I am an interdisciplinary artist and researcher working across performance, painting, video, and film.
I am drawn to moments when meaning slips from stability; where archives prove insufficient, images can no longer bear witness, and language loses direct access to what has taken place.
ABOUT AS EXEPECTED
One or Several 24-Hour Periods
Day
I wake up around noon. From the angle of the first image I see, I try to reconstruct the shape of the previous night's sleep.
Sometimes the first image is an empty frame: the ceiling.
Sometimes it is crowded with everything that has settled between me and the wall opposite the bed: shelves, frames, half-finished paintings, objects arranged with unusual care, and a desk where the idea of order begins to lose its authority.
I wait for signs of movement. Slowly. Without urgency.
This interval is usually my favorite part of the day.
Since I pulled the curtains open at dawn, just before going to sleep, and since I do not drink coffee, the day begins almost immediately. With all the coordinates we have come to associate with what is called "day" in our time.
With a force similar to a slap across the face, drawing a line between last night's dreams and whatever happens to be called today.
A reminder that desires, daydreams, living in the moment, and everything that once seemed like an ordinary part of life must now step aside for a few hours.
To make room for less attractive words:
living expenses.
deadlines.
unfinished tasks.
forms.
emails.
seventeen browser tabs left open from the night before.
notifications from Iran.
The beginning of a daily struggle between what is
and what could be.
And the recurring question of what, if anything, can still be saved from all of this today.
Returning to a canvas and leaving it unfinished.
Perhaps because I trust unfinished things more.
Not because they are poetic.
Simply because they still can change.
Lying on the couch and doing absolutely nothing.
Precisely when the amount of work waiting to be done has exceeded what feels reasonable.
Following news from Iran and elsewhere.
Wars.
The latest developments in technology and artificial intelligence.
Adding events, exhibitions, performances, meetings, rent payments, and residency deadlines to Google Calendar.
Returning to the canvas.
Refusing to stop even when I know it is finished.
Knowing that one more intervention will ruin everything.
Doing it anyway.
Perhaps just a single dot.
Perhaps a single line.
Then watching an entire painted world slowly collapse.
Sometimes I simply stand in front of unfinished paintings.
And think:
No.
This painting has not finished with me yet.
I remind myself that some things move at their own speed.
If you move faster than they do, you stop seeing them altogether.
Wishing I could spend a little longer reading a book I love.
Without worrying about being late for somewhere.
Updating my website.
Filling out residency forms.
Planning unfinished tasks.
At least a few times each day, I wonder why I cannot answer messages on time.
And then continue not answering them.
An unexpected wave of anxiety.
The kind that winds itself through the body until nausea seems inevitable.
Then making my way toward the nearest bookshelf.
Opening a philosophy book.
Reading a few random lines.
And discovering that the world has become bearable again.
Thinking about the relationship between two words:
"perhaps"
and
"future."
A daily walk.
Whether through the streets around Mitte
or through my own thoughts while lying in bed.
Sometimes I walk through reports of executions.
Sometimes through historical dates.
Sometimes through futures that never happened.
Trying to preserve a certain human capacity:
the ability to remain astonished.
Being surprised by a friend.
By finding a remarkable film at the exact moment I thought cinema had nothing left to offer.
By the smell of a lampshade.
Or anything else we assume has no smell.
Somewhere in between, I think about dogs.
Weekly online meetings.
Feminist panels.
Telegram group chats.
Thinking about another prisoner's twenty-four hours in solitary confinement
while simultaneously trying to remember at which station I need to get off the train.
Long political conversations.
Avoiding short political conversations outside galleries while smoking a cigarette.
Defending the right to stay awake at night.
With sentences such as:
The night has not yet been occupied to the same extent as the day.
Or:
The night still allows time to remain its own size.
Night
Beginning hours of work on an idea I love.
Writing it down.
Enjoying the thought that my work is less about the existing world and more about possible worlds.
Losing the same idea a few days later among dozens of others.
Opening Instagram for a short break.
Seeing a familiar photograph of a stranger.
And underneath it:
"Executed."
Or:
"Arrested."
Thinking about dogs.
And wondering why, despite all these years, I have never managed to paint one.
Another piece of news.
Another war.
I continue writing.
Realizing several hours have passed.
Reminding myself that eating is also part of life.
Opening the refrigerator.
Eating something with complete pleasure.
Or opening the refrigerator,
changing my mind,
and closing it again.
Looking at the things I made today.
Looking at the things I ruined.
Sometimes the difference is difficult to determine.
I am still awake.
Just five more minutes, I think.
This sentence is usually repeated several times.
I put a few things somewhere else.
Leave a few others exactly where they are, so I can find them again tomorrow.
I turn off the light
Two Figures of One Portrait
ABOUT AS INCOUNTERED
While building this website, I thought I had already found its title.
In Farsi, it was:
اتوپرترهی یک رد
Trace is perhaps the closest translation.
Perhaps.
I liked it immediately.
Partly because of the contradiction.
It seemed to describe something impossible.
A self-portrait is an attempt to preserve a presence.
A trace points toward something that is no longer fully present.
But can an absence be summoned?
One says:
"I am here."
The other says:
"Someone was here."
Maybe this is why the About page is usually the most suspicious page on a website.
Especially this one.
I decided to leave the word رد in Farsi because it seemed capable of carrying several meanings at once.
A trace.
A mark.
A clue.
A trail.
A rejection.
A refusal.
An erasure.
Something left behind.
Something passed through.
At this point, I started following the trace of the word through other languages.
Three dictionaries were consulted.
Several articles were read.
Multiple languages were investigated, mostly because I couldn't help wondering what would happen to the word elsewhere.
Which was not entirely necessary.
A friend eventually asked:
"So, how is the visa application going?"
It was then that I realised I had spent several days pursuing a single word.
Due to time constraints, no final decision regarding the title was reached.
The website continues to operate under the author's name.
Readers interested in the current state of the investigation may consult the Texts section.
Continue reading in Texts →