXE2Rq8/w640-h426/burqa-behind-the-steering-wheel-1-800x533.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Burqa behind the steering wheel," from work-in-progress by photographer Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif_TfIvre_p2Aqs-3AQsfPEKeNPNGV1osYYqSngQljv953ugHrltZ1Uhedw9-qLjDOnWMYU0nDLHcqmD71mmtI1BuKDRkzBtfUh3JaZCIwtjSmoEAZHOEaNvdbu6d1sCxfYQ3geXE2Rq8/s800/burqa-behind-the-steering-wheel-1-800x533.jpg" imageanchor="1"><span style="color: black;"></span></a></div><p>by <a href="https://www.guernicamag.com/author/fatimah-hossaini/" target="_blank">Fatimah Hossaini</a>, <a href="https://www.guernicamag.com/" target="_blank">Guernica</a></p><p>I was born in Tehran, to parents who fled Afghanistan when the Soviets invaded. For most of my life, I knew everything about Iranian culture and history: I knew its education system, its capital; my friends, my family, everything I knew was in Iran. And I knew very little about Afghanistan — just a few stories, from my parents and grandparents. And I wondered where I belonged. I always looked for a sign.</p><p>In 2013, I visited Afghanistan for the first time, to get paperwork I needed for university. I fell in love with it. In 2018, when I was 25, I moved back permanently. I was a professor of visual art at Kabul University, and I worked as an art and documentary photographer.</p><p>I poured my heart into my personal project, a book on the unseen women of Afghanistan. I was tired of always showing the war and the poverty, always talking about the murders, the explosions. When I traveled to other countries, capitals of art and culture abroad, people would ask me, “If you’re an Afghan artist, where is your burqa?” The only thing people knew about Afghanistan was terrorism and women’s oppression, the twin sins of the Taliban. Why doesn’t the world know anything about our culture and our beauty? About our carpets, our textiles, our diversity, all of our cultural heritage? Why is it never reflected in the world? This question preoccupied me, and I think it’s why I was so inspired to work on the beautiful side of Afghanistan.</p><p>I had only five more portraits to make to finish my book when the Taliban took Kabul and, with it, the country. I had to escape with only what I could carry in two small shoulder bags. Leaving my photo project behind was one of the hardest parts of fleeing. It was everything I worked on for over three years. And what will happen to those pictures? What will happen to the women in the pictures?</p><p>I’d worked hard to find special locations — interesting places, forgotten streets — and to show off our cultural heritage. I did everything I could in these photos to show some beauty in a corner of Afghanistan. I can’t imagine I can’t go back and finish this work.<span></span></p><a name='more'></a><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMG6kirkwlbrGhZ9GJ2IwPnFDOi4gIxUXZBoS4WqWJl_b2uQ8kXEk7dWcAGqZ8fqL7c3U8GRiTV0ER2QWeR8kmxo2EFgR7YxTJ-ukbds0aageycaDntfyk2qEHLNXqKIrtOoLgrfeAmOI/s2048/hossaini1-scaled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMG6kirkwlbrGhZ9GJ2IwPnFDOi4gIxUXZBoS4WqWJl_b2uQ8kXEk7dWcAGqZ8fqL7c3U8GRiTV0ER2QWeR8kmxo2EFgR7YxTJ-ukbds0aageycaDntfyk2qEHLNXqKIrtOoLgrfeAmOI/w640-h426/hossaini1-scaled.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the series "Pearl in the Oyster," which positions Afghan women in powerful confrontation with typical male spaces across Kabul. Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSRWwzvZX9f6TEyucuuFf40_s9Gw-nw2LIfrTwcSKFKPquL5Kmyf4yxZpqB3VVnoh3mBn13-q_-AguAXXfy3OfOEv9o42PU-KqTTnASuIThp7AAuaxgC9ZaTUhn7K-aPEu5O7-afSLV8/s2048/hossaini2-scaled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1430" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzSRWwzvZX9f6TEyucuuFf40_s9Gw-nw2LIfrTwcSKFKPquL5Kmyf4yxZpqB3VVnoh3mBn13-q_-AguAXXfy3OfOEv9o42PU-KqTTnASuIThp7AAuaxgC9ZaTUhn7K-aPEu5O7-afSLV8/w446-h640/hossaini2-scaled.jpg" width="446" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty on display. Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicL8NGp7qUSzyp4B1XrKT62jeq2IsjzuAvNy1Qi-dwwPkw7ROdyfTiovigXGN0ac1LsdgEFGy5fVeZktnK_t1JYM0uDcOvfOTY8V4gD0SNftDUVHOQMXkV_-nlRXDAMPAvclTbHNPvdak/s2048/hossaini3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1403" data-original-width="2048" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicL8NGp7qUSzyp4B1XrKT62jeq2IsjzuAvNy1Qi-dwwPkw7ROdyfTiovigXGN0ac1LsdgEFGy5fVeZktnK_t1JYM0uDcOvfOTY8V4gD0SNftDUVHOQMXkV_-nlRXDAMPAvclTbHNPvdak/w640-h438/hossaini3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the series "Pearl in the Oyster." Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8yXM4cZOULTapQaZWZUvQ8Vt5mSfhfwS9-1P7oXsF0l95pzJqAfph_3mpnwhzwD5hQAFQR8DQi60OiuQZld9kvulxCZKOnOhgnT2zvXehPklYViEmu8p00fqy-AnFBeBXBBxn-INJMM/s2014/hossaini4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2014" data-original-width="1500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8yXM4cZOULTapQaZWZUvQ8Vt5mSfhfwS9-1P7oXsF0l95pzJqAfph_3mpnwhzwD5hQAFQR8DQi60OiuQZld9kvulxCZKOnOhgnT2zvXehPklYViEmu8p00fqy-AnFBeBXBBxn-INJMM/w476-h640/hossaini4.jpg" width="476" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty in every thread. Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jzwpGlqCj8OYwYA1sfVnKeVFMx7al1mJuDpUHZuCg3de4PJhYBqpPOEURZ2IYT_K7hkoDHW27gjrDF2m6Bqp70mUsjikRcS0D_cTz-4OO93H4K_cALCP5q0NklWrMXBSZH6jD_hNjZk/s2048/hossaini5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5jzwpGlqCj8OYwYA1sfVnKeVFMx7al1mJuDpUHZuCg3de4PJhYBqpPOEURZ2IYT_K7hkoDHW27gjrDF2m6Bqp70mUsjikRcS0D_cTz-4OO93H4K_cALCP5q0NklWrMXBSZH6jD_hNjZk/w640-h426/hossaini5.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the series "Pearl in the Oyster." Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICQUNYbn3vWi-yiLXdvQMbGaFTqmBypzn0zjBcrBAXR-rsaBvy0_mS_HqFFd399iWaOFK1Z6_zKR-ER6MuUxvEDqzhew9sUflDF8_lsKLehymn_wvIf7efuJOk8iZs7k-ZJ6Uk8BbvPU/s2048/hossaini6-scaled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1366" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhICQUNYbn3vWi-yiLXdvQMbGaFTqmBypzn0zjBcrBAXR-rsaBvy0_mS_HqFFd399iWaOFK1Z6_zKR-ER6MuUxvEDqzhew9sUflDF8_lsKLehymn_wvIf7efuJOk8iZs7k-ZJ6Uk8BbvPU/w640-h426/hossaini6-scaled.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From the series "Pearl in the Oyster." Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyaBBhL_9Ddpgv5a2ANxbzGUr96nKtsE5EGCCMJDvHR8wrwaL0Rbw-ewhyHf9mm6c23xE9KEcqw2ItVPx1k_TOsF9Zkt7O4VXptDv_BgeFjzevGJP4pJxVED8v4h3tFLMS5Qrbuh4DJ8/s2048/hossaini7-scaled.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1446" data-original-width="2048" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyaBBhL_9Ddpgv5a2ANxbzGUr96nKtsE5EGCCMJDvHR8wrwaL0Rbw-ewhyHf9mm6c23xE9KEcqw2ItVPx1k_TOsF9Zkt7O4VXptDv_BgeFjzevGJP4pJxVED8v4h3tFLMS5Qrbuh4DJ8/w640-h452/hossaini7-scaled.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awash in beauty. Photograph by Fatima Hossaini. Courtesy Guernica.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><i>Fatimah Hossaini, an Afghan artist born in Tehran, is a photographer and curator and the founder of Mastooraat, an organization that supports artists and performers in Kabul. She received a bachelor's of science degree in industrial engineering, and a bachelor of arts degree in photography, both from the University of Tehran, and she taught on the visual arts faculty at the University of Kabul. Fatimah has advocated for women's and refugee rights on national and international platforms. Her work tells powerful stories of identity and femininity in Afghanistan and has been featured widely in the media and exhibited at prominent festivals and galleries in Iran, Afghanistan, India, Turkey, China, Japan, South Korea, Austria, Denmark, Italy, Albania, France, and the United States.</i></div><div><a href="https://fatimahosaini.com/"><i>https://fatimahosaini.com/</i></a></div></div><br /><div>Via <a href="https://www.guernicamag.com/" target="_blank">Guernica</a></div><br />Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8482469477203840395.post-32957749452464924102021-10-02T12:48:00.000+01:002021-10-02T12:48:05.609+01:00Words like fire<h3 style="text-align: center;"> Book review: Shida Bazyar's novel "Drei Kameradinnen"</h3><p>Shida Bazyar's new novel is the literary surprise of the year. It tackles the pressing issues of our time, and yet it is timeless. This is a story of friendship, marginalisation and society's blindness to its own deep-seated problems. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR-lyVwb4lr5vJ-GPlKehNk7C_tc6JXYWqPU8AAvpFB5-VauZZIijOxywFzW-yaVSMKDmNk57WAZCp4qCZzJHvd7vW3XTi1EP3AWhFM63oI_pvppa8SBuGkPbbXwWJ_qTrsfogrwgEJg/s730/cover_of_shida_bazyars_drei_kameradinnen_verlag_kiepenheuer_und_witsch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="730" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR-lyVwb4lr5vJ-GPlKehNk7C_tc6JXYWqPU8AAvpFB5-VauZZIijOxywFzW-yaVSMKDmNk57WAZCp4qCZzJHvd7vW3XTi1EP3AWhFM63oI_pvppa8SBuGkPbbXwWJ_qTrsfogrwgEJg/w640-h360/cover_of_shida_bazyars_drei_kameradinnen_verlag_kiepenheuer_und_witsch.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"'Drei Kameradinnen' demonstrates that all the talk about the lack of social relevance of art and literature is a fatal mistake. The great literary prizes, above all the German Book Prize, are meant for books like this," writes Gerrit Wustmann. Courtesy Qantara.de.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>by <a href="https://en.qantara.de/authors/gerrit-wustmann" target="_blank">Gerrit Wustmann</a>, <a href="https://en.qantara.de/">Qantara.de</a></p><p>Let's get straight down to brass tacks: <a href="https://www.new-books-in-german.com/recommendations/sisters-in-arms/" target="_blank">Shida Bazyar's second novel, "Drei Kameradinnen" (Sisters in Arms), published by Kiepenheuer & Witsch in April</a>, is the best and also the most important German-language book of 2021 – no matter what else comes out between now and December.</p><p>Bazyar has already proven that she is a brilliant narrator and an outstanding figure in contemporary German literature with her impressive debut novel "Nachts ist es leise in Teheran" (Tehran Is Peaceful at Night, 2016). Her new book is a triumph. It has all the makings of great literature, literature that will endure, that will become part of the canon.</p><p>But first things first ... The title raises a question that needs to be answered directly: Yes, the book's German title pays homage to Erich Maria Remarque's novel "Drei Kamaraden". Not only the title but also the story. This is a book about friendship, a novel about trauma. While Remarque wrote of the trauma of the First World War, Bazyar reflects on the <a href="https://en.qantara.de/taxonomy/term/873" target="_blank">trauma of the NSU and the series of murders it committed</a>. But in addition to the core themes, the two novels also display further parallels: the setting for both is Berlin and, like Remarque, Bazyar never explicitly mentions the city's name. The characters in both books drink and smoke a lot, and both stories are about friends standing together firmly against the evils of the world.</p><p><span></span></p><a name='more'></a><b>Always the same issue of the majority society</b><p></p><p>The sisters in arms are the narrator, Kasih, and her two friends Saya and Hani. They grew up together in "the housing estate", the sort of place commonly known in Germany as a social flashpoint. Incomes are low, the proportion of migrants high – exactly the kind of neighbourhood that the white majority usually only knows from hearsay and therefore invests with all the prejudices society has to offer. The three women meet again in their twenties on the occasion of the wedding of another childhood friend, Shaghayegh.</p><p>However, a tabloid article prefacing the book makes it clear that their reunion is overshadowed by a horrific incident: a house fire that claims the lives of numerous people. The perpetrator is said to be Saya, and the newspaper fabricates an Islamist motive and quotes alleged witnesses – people who enter their votes so far to the right on the ballot that they threaten to slip right over the edge.</p><p>Kasih writes about all this, spending one long night putting down on paper what has happened – or what supposedly happened. She always addresses her readers directly. This is more than a stylistic device, more than a literary gimmick, as is evident after just a few pages. Because, of course, Kasih knows just what questions average white German readers will be asking themselves first – and will want to ask her. And so she pre-empts any such questions: "You're waiting for the moment when I explain which countries we all come from. Because that's something you need to know before you can put yourself in our shoes. That information is about as vital for you as knowing on the outskirts of which small German town we grew up, and how old we are, and which of us is hottest. But I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to deal with that."</p><p>In this way, the question "Where do you really come from?" is dealt with as it should be. And then Kasih goes on to tell of her childhood in the estate; of her school days and time at university, of family homes, of her first love and of the one great constant in her life – Saya and Hani. And she talks about what the three of them have in common besides their friendship: the constant everyday racism they have to endure, in the face of which they sometimes remain silent and at other times lash out, and in the face of which they offer each other mutual support. About Hani, who prefers to avoid the issue, to make excuses, and who also finds it all a little easier because she is white.</p><p>Saya finds herself becoming less and less willing to accept things and her reaction sometimes overshoots the mark. For example when she and Kasih are loudly partying in the middle of the night and Kasih's flatmate Robin sleepily asks for some peace and quiet because he has an exam in the morning. For Saya, he is at that moment merely the white man that everyone has to submit to, but Kasih takes the wind out of her sails a bit, saying: Robin lives here, he can do what he wants, and besides, he's right, we really should be considerate.</p><p><b>Small everyday scenes and complex perspectives</b></p><p>Using everyday moments like this one, Shida Bazyar explores all the great debates of our present day. The strength of the novel lies in the fact that she refuses to settle for any facile truths or to set exclamation points. She is concerned instead with presenting complex perspectives, making them more readily comprehensible and then leaving it at that. It's all about living with insoluble contradictions. Anyone who expects a book to provide easy answers will be disappointed. And that's a good thing!</p><p>Only one thing is certain here, namely the abject horror felt at the Nazi murderers who are still roaming the country and the way mainstream society deals with them, this fatal urge to still somehow apologetically accommodate even those with a swastika for a brain, simply permitting these extremists to take over the internet largely unhindered and use it as a bucket for all their hate, insulting and threatening others at will – until words turn into deeds. Kasih, Saya and Hani know they are the targets. The internet is "a digital court of law where every loser, no matter how despicable, is allowed to sit in judgement".</p><p>This is a book that should be read not only by those who have an open mind for what it has to say but especially by the white majority that, despite everything, still does not realise that casual racism is alive and well in the midst of our society; those who think their stupid quips and the occasional use of the N-word are not so bad or even okay, or who don't believe that racism exists just because they haven't experienced it themselves.</p><p>Shida Bazyar wrests all these themes, along with a host of others, out of the oversimplified platitudes of media debates and puts them up for inspection. And yet the novel is more, much more than just a commentary on current events spun into a fictional plot. It is a clever and adept game played by an unreliable narrator who always points out in the right places what is real and what is made up (Did this childhood memory really happen? And if not – what does that mean for the here and now?) in order to provoke a feeling of uncertainty in the reader. Because of course the basic assumption of the plot (How did Saya become radicalised? Did it ever happen at all?) also serves to demonstrate how social constructs, prejudice and, with them, structural racism and othering function.</p><p>These are timeless dynamics, just as timeless as the element of friendship, which means that readers will still be able to empathise with Kasih, Saya and Hani a hundred years from now, just as we still do today with Remarque's protagonists from 1936. "Drei Kameradinnen" demonstrates that all the talk about the lack of social relevance of art and literature is a fatal mistake. The great literary prizes, above all the German Book Prize, are meant for books like this.</p><p><br /></p><p><i>Translated from the German by Jennifer Taylor</i></p><p><i>Shida Bazyar, "Drei Kameradinnen", Kiepenheuer & Witsch 2021</i></p><p><br /></p><p>Via <a href="https://en.qantara.de/">Qantara.de</a></p>Dr Aida Foroutanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16881078586029716018noreply@blogger.com0