Originally published on Global Voices

Talia Levitt, ‘50/50,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 91.4 x 121.9 x 3.0 cm (36.0 x 48.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

In her recent exhibition “24/7,” New York-based artist Talia Levitt offers a tender yet technically audacious meditation on the early months of motherhood. Conceived when the boundary between caregiving and studio life dissolved — “I was painting in bed with my daughter,” she has shared — this body of work reflects a life lived in overlapping rhythms of urgency, exhaustion, elation and tenderness. 

Levitt’s works merge lullaby-soft domestic objects with art-historical rigor: pacifiers, baby clothes and childhood jewelry boxes appear alongside fruit, flowers and candles rendered in layered “trompe-l’oeil” and textile-like pattern. Through deeply considered material decisions — scored grids, piped paint mimicking embroidery, sequins and cast acrylic embellishments — she builds visual diaries that honor labor, intimacy and attention while expanding the language of contemporary still life.

A fourth-generation New Yorker, Levitt’s roots in the city are not incidental; they inform both her sensibility and research-based projects. In “Schmatta” (Uffner Liu, 2023), she examined the history of New York’s garment industry — a lineage she connects to through family history and a longstanding interest in textile traditions. Levitt received her BFA from the Rhode Island School of Design in 2011 and her MFA from CUNY Hunter College in 2019, and attended the Skowhegan School of Painting and Sculpture in 2019. Her grounding in drawing, paired with years immersed in New York’s contemporary art scene, shaped her evolving hybrid vocabulary of painting, craft, and illusion.

Talia Levitt, ‘Will My Daughter be a Painter Too?,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 182.9 x 152.4 x 3.0 cm (72.0 x 60.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Levitt’s practice sits in dialogue with Dutch still life, feminist pattern-and-decoration movements, and craft histories, while posing contemporary questions about perception: “To force the viewer to ask themselves, is this honest or what is honest, is this real or what is real, what am I looking at, and how do I look at it?” she notes. “24/7” will next travel to the K11 Art Foundation in Shanghai, expanding the conversation to new audiences and contexts.

Visually lush, contemplative and narratively grounded, Levitt’s paintings locate harmony within layered chaos — where everyday objects glow with symbolic charge and domesticity becomes monumental. “Motherhood has changed the way I make and the way I see,” she reflects. “My daughter is my teacher.”

In a conversation with Global Voices, Levitt discussed the emotional and material shifts that motherhood sparked, the balance of rigor and play in her trompe-l’oeil technique, the democratizing history of still life, and how caregiving and studio life shape each other in real time.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Talia Levitt, ‘Again!,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 182.9 x 152.4 x 3.0 cm (72.0 x 60.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): For “24/7,” you emerged out of early motherhood, when studio and domestic life blurred. How do you think this profound experience permanently redefined your visual language?

Talia Levitt (TL): I can’t overstate how profoundly the merging of these worlds, or motherhood as the impetus, has changed the way I make and the way I see. My reference points in terms of imagery have shifted, for example. I have different experiences now to associate with a vast range of symbols. Therefore, changes are made to what is included in the paintings. I consider more deeply who my paintings would be legible to … now that I am watching my daughter learn how to look and discover. She is most drawn to photographic imagery, which serves as a gateway for her to explore illustration and other more abstract images in her books. I get to witness this development firsthand, and it has been truly inspiring.

Because I have created an expectation in my paintings that a variety of different languages will be employed, I can broaden my use of paint and range between realism and abstraction based upon what I’ve been learning through her.  

Talia Levitt, ‘My Body is a Mountain, My Body is Nourishment,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 76.2 x 61.0 x 3.0 cm (30.0 x 24.0 x 1.2 in).

OM: Your interplay of trompe l’oeil illusion and symbolic motifs (Dutch still lifes vs. contemporary objects of childhood) dismantles hierarchies of the elevated and the everyday. Do you see this restructuring as situational or as a long-term reorientation in your practice?

TL: That’s a really interesting phrasing! I actually don’t think of one vs. the other, but rather the same genre and some similar content happening at two different time periods. Still life, even during the Golden Age of Dutch painting, was considered the lowest genre in the European academic hierarchy. Prints of and even original still-life paintings at the time were relatively affordable and accessible. This history has definitely emboldened me to bring a lot of muscle, academic skill, and some cheekiness to my work and to play with this history as well as to contemporarize motifs that were traditionally associated with trompe l’oeil. 

Artist Talia Levitt paints with her newborn resting on her shoulder — a glimpse into the intimate reality behind ‘24/7,’ the body of work shaped in the blur between caregiving and studio practice. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Could you take us through your process step by step — from scored grids to cast acrylic embellishments? What were the breakthroughs that convinced you to make this hybrid of painting, craft, and illusion your primary method?

TL: In 2019, while on residency at Skowhegan [in Maine], I was attempting to paint the screen door of my barn studio. I thought, ‘There has to be a better way of realistically rendering this screen than to paint every tiny line of a grid.” So I took my ruler and a utility knife and began scraping it out of the painting of the door behind the screen. What I discovered was that I could use the paint or absence of paint to represent something extremely convincingly, while also creating the exact physical texture and behavior of the thing I was representing in reality. This opened up a door (pun intended!) to experimenting with and thinking about paint and trompe l’oeil as a genre in ways I had never considered before. 

Step by step – first, imagery is painted directly onto the canvas with brushes. Then a grid is scored into the surface with a utility knife and ruler, and sealed with gloss medium. Then ‘stitching’ is piped out of sandwich bags, and lastly, the painting is embellished with casts, glitter, etc. It sounds very routinized, but there’s actually a lot of improvisation taking place within the described process.

Talia Levitt, ‘Emptied Out my Childhood Jewelry Box For Her and Found my Heart,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in).

OM: Narratives seem central to your work, functioning as diaristic yet universal. How do you think narrative painting — often sidelined in modernist discourse — is reinvigorated in your work, especially in light of contemporary politics and social upheaval?

TL: I need to organize my response by narrative and use of paint. Narratively, I don’t think my experiences are unique, so hopefully, if I bring as much generosity and thoughtfulness to my work as possible, viewers may be able to connect with it. Perhaps this perspective reinvigorates narrative painting, or maybe it has been a strategy adopted by painters in some regard, with every progressive generation?

Materially, I am interested in using the properties of paint to disrupt direct interpretations. To force the viewer to ask themselves, is this honest or what is honest, is this real or what is real, what am I looking at, and how do I look at it? These questions are contemporary. While not necessarily political or social, they do explore themes that I know are both pertinent and universal. 

Talia Levitt and her daughter share a moment of play — a glimpse into the life that fuels her tender, intricate paintings and the world of ‘24/7.’ Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Because of what you said, your works invite close looking — the craft detail recalls textile traditions, yet the imagery resonates immediately. How do you think about accessibility in relation to art historical precedents like feminist pattern-and-decoration movements, Dutch still life, or even folk traditions?

TL: I definitely think about the accessibility of these traditions as a history to agitate in terms of craft’s relationship to Art History (capital A) and gender. This is an interest and motive that pairs conveniently with my fixation on and fascination with pattern and labor. I’ve always been attracted to craft, whether it be mosaic, stained glass, or embroidery, because of the extraordinary time involved in making the work, its beauty, history, and applications. 

Learning about how mosaics are made, for instance, and traveling to see ancient examples of the craft employed in situ has motivated my interest in learning to mimic the craft with paint. Hopefully, this will continue to develop. 

Talia Levitt, ‘Emptied Out My Childhood Jewelry Box For Her and Found my Heart,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: As both artist and parent, how do you navigate the lived realities of caregiving alongside studio practice? Do you see motherhood as a source of tension, of inspiration — or both?

TL: It has been a real blessing, but also quite challenging, balancing motherhood and painting.

My daughter has been an inspiration to my work in innumerable ways. She is my teacher, showing me how to see and think in a different way. I do feel a lot of guilt being away from her to paint, and that’s been tricky to navigate. I’ve often picked her up from daycare early because of this, and end up painting at night. She’s always at the forefront of my mind. Perhaps this will change over time as she ages. What I can say, though, is that while my production has admittedly decreased a bit, I think my most recent body of work, created for Victoria Miro Projects after her birth, is my strongest to date. 

Talia Levitt, ‘All at Once,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 x 40.6 x 3.0 cm (20.0 x 16.0 x 1.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your phrase “life lived all at once” captures both personal intensity and contemporary chaos. Looking ahead, do you envision continuing with diaristic motifs or moving toward broader social allegories? 

TL: I love this question because it captures what's happening in the studio now — both! I'm best able to explore allegory through personal experience. ‘All at once’ actually came to me as I was trying to capture the democratic surface quality of my work, with the tirelessness of balancing home and studio —both themes in my recent show, ‘24/7.’

Originally published on Global Voices

Marc Dennis, ‘Marc Dennis, ‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not’ (The Transfiguration of Snow White), 2019. Oil on linen, 142 × 187 cm (56 × 74 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Last summer, during a visit to a friend’s home in Savannah, Georgia, my attention was immediately captured by what appeared to be Gerhard Richter’s iconic Betty — except that in this version, a cat was mid-leap across the composition. The work, by American artist Marc Dennis, stood out among a remarkable collection of contemporary art for its subtle strangeness and quiet provocation.

That encounter sparked my interest in Dennis’s practice. This conversation emerges from that moment of recognition, from encountering an artist who, in celebrating the act of seeing, reminds us that art’s highest calling may be to awaken wonder in the everyday.

Born in 1974 in Danvers, Massachusetts, Marc Dennis earned his BFA from Tyler School of Art and Architecture at Temple University in Philadelphia and his MFA from the University of Texas at Austin. Based in Manhattan, with a studio also in Montclair, New Jersey, Dennis has built a distinctive career that bridges classical mastery with contemporary wit. His paintings have been featured in ArtNews, Art in America, Vulture, and Whitehot Magazine of Contemporary Art, among others. In past interviews, he has spoken about how childhood memories, travel, and an early fascination with nature have shaped his artistic vision.

Marc Dennis, ‘Richter’s Cat,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 86 × 68 cm (34 × 27 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Dennis’s paintings are accessible yet intimate, inviting viewers into a dialogue between mastery and joy. In a contemporary art world often distant from public emotion, his appreciation for life, nature, animals, and laughter creates works that are at once sophisticated and deeply human. By merging masterpieces with whimsical new elements, he gives audiences a reason to pause, smile, and reimagine what art history can mean today.

In this interview with Global Voices, Dennis reflects on his latest exhibition, the evolution of his Flower Series, his approach to hyperrealism and humor, how current events shape his creativity, and his thoughts on success and the role of art in the age of AI.

Excerpt from the interview follows: 

Marc Dennis, ‘Three Jews Walk Into a Bar,’ 2023. Oil on linen, 203 × 152 cm (80 x 60 in), Photo courtesy of the artist.

Marc Dennis (MD): My intentions as an artist have almost always been to create a space in the painting for viewers to fit so that they are not just viewing the work, but they are, in a sense, active participants in the experience. I call it the “invisible foreground.” As for the canon of Western art, my work integrates Old Masters into contemporary settings to detail the relationship between classical art and the environment and climate we live in today’s world. My overall intention is to reconceptualize the past and the present together to create something new.

Marc Dennis, ‘Three Jews Walk Into a Bar,’ 2023. Oil on linen, 152 × 147 cm (60 × 58 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: My own childhood memories, just as the memories I’m building with my own kids (now teenagers), are crucial to my ongoing development as an artist. I rely heavily on my memories because they are woven into my personal fabric. I remember a ton of lessons and experiences from art school — from my wicked, intense interest in the Old Masters while many of my fellow classmates were interested only in contemporary art, to experimenting with a wide range of mediums, only to be driven to oil paints and Old Master methodologies.

I also lived in Rome as part of an abroad program through Tyler School of Art, Temple University, and was blown away at seeing so much work that struck me visually and seduced me mentally. It was an experience that drove me to understand not just the painting techniques of Caravaggio, Raphael, and Titian (from my one-month stay in Venice), but also how to interpret an older narrative into newer concepts.

Marc, Dennis, ‘This Must Be the Place,’ 2025. Oil on linen, 131 × 104 cm (51.75 × 41 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: I’ve always been fascinated by animals, trees, plants, flowers, etc, basically of nature’s forms, since I was a child. I wanted to draw lots of things — from lizards and toads to plants and flowers to chipmunks to zebras — and my goal was to depict them as authentically and realistically as possible so viewers would immediately recognize and identify with my subject matter. I worked really hard on shape, form, value, tone, etc., to capture whatever I was looking at, and it naturally led me to hyperrealism as a style to express the beauty of nature accurately in my work. It still matters to me to get things right before I take liberties. After all, I’m not a photorealist and do not rely entirely on photographs as reference or inspiration, and for me, taking creative license and pushing boundaries are very important.

OM: Specifically for the “Three Jews Walk Into a Bar” series, what was your idea behind juxtaposing Hasidic figures with Manet’s “A Bar at the Folies-Bergère?” How did you conceive the compositions? How do you see the tension between the ritual/religious codes of the Hasidic figures and the secular modernity represented by Manet, and what reactions do you hope to elicit?

MD: I’ve been researching and teaching about the Holocaust for over 20 years, with a focus on artwork made by prisoners in Nazi concentration camps. During my research, the notions of Jewish humor came up from before WWII to post-Holocaust, when many Jewish people came to America and made it as stand-up comedians or comedians in Hollywood. Humor is ingrained in our DNA. And to be honest, I believe I can be funny too, well, at times, for sure! I wanted to create a body of work that was, for all intents and purposes, a deep dive into my ancestry and family tree, and humor is a big part of it.

I thought the premise or infrastructure of my idea would be the oldest joke in the world—a rabbi, priest, and Buddhist monk walk into a bar … or a rabbi, minister, and imam walk into a bar… or, well, you get it—three of whomever walk into a bar. I chose to make it three Jews since the work is about me, and I chose the most famous painting of a bar as my scene! It’s comedic gold! “Gold, Jerry, gold!” If ya know, ya know. I’d say this series of Three Jews Walk Into a Bar was “prettay, prettay, prettay good.” If ya know, ya know again.

Marc Dennis, “Giotto’s Fy,” 2024, oil on linen, 72 x 96 inches [182.88 × 243.84 cm]. Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: I respect all feedback; after all, no artist can control reactions to one’s work, but instead simply guide or hint at a specific response — and even that is a stretch. My work is wide open for interpretation, and Jerry’s reaction was authentic and actually heartfelt. He’s a mensch like me, and he doesn’t need to “like” the work; as his notion of him admitting he can’t stop thinking about it is really great and praise from a sideways perspective — a very Jewish way of seeing things in and of itself, by the way. To answer your question in a broader swath, I love praise and appreciate anyone who takes the time to stand in front of my work. In the big picture, no pun intended, it all goes back to what we learned growing up, be it from your parents or grandparents … and that is if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Just move on.

OM: Considering current events — social, political, religious, and cultural — is there anything happening now that has directly influenced your work recently? How do you see your creative process responding to or resisting those events?

MD: We’re living in increasingly controversial times, and it’s important to me as a Jewish artist to represent not only my heritage, but also my contemporary understanding of Judaism because that’s not something that I’m seeing reflected. As far as climate change goes, something I think a lot about, I am certain some of my works touch upon the steady destruction of our beautiful planet. I’m not always aware of what’s going to emerge in my work, mind you. Often, more than not, people see things that didn’t occur to me, and that is a very important and fun element in reactions to my art. I love hearing what others see and feel in my work.

Marc Dennis, ‘Ever After,’ 2025. Oil on linen, 128 × 106 cm (50.75 × 41.75 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Success has always been relative to me at every stage of my career, even as a kid drawing birds and lizards by my pool growing up for four years in Puerto Rico. If I had a goal in mind, I’d pursue it and do my best at achieving that goal. I’ve made a lot of unsuccessful art in my life. I’ve made a lot of successful art, as well, and I am the same person today that I was as a child. I do my best in the time I’m given and feel I’ve yet to make my best work. I approach each painting determined to make it better than the last. So far, so good.

OM: The question of AI and art is increasingly urgent. How do you see advances in AI (in image generation, in tools that simulate style or composition) impacting artists who work with hyperrealism, with craftsmanship, with masterful technique?

MD: My response to this is simple, and I’ve given it little thought, but I’m fairly certain, knowing what I know of the Old Masters, if Leonardo da Vinci, Caravaggio, and Vermeer were around today, they’d be using AI. And if I’m not mistaken Vermeer and also da Vinci actually had over 300 catalog sketches in their archives of ways to build a camera obscura. In essence, technology has always been embraced by creatives! So there’s that.

Marc Dennis, ‘In Our World,’ 2024. Oil on linen, 132 × 96 cm (52 x 38 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Hah! What a question. It’s not asking me who my favorite child is, because my kids are equally my favorite forever, but particular works of mine hit differently for me. All in all, my favorite works are the ones I’m creating in my studio, which reprise my classical themes of still lifes, floral bouquets, and art-historical references in a fresh and exciting way. These new works can be seen at the upcoming fairs: Art Basel Miami Beach and Untitled in South Beach, Miami, in December 2025, and Art Singapore in January 2026. Speaking of 2026, my newest work will also be part of two upcoming solo exhibitions: Anat Ebgi Gallery in Los Angeles, scheduled to open in February 2026 to coincide with Frieze, LA, and Harper’s Gallery, New York, scheduled to open the first week of September 2026 to coincide with The Armory Show in NYC. Mark your calendars.

Marc Dennis, ‘Where the Sun Hits the Water,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 152 × 144 cm (60 × 57 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: My credo as a painter has always been to strike the eye and seduce the mind. I don’t think too much about beauty and power; I trust my gut instinct. The medical findings regarding gut biospheres and the notion that the gut has a brain or mind of its own are accurate, at least in my view. That was meant to be kind of funny, but it is valid to a great extent since I rely a lot on my gut to guide my creative output.

OM: Your Flower Series is striking in its lushness and almost hypnotic allure. What draws you to flowers as a subject? 

MD: The universality of flowers as a connection to human moments of significance has been an ongoing interest of mine since forever, from when I first pinned a corsage on my prom date to experiencing flowers at weddings, funerals, bar and bat mitzvahs, baptisms, Valentine’s Day, birth, death, etc. — the list is endless. As an artist who has visited museums since I was an art student, I have always been drawn to “Memento Mori” and “Vanitas” paintings, and that interest only grows stronger. In my heart of hearts, I believe the world needs more flowers.

Marc Dennis, ‘Caravaggio's Cat,’ 2021. Oil on linen, 81 × 86 cm (32 x 34 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

MD: Like I said, I can be funny, and I often infuse my paintings with my sense of humor, or as others would say, my sense of sarcasm, wit, or irony. Whatever the case, I like my sense of humor and enjoy letting it sneak in from time to time. For this particular painting, I thought of a pet cat getting in the way of Caravaggio while he was working, likely in someone’s basement, and a cat happens upon him and decides to do what cats do, and the result was my painting of the cat leaping across.

It’s a brief moment in time that brings a smile to one’s face. Something very important to me as a human. There is no greater force than love, which always comes with smiles and laughter.

Originally published on Global Voices

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Sick of foul, I'll take the goat,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, [91.4 x 121.9 cm (36 x 48 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

Critics praised the exhibition’s emotional coherence and bold humor, framing it as a declaration of belonging and a refusal to let systems of erasure define Arab identity. Hayoun’s canvases unfold like cinematic tableaus: the living and the dead, icons of Arab cinema, and imagined ancestors, all inhabiting a color palette that makes ghosts visible.

Raised in Los Angeles by his grandparents, Hayoun inherited their stories of a “Zaman al-gameel,” the golden age of Arab cinema, alongside the lived weight of colonial hierarchies. His grandmother, who began drawing fantastical creatures at the end of her life, left him with the sense that reinvention is always possible. Mourning her loss and navigating the solitude of the pandemic, Hayoun shifted from a career in journalism and authorship, including his acclaimed book “When We Were Arabs,” to painting as his central artistic language.

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Life's Nectar,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 76.2 x 101.6 cm (30 x 40 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

Excerpts from the interview follow. 

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Anatomy of a Raid,’ 2025. Acrylic on canvas, 101.6 x 76.2 cm (40 x 30 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

Omid Memarian (OM): In your experience, how do writing and painting differ in facilitating a connection with your identity and heritage? 

Massoud Hayoun (MH): I wrote a book exploring Arabness through recent history, current events, and the lives of my grandparents. It focused on Arabs of Jewish faith, because while there were books about Jews from Arab countries, none addressed the intersection of these identities or the policies designed to alienate people from their homelands. I used policy documents, letters, and curricula to make an argument that challenged popular Western understandings of Arabness.

Many will still see my Arabness and Judaism as mutually exclusive, because their views are so ingrained. I can spend my life making those arguments, or move on as an Arab American of Jewish faith who makes art for Arab and human liberation.

My painting isn’t religious, as I oppose institutional spirituality, what Diego Rivera called mass-psychosis. My paintings are for the diverse Arab peoples — not specifically Jewish, Tunisian, Egyptian, or Moroccan — but for all who identify as Arab. More broadly, they are for humans who no longer believe in systems of control and the murderous bigotry guiding power today.

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Don’t trifle with the cat women of Alexandria in the summertime • Feu follet,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 121.9 x 91.4 cm (48 x 36 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

OM: A conversation with Ai Weiwei, who praised your debut novel as “exquisite,” inspired you to delve deeper into painting. How has this interaction influenced your artistic direction and the themes you explore in your visual work?

MH: I was working a part-time job billing medical insurance in the later part of the pandemic, hating every day. I sent the manuscript to Ai Weiwei, expecting him to ignore it. Suddenly, I got an email saying he wanted to FaceTime. I called him from the lunch space. I lived in China for some years, so speaking my rusty Chinese added to the hallucinatory vibe. We talked about China, art, and life. He was eating a peanut butter sandwich and talking to me about exile. The power of that moment and the spiritual generosity made me start thinking about art as a human endeavor.

I started making appointments with gallerists in LA, not to show my work, but to ask if people could show professionally after pursuing other careers. At times, I felt disheartened. I don’t know how to drive, and gallerists in LA are in far-flung neighborhoods. I was walking for miles, overthinking, and feeling, on occasion, like an idiot for trying.

I still feel that way, sometimes. Ai Weiwei is a touchstone in those moments. I’ll keep going. 

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Uncynical Tunisian love painting,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 101.6 x 76.2 cm (40 x 30 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

OM: Raised in Los Angeles by your Tunisian and Moroccan-Egyptian grandparents, how did your upbringing shape your artistic sensibilities? Additionally, how has your life evolved since embracing the role of a visual artist?

The Arabness and Tunisian, Moroccan, Egyptian-ness of the paintings comes from my grandparents’ generation: the nearly forgotten Zaman al-gameel, the golden age of Egyptian cinema, the Nahda period, and the strange space they occupied in the colonial hierarchies of their homelands. What is more modern comes from my travel back to our countries and relationships with Arab Americans.

The art allows me to spend time with my grandparents and others from the past. It is fulfilling but also emotionally depleting. It is daunting and electrifying, causing great suffering, yet it is the only thing that alleviates it. It is lonely, but it also cures my loneliness. I wouldn’t paint if I were especially strong or happy. The anxieties of deadlines, pushing past limits, and navigating others’ needs are the same as in journalism or book writing.

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Alexandria, Momentarily,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 121.9 x 91.4 cm (48 x 36 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

OM: Your book “When We Were Arabs” intertwines personal memoir with broader political narratives. What core message did you aim to convey through this work, and how does it reflect your views on Arab-Jewish identity?

MH: It is intended as a political theory of Arabness and belonging as related to and illustrated by current events and the lives of my grandparents, who raised me. I wanted a work like this to exist as a touchstone for myself and for other people of Arab origin, as well as those interested in understanding our region. I’m thankful for the attention it received. On occasion, I receive requests to speak about it at a university. With little exception for those who demonstrate how it will contribute to important conversations on human rights, I decline. Not to be a jerk, but because I said what needed to be said. I gave the evidence for it. I wrote it while in mourning for my grandmother, and my mind worked in such a way that it scabbed over that writing experience. It’s time for me to move forward, underpinned by the understandings in the book, and to devote my intellectual labor through these paintings to the ideals I discussed in words in the book. 

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Portrait of the inverse of a woman,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 121.9 x 91.4 cm (48 x 36 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

OM: Critics have highlighted the symbolic depth in your paintings, often rendered in shades of blue. Could you discuss your visual process and the significance of this color palette in conveying themes of exile, love, and resistance?

MH: Symbolism is how I was raised. My grandparents, mostly practical and socialist, were North African and on occasion espoused superstitions, tying significances to objects. I was raised to think that way, and it informs the symbols in my work.

Cinema also informs my work. My grandfather was born in Egypt when it was making some of the best films. I was born in Los Angeles, the capital of both pornographic and mainstream film. I moved to Hong Kong and China because I loved the films of Wong Kar-wai. Once, in a film my family bought me on VHS — I saw a ghost. Electric blue. To me, that blue with glowing highlights and shadows is ghostly.

At first, just my grandparents and the dead were blue. Then everyone I described in the past tense became blue. In self-portraits, the me I describe is no longer the me who looks back later. That is life — this precious, miraculous, wondrous, continual kick in the teeth that is life.

Massoud Hayoun, ‘Stateless • Por no llevar papel,’ 2024. Acrylic on canvas, 121.9 x 91.4 cm (48 x 36 in). Photo courtesy of the Larkin Durey gallery, London.

OM: Your work frequently addresses themes of belonging and the intricate webs of power. How do you navigate these complex topics in your art?

MH: With every piece, there is an immediate idea — something in the news or a recollection — and a grander idea, political, philosophical, or psychological.

The hope is that people spend enough time to see more than the immediate. However, as a journalist, I know that time is earned. At least they might appreciate the weirdness, the sense of humor, or other particularities of what each work is trying to achieve.

The work is Arab, by and for the diverse Arab peoples. But it is beyond that, thoroughly human. I envision the audience as humans of all backgrounds, interested in the human condition, yearning for better times, and struggling, as I do, to imagine those futures. The hope is they see these as human works, conversations with humans thirsting for life about where we are and what comes next.

Originally published on Global Voices

Vida Rabbani, ‘Execution Walls,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Inside the walls of Tehran’s Evin Prison — a space synonymous with repression and pain — Vida Rabbani created a language of resistance through painting. Using bedsheets as canvas, smuggled brushes, and colors brought in tube by tube, she documented the intimate textures of carceral life in Iran’s most notorious women’s prison ward. Her work, both courageous and tender, transformed confinement into a form of creation. From portraits of fellow political prisoners to layered renderings of institutional staircases, Rabbani’s paintings gave a visual voice to the unseen lives of women navigating both isolation and solidarity behind bars. Her images were not just acts of self-expression; they became acts of collective preservation.

Rabbani, a journalist and former reporter at Shargh Daily and Seda Weekly, had never considered herself a professional artist. But following her 2022 arrest during Iran’s anti-government protests and her subsequent sentencing to more than 11 years combined over two cases, she began to paint in earnest. She spent 32 months in prison before her sentence was suspended, and she was released from Evin Prison. The Iranian authorities may have tried to stifle her speech, but through brushwork and imagery, she documented what she could not publish: the contours of captivity and the quiet, defiant rituals of daily survival.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Sit-In in the Rain,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

“In prison, limitations sharpen the imagination,” she said. “When space and materials are scarce, your mind does the work of finding freedom.” Rabbani’s art evolved in secret, sometimes illuminated only by a desk lamp late at night, and often under the threat of confiscation. Aided by fellow inmates, she covertly assembled acrylics and brushes, stretching fabric over wooden frames salvaged from the prison’s carpentry shop.

While her early murals — such as one of the endangered Persian cheetah Pirouz — were painted directly onto courtyard walls, Rabbani soon turned inward, sketching rooms, beds, and portraits that conveyed not just presence but memory. The paintings, all modest in scale yet expansive in emotional reach, trace a remarkable arc of visual storytelling under constraint.

In an interview with Global Voices, Vida Rabbani spoke about documenting the visual culture of prison, the improvisational methods behind her work, the emotional toll and healing of art-making under surveillance, and how painting became her most powerful form of witness.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Vida Rabbani, ‘Summer Behind Walls,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): When did you first start painting, and how did it evolve alongside your work in journalism?

Vida Rabbani (VR): Memories start differently for everyone. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but ever since I can recall, I have been drawn to painting and crafting. We were a middle-class family living in a remote town in southern Iran. I was obsessed with stationery shops — still am. I remember only owning two dolls throughout my childhood, but I was in love with picture books, coloring supplies, and playdough. My mother was protective of my tools, making sure I didn’t ruin them.

Around the age of four, I began painting. I vividly remember the joy of finally receiving a six-color gouache set and a box of markers. In school, I was considered one of the better painters, even placing third in a national competition once. But instead of encouragement, my family saw my interest in art as a threat, especially my mother, who dreamed I’d become a doctor. She feared painting would distract me from studying. In third grade, I secretly enrolled in an art class and continued for a few years. But I didn’t return to painting seriously until I was imprisoned in Evin.

Vida Rabbani, ‘The Forbidden Waltz: A Moment of Light,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: What themes did you explore in your prison paintings, and what did they mean to you?

VR: It began when I helped a fellow inmate with a drawing, and others responded so warmly that I picked up my own brush. The enthusiasm of others encouraged me to request painting supplies, which my husband brought to the prison.

I started by painting murals. One depicted Pirouz sprinting across a wall, dedicated to fellow inmates and environmental activists Sepideh Kashani and Niloufar Bayani. Another mural revealed a forest path behind crumbling bricks, symbolizing escape. Authorities painted over them, claiming they were politically subversive, and banned any more art supplies.

Near the 2024 New Year, I spent 10 to 12 days painting prison walls to refresh the space. What began as a way to brighten our environment became a daily act of resistance and renewal.

Vida Rabbani, ‘The Hills of Evin,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Later, other inmates asked me to paint their beds, rooms, or corners of the ward to share with their families. This inspired me to document the women’s ward in a way others outside could see. My first interior painting was a view of the Evin hills from my cell window.

Although I had never painted portraits before, I wanted to show what imprisonment did to people’s faces and spirits. I painted Golrokh Iraee — my first-ever portrait. Later, when Pakhshan Azizi received a death sentence, my friend Hasti Amiri, who was about to be released, asked me to paint Pakhshan so she could raise awareness. I painted it by lamplight in bed the night before her release. Since photography was banned, drawing became the only way to visually archive people and spaces in prison.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Pakhshan Azizi,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Given the restrictions, how did you get art supplies in prison?

VR: One of the prisoners helped by smuggling in oil paints and brushes during family visits, hiding them in her clothes. It took months to gather enough supplies.

Eventually, for the New Year, Narges Mohammadi [the 2023 Nobel Peace Laureate]  convinced the authorities to let us bring in a larger shipment of materials. I took advantage of this to sneak in proper acrylic paints among the wall paints.

OM: What obstacles did you face while painting in prison, and how did you overcome them?

VR: There were many. I had no canvases, so I repurposed a wooden frame from the prison’s carpentry workshop and stretched bedsheets over it with nails. That’s why all my paintings are 70 x 50 cm [19.6 x 27.5 inches]. Paints were limited — white, especially, ran out quickly — so I used color sparingly. The paint layers are very thin as a result.

When my brushes wore out, I sat in front of the warden’s office all day until they agreed to give me a palette knife and two brushes, on the condition that I wouldn’t take any artworks out without permission.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Vida, The Only Place to Disappear,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: What impact did painting have on your mental and emotional state during imprisonment?

VR: Though I never felt useless in prison, painting gave me new energy and purpose. I’d wake up excited to continue my work. I observed the ward constantly, looking for new subjects. I knew I wouldn’t have time to paint everything I wanted before my release, so I sketched prolifically to continue later outside. It made time pass faster and transformed my prison experience into an artistic opportunity I didn’t want to lose.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Golrokh Iraee, a portrait,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: How did other inmates and prison staff respond to your work?

VR: It was the inmates’ reactions that encouraged me most. I had initially planned to focus on reading and studying, but their enthusiasm pulled me into art. During the New Year, when I painted the stairwell, they constantly checked in on me, brought me food and coffee, and made me feel like I was doing something meaningful.

Some nights, I’d come back exhausted and find a meal waiting on my bed. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as appreciated or purposeful as I did during those days. One inmate told me the murals had brought the spirit of Nowruz into the ward.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Sepideh, Steam and Silence,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Did the experience influence your artistic style or technique?

VR: I wasn’t a trained artist with a defined style. I had a basic understanding of various techniques but no formal education. I never liked photorealism — too much detail doesn’t appeal to me. I prefer visible brushstrokes and texture. I avoided blending colors too smoothly.

Still, when I look at my prison paintings together, I see clear growth. My technique improved dramatically, and I gained much more confidence.

OM: Now that you’re free, do you plan to exhibit or publish your prison paintings?

VR: Yes, absolutely. I painted for two reasons: to make the prison more livable, and to show others what it looked and felt like inside. If I can exhibit these works, I would be thrilled. They were never just for me; they were always meant to be shared.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Nasim, the Shadow of Execution Sentence, and the Flowers Still Bloom,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Do your paintings carry a specific message?

VR: I tried to capture the atmosphere of prison — sometimes joyful, sometimes bleak. I wanted to reflect the rhythm of life inside. Emotions are heightened in prison. Grief, joy, solitude, solidarity; they're all more intense than on the outside. I hope that comes through in my work.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Open wounds,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Have other imprisoned artists inspired you?

VR: During a short leave from prison, I saw a BBC piece about a British man who began painting during his 13-year sentence for heroin trafficking. He said art changed his life, and after his release, he became a professional painter and even won awards. I joked with my friends that my sentence was too short; if I’d had 10 more years, maybe I’d have become a prize-winning artist too.

Vida Rabbani, ‘Niloufar's Garden,’ 2024. Acrylic on bedsheet fabric, 50 x 70 cm (19.6 x 27.5 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Artists like Richard Dadd created remarkable works while imprisoned. Do you feel that incarceration stimulated your creativity in any way?

VR: I don’t think it’s just a cliché that limitations fuel creativity. When your physical environment and resources are restricted, you’re forced to rely more on your imagination to find solutions and adapt. That mental effort pushes the mind into motion. Perhaps psychologists could explain it better, but for me, that’s precisely what happened.

Originally published on Global Voices

Georg Massanés, ‘Red Poppies 6,’ 2025. Mixed media on paper, 100 x 100 cm (39.4 x 39.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

“Art is never something that is unloaded. It always has a meaning,” says Georg Massanés. For the Catalan artist, abstraction is not a retreat from reality but a deepened language that invites viewers to navigate a world beyond literal representation. “Art conveys ideas,” he reflects, “but also images or ideas through images.”

His approach is rooted in conceptual practice, drawing from diverse media and traditions to produce work that resists conventional narrative while channeling symbolism, memory, and introspection. Through nonlinear forms, poetic gestures, and symbolic fragments, Massanés constructs visual experiences that combine lyricism and critical thought.

Born in Germany to a Catalan father and German mother, Massanés moved to Barcelona, where he studied painting and mural techniques at Escola Massana and earned a degree in art history from the University of Barcelona. His training, coupled with formative years working in the engraving workshop of Tristan Barbarà, shaped his sensitivity to material, form, and the philosophical underpinnings of art. Massanés has exhibited widely in Spain, Germany, France, and Morocco, and recently participated in “Echos de Barcelone” at ART VEVEY’s inaugural exhibition in Switzerland, showcasing his works, including “Spring” and “Autoretrato Parcial,” among others.

From an art critic’s lens, Massanés’ paintings offer a calming, minimalist clarity. They embrace what the ART VEVEY curators call “abstract realism” — works that appear simple yet unfold layers of symbolism. His subdued palette and deliberate compositional choices leave space for viewers to breathe, ponder, and interpret.

In an interview with Global Voices, Georg Massanés speaks about the symbolic tension between light and obscurity, the influence of conceptualism, the poetic emptiness in his recent works, and how personal grief shaped the haunting “Autoretrato Parcial.”

Georg Massanes. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): Your work often moves beyond traditional representation into abstraction. How do you see this shift as a reaction to realist aesthetics, and does it serve as a conceptual critique of cultural conventions? (You’ve described art as a “language used to convey ideas” rather than images.)  

Georg Massanés (GM): It’s been a long time since painting served only a realistic purpose. Today, art combines images from different sources to build a vision of the world — not just the world as it appears, but the world as the artist personally experiences it. We now perceive reality through so many screens and forms of media that what we see is no longer simply what’s in front of us. So, I don’t know if it’s a shift toward abstraction or just the combination of elements that move the work beyond conventional representation.

Art conveys ideas, sometimes directly, sometimes through images. That’s why I’ve always been drawn to conceptual art. Not necessarily for its philosophical or political content, but because it expands what art can be. It allows for the use of materials not traditionally tied to painting or sculpture, and for methods of display that are themselves meaningful. Art is never neutral. There is always a thought behind it, whether political, lyrical, or poetic. That too, for me, is a kind of conceptual position.

OM: In pieces like “Autoretrato Parcial” (2021), you fragment the self. Can you speak to how abstraction assists in symbolizing inner dualities, such as the tension between light and obscurity or the battle of gods and demons inside us?  

GM: I wouldn’t say abstraction, as I understand it in painting, is directly about inner dualities or fragmentation. From Cubism onward, there was a kind of spatial and figurative fragmentation, meant, I think, to show multiple aspects at once. But since the historical vanguards, artists have been searching for a language that lets them present symbolic elements without relying on realism. So yes, there are fragments, but they don’t necessarily tell a clear story — unless you know how to read them or have the hints. The meaning is there, but it’s not always immediately accessible or narrative in the traditional sense.

Georg Massanés, ‘Spring 3,’ 2025. Mixed media on canvas. 200 x 180 cm (78.7 x 70.9 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your work draws on “vanitas” (the fleeting nature of life) and “memento mori” (reminders of death). How do these themes of mortality shape pieces like ‘Spring’ (2025)?

GM: “Spring Gaudy II” was an ironic title; the painting is now simply called “Spring. Flowers are beautiful but short-lived, which ties directly to the idea of “memento mori” — they won’t last. The painting includes elements found in traditional representations of mortality. I’ve created a series of works that seem contradictory — some dark, some light — to symbolically reflect the beauty and tragedy of life. I don’t see my work as exactly abstract. The most abstract it gets is in the absence of a clear narrative. My paintings are informal — representative, but not in a conventional or narrative way.

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OM: How have your academic experiences shaped your interest in conceptual content over formal representation, and do they continue to influence your mark‑making today?  

MG: I studied painting at Escola Massana in Barcelona in the early 1980s, where abstraction had a strong presence. While I specialized in painting and mural techniques, the focus was mostly on painting itself. At that time, art schools in Catalonia encouraged non-narrative and abstract approaches. That definitely influenced my early work: I learned to avoid clear storytelling and focus more on the act of painting. But over time, I moved away from that purely abstract direction. My work became more figurative, with human forms and recognizable elements from everyday life.

Georg Massanés, ‘Noches de anthracita I,’ 2007. Mixed media on canvas, 200 x 200 cm (78.7 x 78.7 in). Photo courtesy of the artist and ART VEVEY.

My art history studies at the University of Barcelona were especially formative. They gave me a deeper understanding of different periods in art, and that knowledge becomes a kind of map. You can navigate art history more easily when you’ve studied it seriously. As painters, we always return to the great figures of the past, learning from how they resolved essential artistic problems and applying those lessons in our own work.

Another key influence was my time in an etching workshop run by a painter and editor who worked with artists like Tàpies and Hartung. I had direct contact with their materials and ideas, which left a strong impression. As a young artist, you're still forming your ideas, so those encounters shape you. Sometimes you take their words too seriously, but it’s part of learning — absorbing different conceptions of art before developing your own voice. That experience taught me a lot, not just technically, but about how artists think.

Georg Massanés, ‘Spring 2b,’ 2025. Oil on paper, 120 x 120 cm (47.2 x 47.2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Living and working in Montoliu de Segarra and Barcelona, have recent local or global crises — social, political, or environmental — found expression in your palette, scale, or embrace of abstraction? How does place inform symbolic choice?

GM: The environment in Montoliu doesn’t have a direct impact on my work, though I’ve painted some landscapes and sometimes use photographs I’ve taken as references. When it comes to the ecological crisis, I feel that the idea of “memento mori” already expresses a kind of position, though not in a clear or straightforward way. In installations, I’ve used objects like pharmaceutical oxygen bottles and references to dementia and human fragility, but not in my paintings. My paintings are more introspective; they reflect inner experiences rather than making overt political or environmental statements.

Georg Massanés, ‘Autoretrato Parcial.’ Oil on paper, 200 x 180 cm (78.7 x 70.9 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: As someone steeped in conceptual art and philosophical influences (from Hegel to García Calvo), how do you view abstraction as a space for embodying ideas about life and death, and what charge does that hold for viewers encountering works like “Autoretrato Parcial” or your more recent pieces? 

GM: “Autoretrato Parcial” is a representation of suffering. I painted it during a time when many people close to me died suddenly, all in the same year. The painting reflects a sense of disconnection. The bag over the head symbolizes a desire not to see or be seen, as the context was tragic and deeply sad. The elements in the work clearly express that moment when everything feels heavy and dull. It’s not abstract. The clown, for me, is the most tragic figure I could imagine — an expression of sad humor from someone who has gained wisdom through life’s pain.

Originally published on Global Voices

Delbar Shahbaz at the ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, California, 2019. Photo courtesy of the artist. 

In early January 2025, the devastating Eaton Canyon wildfire swept through Altadena, California, USA, destroying Delbar Shahbaz’s home, studio, and archive, a rupture she describes as losing a part of herself. The fire profoundly shifted her creative practice, infusing her work with renewed themes of resilience, transformation, and healing. As she returned to the charred mountain daily, she collected memories and natural fragments — water, light, movement — that found their way into a new body of work exploring both fragility and renewal.

Born in Iran and now based in Los Angeles, Shahbaz holds an MFA from Tehran’s Art University and the ArtCenter College of Design in Pasadena, California, where she also teaches. Professionally engaged in art since her early teens, she has exhibited widely, including the solo show “Land Is Feeling, Color Is Remedy” at Advocartsy (2023). In February 2025, you could see her contributions in “Out of the Ashes: Artists Impacted by the Los Angeles Wildfires” at Bergamot Station. Her profound commitment to cultural and gender identity work continues to evolve with each exhibition.

Delbar Shahbaz stands amid the ruins of her home and studio in Altadena, Los Angeles, after the January 2025 wildfire.

Shahbaz’s work unfolds like a sensory poem: glazed surfaces mimic the reflective quality of water, sculptural fragments evoke the texture of scorched earth, and ethereal light guides the eye through emotional terrain. Her hybrid sculptures and dreamlike figures weave personal memory with mythopoetic resonance — a visual lexicon shaped by displacement, environment, and spiritual inquiry. Constantly adapting to cultural landscapes and literal landscapes aflame, her practice remains rooted in material metamorphosis and poetic transformation.

In an interview with Global Voices, Shahbaz discussed the role of natural elements — water, light, and movement — as metaphors for healing, the tension between personal narrative and universal resonance, and the porous boundaries between body, memory, and home.

Excerpts from the interview follow.

Omid Memarian (OM): You lost your home and much of your artistic archive in a recent Los Angeles wildfire. How has this shaped your creative process and themes? Have you begun to find artistic restoration or a new normal?

Delbar Shahbaz (DS): Losing my home, studio, and archive in the Eaton fire on January 7, 2025, felt like losing a part of myself. Altadena had been my sanctuary, where I felt rooted. In the aftermath, I returned daily to the ruins, offering flowers and prayers. Eaton Mountain became a site of mourning. Seeking healing, I turned to nature and the presence of other artists. At Headlands Center for the Arts, I slowly reconnected with my practice. My recent work explores resilience, wind as both destroyer and healer, and water as a remedy. As an immigrant and fire survivor, I reflect more deeply on the fragility of home, shifting identity, and the need to care for the environments we depend on.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘After the Fire,’ 2025. Ceramic glaze and resin, 10 × 12 × 21 cm (3.9 × 4.7 × 8.3 in).
Created in the wake of the January 2025 wildfire that destroyed her home and studio in Altadena, this sculptural work channels personal loss into tactile resilience. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: How has the meaning of home shifted for you through immigration and the loss of your home? Could you share how this relates to your painting, “My Body, My Land?”

DS: After immigrating from Iran, I lost my sense of home and felt unrooted, until I found quiet belonging in Altadena, a place near Eaton Mountain. We were artists from different parts of the world living in one artist complex. I lost my community.

But even that felt fragile, more like something my body remembered than truly believed. I’ve realized home isn’t fixed—it’s a feeling that arises when I’m centered in my body. I understood this more deeply after losing my physical home in the Eaton fire. “My Body, My Land” emerged during deep displacement, helping me reclaim space within. Water became a remedy; its reflective, cleansing presence entered my work. Now, I explore home as a shifting relationship between body,  memory, and land, held together through texture, form, and material. 

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘The Land is Feeling,’ 2023. Acrylic and oil painting on canvas, 182.9 × 91.4 cm (72 × 36 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Healing and meaning are central to works like “Unity,” “The Land is Feeling,” and “Seeking the Light.” How does art help you navigate grief, transformation, and spiritual renewal?

DS: Art is my vessel for transformation, an act of shedding layers shaped by social and cultural definitions to find my most authentic self. Change is painful, but renewal lies beyond it. Movement and creation help me navigate this shift. I stay connected to place through memory, sensation, and natural elements. Water binds memory; land holds emotion, and color offers balance and healing. In “Unity,” “The Land is Feeling,” and “Seeking the Light,” movement, light, and color guide me through grief, resilience, and spiritual regeneration. By surrendering to the process, I find restoration and a renewed sense of belonging.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘What She Couldn’t Say’ (2011). Acrylic and oil paint on canvas, 78 × 119 cm (31 × 47 inches). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: With MFAs from Tehran’s Art University and ArtCenter College of Design, where you now teach, how has academic training and teaching shaped your personal expression and creative evolution?

DS: Art connects people, and teaching lets me share that. Guiding students to use their hands and imagination to make sense of the world is a privilege. The greatest reward is hearing from former students who still create; it reaffirms that art is essential to navigating modern life.

Academic training provided me with the tools to analyze, engage, and collaborate effectively. I love the intellectual exchange and time spent reflecting and expanding ideas. While I immerse myself in my imaginative world in my practice, teaching fuels my passion, deepens my connection to others, and reminds me of the compassion we need as human beings.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘A Flower Against the Gale,’ 2025. Acrylic, oil paint, and collage on canvas, 33 × 38 cm (13 × 15 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: In works like “Travellers,” you blur the autobiographical and allegorical. How do you see your practice as a visual memoir, and how do you balance personal narrative with universal themes?

DS: I navigate the tension between personal narrative and universal resonance by embracing fluidity: letting lived experience unfold beyond the self. Movement, nature, and transformation ground the work in something both intimate and expansive. I lean into ambiguity, letting light, gesture, and material speak where words fall short. Rather than illustrating autobiography, I surrender personal history to form, inviting others to find their own reflections. I collect objects — vintage accessories, leaves, and sticks — that offer fleeting feelings of belonging. These fragments become part of my sculptures, vessels of memory and adaptation, creating beings that hold personal and collective meaning.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘Travelers #1,’ 2021. Acrylic on canvas, 50.8 × 38.1 cm (20 × 15 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Light, water, and movement are central in your work, evoking fluidity and connection. Why do these elements resonate as metaphors, and how do they function in your process, materially and symbolically?

DS: Light, water, and movement are central to my work because they reflect the emotional and physical states I navigate. Light often emerges from darkness, symbolizing clarity after uncertainty. Water became vital after I lost my home; it offered healing, reflection, and a sense of continuity. I began using glossy resin to echo its mirror-like surface. Movement, through travel or gesture, connects me to the land and my body, allowing for transformation. These elements are not just symbolic; they shape my materials and textures, helping me translate personal experience into something open, where others can see their own stories through nature’s language.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘No-where is behind us, #4,’ 2021. Acrylic on paper, 41.9 × 52.1 cm (16 1/2 × 20 1/2 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your work features hybrid creatures, dreamlike animals, and mythic women, forming a cosmology that feels both intimate and archetypal. What draws you to the mythopoetic, and how do these figures express identity and resistance?

DS: My turn toward the mythopoetic comes from a need to express identity beyond fixed definitions. As an immigrant woman, I find freedom in creating hybrid beings: dreamlike animals, mythic female figures, and fantastical creatures that resist categorization. These forms embody beauty and brutality, vulnerability and power. Drawing from ancient totems, outsider writings, and memory, I build a cosmology where the body is both sacred and strange. Their textured, glamorized surfaces invite touch and intimacy, while their ambiguity challenges narratives of gender, belonging, and transformation. I explore identity as fluid, layered, and resilient, mirroring cultural dissonance and quiet self-reinvention.

Delbar Shahbaz, ‘Chanting the light #1,’ 2022. Acrylic and oil painting on canvas, 152.4 × 91.4 cm (60 × 36 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: As a multidisciplinary artist, how do you choose the medium for an idea? Is it an intuitive decision, or does the material guide the concept’s evolution?

DS: My relationship with materials has always been intuitive. Since childhood, I’ve been drawn to transforming what’s around me. I remember being seven, cutting hollow persicaria stems by the river to build small dams and channels. That instinct to shape and reimagine continues today. I don’t begin with a fixed medium; the concept and material often emerge together. Sometimes the texture or weight of a material guides the work; other times, an idea’s emotional tone calls for video, sculpture, or painting. I keep the process open, letting materials speak and the concept unfold through touch, memory, and experimentation.

Originally published on Global Voices

Joana Choumali, ‘The Day Dreamer,’ Serie Alba’hian, 2025, mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex cotton and wool threads Triptych, 100 x 150 cm (39.4 x 59.1 in), courtesy of the artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI Photo by Hussein Makke.

 Joana Choumali’s art unfolds like a whispered meditation: layered, luminous, and deeply personal. Her works begin as photographs taken at dawn, capturing the quiet emergence of day in Abidjan and other cities. She then embroiders directly onto these images, adding layers of tulle, organza, and thread. This tactile process, which she likens to “automatic writing,” allows her to explore themes of memory, resilience, and the interplay between dreams and reality. Each stitch is a contemplative act, transforming fleeting moments into textured narratives that bridge the physical and spiritual realms.

Born in 1974 in Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire, Choumali studied graphic arts in Casablanca, Morocco, before working as an art director in advertising. She later shifted her focus to photography, specializing in conceptual portraiture and mixed media. Her work often delves into cultural identity and the complexities of African traditions in contemporary contexts. Notably, her series “Hââbré, The Last Generation” documents the fading practice of facial scarification among the Burkinabé people in Côte d'Ivoire. In 2019, she became the first African recipient of the Prix Pictet for her series “Ça va aller,” which combines photography and embroidery to address collective trauma and healing. 

Joana Choumali, ‘New Growth,’ Serie Alba’hian, 2024, mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex cotton and wool threads
80 x 80 cm (31.5 x 31.5 in), courtesy of the artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI. Photo by Hussein Makke.

In May 2025, Choumali’s work was featured in the exhibition “La Terre n’a qu’un Soleil” at GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI, in Abidjan, Côte d’Ivoire. This exhibition continued her exploration of layered narratives, showcasing her ability to weave personal and collective stories through her distinctive mixed-media approach.

In an interview with Global Voices, Choumali discusses the evolution of her artistic practice, the significance of her materials and techniques, and how her work serves as a conduit for introspection and dialogue.

Excerpts from the interview follow.

Omid Memarian (OM): Your series “Ça va aller”(2016) is renowned for its innovative use of embroidery on photographs. Could you elaborate on how this technique emerged in your practice and the specific emotions or narratives you aim to convey through this tactile medium?

Joana Choumali (JC): I started embroidering on my photos in 2015, from a need to spend more time with them. I love how a digital photo captures a moment in a second, while I can spend months or even years with that image printed on cotton canvas. I add layers of textiles to bring out the colors of the sky, then stitch in the character by hand, like a manual collage, but without glue. More layers of tulle, organza, or muslin follow, reflecting not just physical layering, but multiple ways of seeing several realities.

The sheer fabrics I added last evoke the dampness and softness of dawn — the dew, the light mist — something that reassures and welcomes me when the city is still asleep.

These layers help me express the many levels of life, both physical and spiritual. They bring together reality and imagination, morning light and inner vision. For me, adding thread and fabric is like automatic writing. It’s how I create beauty from what I observe and feel around me. 

Joana Choumali. Photo: courtesy of Pimii Pango.

OM: Your work has shifted from documentary photography to mixed media. What experiences shaped this transformation, and how do you see the relationship between photography and these new materials?

JC: I think my work has become as assertive as I have. I’m no longer afraid to say what I need to — gently, but firmly. As we grow older, we learn to be clearer about what we want, what we reject, and what we express. The words, and the images, become more precise.

My work evolves instinctively, just as I do. It’s not planned. I can only create what I truly am or feel. That sincerity is essential, and I hope it comes through.

When I started “Alba’hian,” I worked on small pieces with lots of sheer fabric. I say my work was whispering then; I didn’t quite dare yet. The colors were pastel, the skies wide, the characters small, and the landscapes ethereal.

Over time, it felt like my lens zoomed in. What was inside me became clearer, in my head, my heart, my soul, and on the surface of the work. The images grew more defined, more meaningful. I moved from 50 x 50 cm to four-meter works. Now I’m working on a 2.40 by 1.60-meter piece, where the character spans several panels, over a meter tall.

Joana Choumali, ‘I Would Do Anything For You,’ Serie Alba’hian, 2025, mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex cotton and wool threads, 50 x 50 cm (19.7 x 19.7 in), courtesy of the Artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI. Photo by Hussein Makke.

OM: Growing up in Abidjan, Côte d'Ivoire, how did your upbringing and the rich cultural tapestry of your environment shape your artistic vision and thematic choices?

JC: Growing up in 1980s Côte d'Ivoire, we were cradled by peace, not just as a word, but as a way of being. It was everywhere, on TV, in daily life, until it became part of our DNA. I’m not only speaking of social peace, but inner peace: the freedom to be yourself. Especially for a woman — an African woman, a Black woman — who opens her arms to life, lets go of what she can’t control, and embraces what she can receive.

One of my works in the solo show at GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI in Abidjan [from May 16 to July 25] explores this deeply. It holds great spiritual meaning for me because I believe that’s what God asks of us: to let go, receive what is ours, and become who we are. That’s what my work is about.

Joana Choumali, ‘Va, vis, deviens!’ Serie Alba’hian, 2025, mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex cotton and wool threads, 35 x 35 cm (13.8 x 13.8 in), courtesy of the artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI. Photo by Hussein Makke.

OM: Your work often delves into themes of identity, memory, and resilience. Could you discuss the stories or experiences that inspire your creations and how you translate these narratives into visual art?

JC: When I create, I don’t decide what to make; it comes to me. I’ve done portraits that began as close-ups and evolved into panoramic landscapes. Each series brings something different. I can’t do several things at once; I need to go deep. As long as I feel it, I keep working. But when it stops, it stops. Even when I had requests for “Ça va aller,” I had moved on. I can’t keep working on something I no longer feel in my gut.

My work helps me understand why I exist. Then I share it, and a dialogue begins. But it’s meaningless if I’m not honest with myself, if I don’t create with integrity. It becomes a commercial act, and that’s not how I work. That’s why I go from one series to another. Sometimes, I’m working on something I won’t show for a while. It’s all instinctive, layer by layer. I share only when I’m ready.

Take “Alba’hian,” which will be shown in Abidjan in May. It began during early morning walks at 5:00 am, often crossing a bridge. I watched the city wake up — the sun, the clouds, the light — and it gave me strength during a difficult time. “Alba’hian,” started in Abidjan and grew outward, from there to the world.

Joana Choumali, ‘Your Hair Smells like Love and Sunshine,’ Serie Alba’hian, 2025, mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex, cotton and wool threads, 35 x 35 cm (13.8 x 13.8 in), courtesy of the artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI. Photo by Pimii Pango.

OM: How did showing at the 2017 Venice Biennale shape your artistic expression and connection with a global audience?

JC: I would keep creating even without exhibitions. But my work only truly comes alive through the viewer’s eyes. The final layer is the emotion and response of the person who sees it; whether they acquire it and live with it, or simply feel touched by it and carry that feeling with them. That’s when the piece is complete. Its energy and love go with the viewer.

I create to meet people, to meet myself, and then to meet others. The work becomes a bridge.

OM:  Reflecting on your journey, how have the themes and techniques in your work evolved over the years, and what do you envision for the future of your artistic practice?

JC: I work instinctively. When I start a piece, I never know how it will end. I may have a general idea, but the piece often reveals things I didn’t expect, and that’s the greatest gift of this practice. I don’t always know when a work is finished. Sometimes I return to it, undo it, add more, even dismantle and remake it entirely. That, too, is part of the process.

The only programme in my work is that there isn’t one. I let inspiration carry me. Through it, I feel God’s presence, guiding and accompanying me. So I don’t worry about whether it’s evolution, change, or growth. The work leads me where I need to go. That’s what matters.

Joana Choumali, ‘If you want, we can catch the moon too,’ Serie Alba’hian, 2025 mixed media: Digital photograph printed on cotton canvas, manual collage, embroidery, painting, sheer fabric and muslin, metallic, lurex cotton and wool threads 35 x 35 cm (13.8 x 13.8), courtesy of the artist and GALERIE FARAH FAKHRI. Photo by Hussein Makke.

OM: How does the meditative act of hand stitching shape your creative flow and connect with your audience?

JC: For me, what matters most is how I feel while creating and how that opens a dialogue with others, without words. Art lets me connect with others, but above all, it helps me connect with myself, to know and understand myself better — and, if possible, others, too.

Originally published on Global Voices

Stop-motion animator Tamara Finlay is in her studio connecting with her inner child. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

Tamara Finlay’s stop-motion animations are intimate meditations on memory, heritage, and generational ties. Growing up with Ukrainian grandparents in Dearborn,  Michigan, a city defined by immigrant labour, her work is a cinematic love letter to personal and communal histories. Her animations are infused with themes of childhood, diaspora, and cultural hybridity, blending folklore and autobiography to create emotionally resonant worlds rooted in family, place, and characters often living on the margins.

Her chosen medium — stop-motion animation — is among the oldest and most tactile forms of film, dating back to the early 20th century. Finlay constructs every element herself: sculpting figures, designing sets, performing character voices, and composing music. “The slowness is part of the point,” she explains. “It gives me time to sit with the stories, to process and translate them.” The intensely physical, time-consuming nature of the medium mirrors her themes of fragmented memory, neurodivergence, and emotional truth, and demands a patience that Finlay meets with creative stamina and flexibility.

Raised by post-war Ukrainian immigrants, Finlay’s early experiences of cultural dissonance and familial storytelling shaped her path. Though steered away from the arts, she pursued a degree in Slavic languages and an unofficial fine arts minor at Brooklyn College, eventually merging these passions in animation. In 2024, she was awarded the prestigious Kresge Artist Fellowship in animation.

Tamara Finlay imagines a ‘visit’ with her Ukrainian grandparents as an adult. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

Finlay’s work is more than aesthetic; it’s a necessary, resonant act of preservation and empathy. Through meticulous process and narrative sensitivity, she renders untold stories visible, offering audiences not just art, but understanding. In a fragmented world, her animations function as bridges: poetic, deliberate responses to disconnection and loss.

In an interview with Global Voices, Finlay spoke about diaspora, folklore, motherhood, using stop motion to reframe memory, and how storytelling can become a form of healing.

Omid Memarian (OM): Growing up in Dearborn with Ukrainian heritage, how did your family’s history shape your artistic vision?

Tamara Finlay (TF): Dearborn was a microcosm of the American immigrant experience, shaped by the automotive industry. My grandfather was an upholsterer at Ford, and many of our neighbors had come to the U.S. after hardship. Most families on our block had someone who worked on the line: immigrants from Lebanon, Italy, Poland, and Ukraine. Each household brought a cultural inheritance: language, food, music, and faith. You could walk a few houses down and feel transported to another country.

That coexistence, maintaining cultural roots while adapting to a new world, is central to my work. I explore not just my Ukrainian heritage but our community's shared rituals, relationships, and miscommunications. My work is a love letter to my own family and our neighborhood family.

The war in Ukraine led to a new wave of displacement. I  worked for a time in Ukrainian refugee resettlement. It was striking how closely their stories echoed those of my grandparents: war, displacement, grief, and the quiet strength required to start over in an unfamiliar place. That experience deeply shaped how I approach storytelling. It reminded me that what we call “heritage” often begins in rupture and resilience. These stories feel more urgent than ever. They’re not just about preserving memory, they’re about creating understanding across generations and borders, and making space for others to feel seen in stories of survival, adaptation, and hope.

OM: You pursued a degree in Slavic languages and nearly completed a fine arts minor. How did this blend of disciplines shape your storytelling?

TF: Being close to my grandparents, I believed that to truly know someone, you need to understand the language they speak most freely. Learning Ukrainian allowed me to experience their stories more intimately.

Also, as a neurodivergent person, I’ve always looked for more profound ways to feel understood — and to understand others. Language became a kind of “special interest” for me. I absorbed it passionately.

Art was something I always gravitated toward, but my family, wanting to spare me the “starving artist” struggle, discouraged it professionally. I kept creating almost secretly. That blend of language and visual expression became the foundation for my animation practice.

The artist prepares to enter the hut of Baba Yaga. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: Stop-motion is labor-intensive. What draws you to it?

TF: It mirrors how memory works for me — fragmented, tactile, emotional. The slowness gives me time to sit with the stories, to process and translate them. And because it’s so hands-on, it allows for a level of intimacy that feels sacred.

OM: You were diagnosed with ADHD in 2022. How has that shaped your creative process?

TF: The diagnosis helped me reframe my past, from academic struggles to burnout cycles. It also clarified why animation feels so natural. The tactile repetition, hyperfocus, intuitive structure – it all aligns with how my brain works.

It’s also why I’m drawn to offbeat, misunderstood characters. I’m finally creating with and for people like me.

OM: In “Pure Magic,” you use Baba Yaga and family stories. How do cultural references deepen your work? 

TF: They ground the work in real experience and shared memory. Baba Yaga isn’t just a mythical witch; she’s a stand-in for strong, complex older women like my grandmother, also called Baba. When I was a kid, she’d dress up as Baba Yaga to entertain, and sometimes terrify me. She had a dramatic flair, and those moments left a mark.

Blending folklore with family lets me explore emotions that feel both specific and universal. These references give my characters a heartbeat and my stories, roots.

OM: Your work often explores memory and healing. How does animation help process personal experience?

TF: Animation lets me re-enter moments from the past, not to recreate them, but to reframe them. It’s a deliberate act of witnessing. By building these tiny worlds, I gain perspective and a kind of closure. I don’t just depict memories, I re-evaluate and reshape them.

Tamara Finlay animating her childhood self. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: You were the lead vocalist in three bands. How does music intersect with your animation?

TF: Voice and sound are integral. I come from a line of very vocal performers: actors, opera singers. I voice all my characters, often layering in music I’ve composed or collaborated on. Sometimes music leads the whole animation. It’s another language I use.

That said, social anxiety and sensory overwhelm led me to step back from live performance. I never knew if I’d be “on,” and that unpredictability became daunting. During the pandemic, I turned to animation and realized it let me perform more sustainably. I could still tell stories and embody characters, but without being perceived in real time.

OM: What are some of the toughest parts of stop motion, and how do you manage them?

TF: Stamina—emotional, physical, and creative—is the biggest challenge. Hundreds of hours go into just a few minutes of footage. Add executive dysfunction, emotional dysregulation, and burnout to the mix, and it gets even tougher.

I’ve learned to work with my neurodivergence instead of against it: flexible routines, permission to be imperfect, knowing when to pause.

Motherhood adds another layer. My son is three, and the “mom guilt” is real. Most of my animation work happens after “mom office hours,” when he’s asleep or at school. But I’ve started involving him: showing him how stop motion works, playing with sound equipment together. It helps us connect and keeps me grounded, even when the work feels overwhelming.

The artist adjusts a puppet of her childhood self. Photo courtesy of Gold House Media, 2024.

OM: After “Pure Magic,” what stories are you excited to explore next?

TF: True to my neurodivergent nature, I have a lot of irons in the fire. I’m conceptualizing a collaborative series with other neurodivergent artists that explores what it feels like to be neurodivergent from the inside, sensorially and emotionally.

I’ve just released the pilot for “Baba Yaga’s Bestiary,” a playful, irreverent look at Ukrainian mythological figures. It’s currently featured in Kresge’s “Counter Spells” online exhibition.

I’m also developing a sitcom-style animated series based on my grandmother and the immigrant community she lived in. It layers humor with intergenerational trauma, resilience, and tenderness.

One project especially close to my heart is about my grandfather, who had Alzheimer’s. It explores memory as something mutable and shared, how it fragments, shifts, and connects us across time.

OM: What advice would you offer to those interested in pursuing stop-motion animation, especially with a focus on cultural storytelling?

TF: Start small, stay personal, and don’t wait for permission. Your story matters, especially if it hasn’t been told before. Use what you have — cardboard, clay, your voice — and make something true. Don’t be too precious about the process. Just animate, and then do it again.

Originally published on Global Voices

Bárbara Alegre at the studio_2021. Photo courtesy of Javier Rodero.

In a world overwhelmed by conflict, overstimulation, and emotional fatigue, Bárbara Alegre’s paintings offer a rare counterpoint: stillness, softness, and sincere connection. Using muted palettes and layered oil compositions, she creates intimate spaces that respond to chaos with tenderness. Her figures evoke a return to slowness, empathy, and connection with the self, others, and the natural world. For Alegre, painting is “a shelter,” a quiet act of healing in a world that often feels overwhelming.

Alegre was born in Spain and is currently based in Barcelona. Her formal training spans three key institutions: Llotja Escola d’Arts i Oficis, Chelsea College of Arts, and the Royal College of Art in London, where she completed her MA in Painting. After a long hiatus to raise a family, returning to RCA helped relaunch her career and deepen her conceptual approach to artmaking. Each educational stage shaped her evolution — from technical foundations to a more philosophical and emotionally driven practice.

This month, Alegre’s work was featured at the New Art Dealers Alliance (NADA) Art Fair in New York City, presented by the Korean gallery, Dohing Art. The exhibition marked a significant step in expanding her global reach, offering North American audiences a glimpse into her introspective and deeply felt world. Her presence at NADA underscored the universal resonance of her work, which has previously been exhibited across Europe and Asia.

Seunghee Chung, director of Dohing Art Gallery, said she was immediately drawn to Alegre’s work. “I was struck by Barbara’s ideas, philosophies, and the expressive gestures she employs to convey them,” Chung said. “The depth and completeness of her work gave me great confidence in her art.

Bárbara Alegre ‘Limits of a Given World’ 2024. Oil on canvas, 50 x 70 cm/19.68 x 27.56 in. Photo courtesy of the artist.

In an interview with Global Voices, Alegre spoke about the emotional and symbolic forces behind her art, the use of personal artifacts such as her late mother’s makeup, the psychological undercurrents that shape her visual language, and how painting serves both as personal therapy and a quiet offering to others seeking solace in art.

Excerpts from the interview follow:

Omid Memarian (OM): In “Limits of a Given World,” a figure plays cat’s cradle with snails, evoking slowness and reflection. How does this respond to today’s urgency and overstimulation?

Bárbara Alegre (BA): In recent years, I’ve felt a strong urge to create soothing images that counter the violence of our often-dysfunctional world. I see affection as a path to understanding, and painting as a quiet, restorative space, free from cynicism, meant to share calm, peace, and kindness.

This painting unfolds like a fable, told through a female figure who embodies humanistic values and a deep commitment to understanding and respecting the environment that sustains her body and mind, ultimately benefiting nature itself.

The work seeks to recover a lost bond, to return to nature’s pace, and to remind us it may still be possible to feel its restorative power — to bring back balance and harmony with the fauna, flora, and ecosystem, which are extensions of ourselves.

Bárbara Alegre ‘Last Lesson’ 2020. Make-up and oil on paper, 57 x 77 cm/22.44 x 30.31 in. Photo courtesy of Ione & Mann Gallery.

OM:  In your series, “Last Lesson,” you incorporated your mother’s make-up into your paintings after her passing. How did this intimate process influence your exploration of identity, memory, and transformation within your work?

BA: This body of work explored pain, trauma, and reparation during the grieving process. I painted portraits of my mother using the makeup and brushes she left behind in an attempt to keep her near, physically present. Her DNA was all over them; the work was about her, made of her, and for her. It became a slow farewell that ended when the makeup ran out.

Painting helped resolve an inner puzzle that words or actions couldn’t explain, as trauma often resists discourse. These symbolic representations shifted my pain, leading to acceptance, honoring, and relocation.

I reflected on Melanie Klein’s view of art therapy as an act of love and reparation, and on Donald Winnicott’s idea of art as a transitional space, moving away from reality into fantasy and illusion. In that sense, the make-up became the transitional object, helping separate from the mother when she is no longer there.

Bárbara Alegre, ‘Shadow’ 2024. Oil on canvas, 35 x 35 cm/13.78 x 13.78 in. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your paintings often feature a subdued palette and gentle compositions. Can you discuss how your choice of colors and forms contributes to the calm and introspection permeating your art? 

BA: From a young age, I was captivated by the emotional impact of color, intuitively arranging shades to evoke specific feelings. In my late teens, studying color psychology deepened this, as I learned how color shapes mood and inner states. Later, working as a florist added another layer, connecting hues with smells and symbolic meaning.

This foundation shapes my current palette: subdued tones, pastels, and skin colors chosen to evoke softness, empathy, vulnerability, and innocence, inviting calm and contemplation. 

London Gallery Weekend 2022. Bárbara Alegre’s ‘Last Lesson,’ 2020, on Piccadilly Lights. Photo by Will Amlot, courtesy of London Gallery Weekend.

OM: Your work explores the physical and psychological. How do you use personal stories to speak to broader themes like empathy and the human condition?

BA: My work is rooted in personal reflections and experiences, but it aims to go beyond them to speak to universal aspects of the human condition.

We all move through similar emotional landscapes and fundamental questions as we grow. Art has always addressed these themes; what changes is how we express them.

I try to create a space where viewers can sense the connection between physical sensations and psychological responses. My goal is for the work to resonate deeply, fostering empathy and a shared understanding of our collective humanity.

Bárbara Alegre, ‘Seven Souls’ 2024. Oil on canvas, 70 x 50 cm 27.56 x 19.68 in. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: In works like “Fight, Flight, Freeze,” you explore trauma and psychological states. How do you translate these emotions into visual form, and what challenges come with that?

BA: My approach to translating complex emotional states, especially those tied to trauma, into figurative visual language is deeply personal, yet guided by a wish to connect with others. The challenge is giving form to internal, often abstract emotions without falling into cliché. I start by listening to my body, locating where the pain sits, understanding its nature, and sensing what might soothe it. This ongoing self-dialogue resembles a psychological session. Though abstract art might seem easier, I find it too simplistic for the intricacy of trauma. I aim to shape these invisible feelings through figuration that honors their depth and invites empathy.

Bárbara Alegre, ‘Naigo’ 2020. Oil on canvas, 90 x 130 cm/35.43 x 51.18 in. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: You’ve called art a “shelter,” a space for reflection and solace. How does this shape your process and the environments you create in exhibitions?

BA: In my experience, the role of art in mental health and emotional well-being has been vital. Since childhood, drawing and painting have helped me transform painful experiences into positive acts. When life feels reduced to pain, finding non-harmful ways to cope becomes essential—and for me, regular artistic practice is one of them. I try to share this refuge with others, offering tranquility through contemplation and the experience of art. The galleries I work with support this — whether by adding a carpet to a booth, painting walls in soft pastels, or choosing a space with a fireplace. That final sense of softness lives in every detail.

Bárbara Alegre, ‘Fight Flight Freeze’ 2023. Oil on canvas, 80 x 80 cm/31.49 x 31.49 in. Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: With the increasing digitization of the art world, how do you perceive the role of physical presence and tactile experience in engaging with art?

BA: For me, the tactile and visual experience is essential; words can’t convey the profound feeling of seeing and touching. I try to evoke that sensation through paint.

Digital platforms are useful for accessibility, especially during times like COVID, but their limits are clear. On screens, artworks lose depth, detail, texture, color fidelity, and the subtle human traces of the original.

Nothing compares to seeing art in person, where all the senses engage in an immersive experience. While both formats may coexist, digital can never replace the richness of direct physical encounter.

Originally published on Global Voices

Sadegh Adham, in his studio in Tehran, 2023. Image courtesy of the artist.

Sadegh Adham‘s artistic journey began in the most unexpected of circumstances. The sounds of war marked his early years as he grew up during the Iran-Iraq war. Born in 1978 in Masjed Soleyman, a city in southern Iran in Khuzestan province, Adham’s childhood was shaped by the intensity of conflict and its lasting impact. He recalls how, at the age of five, a missile destroyed their home, and his family was forced to seek refuge in his maternal grandmother's house in Shushtar. Yet even amidst the chaos of war, Adham’s innate creativity began to take root.

Adham recalls the first sparks of his artistic journey — his father working with melted lead and his mother’s drawing book, where he first copied a mermaid. These early experiences laid the foundation for his passion for art.

Sadegh Adham, ‘Soldier Helmet,’ ‘War’ Series 2013. Image courtesy of the artist.

Growing up in a region with limited access to art education, Adham’s determination to create was unwavering. He fondly remembers gazing at a box of 96 colored pencils in a bookstore window, longing to own them. Eventually, after a year and a half of saving, he bought the set, fueling his artistic drive.

Later, Adham pursued formal education at the University of Fine Arts in Tehran, where he refined his skills. His works now explore themes of memory, identity, and culture, blending personal history with universal storytelling and inviting viewers to engage with the past and present.

Over the past decade, Sadegh Adham has held solo exhibitions in Iran and showcased his works in galleries across the U.K., France, and Canada, gaining international recognition for his ability to blend traditional themes with contemporary expressions.

Sadegh Adham, ‘Defiance.’ 10 x 10 x 15 cm (3.94 x 3.94 x 5.91 in), 2015. Image courtesy of the artist.

In an interview with Global Voices, Adham discussed how his childhood experiences shaped his art, focusing on themes of memory, trauma, identity, and the exploration of mythical figures to connect the past with the present.

Excerpts from the interview follow:

Omid Memarian (OM): How have your childhood experiences influenced your growth and development as an artist?

Sadegh Adham (SA): I grew up in Khuzestan, a region where the spirit and form of mythology resonate strongly. My childhood in this ancient city, with its unique architecture and civilization, inspired me and provided a foundation for creating works that are perhaps less explored today.

OM: How do mythical figures from the region, especially Iran, inspire your art, and how do you connect the past with the present through these characters? 

SA: I believe we live on the surface of the past, experiencing something new. The more we value these roots in art and life, the more secure the foundations of artistic creation will be, as we can rely on the authenticity of our historical heritage and create works deeply rooted in culture and history. You are a product and definition of a specific political-social era, symbolically continuing and developing the culture of the past.

Sadegh Adham, ‘Rostam,’ Bronze, H183 x W57 x D31/5 cm (H72.2 x W22.4 x D12.4 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: What motivated your “War” series, and how did you create a collection rooted in personal experience yet accessible to a global audience?

SA: I often create works based on my life conditions. Since this collection was my first experience in sculpting, and due to my life in southern Iran and the tangible experiences of war [between Iran and Iraq, 1980–1988] and its psychological and emotional toll, it was perhaps the birth of this malignant tumor within me, expressed through art. I have always wanted to interpret war differently, and these works result from my personal experience during the Iran-Iraq war.

OM: You mentioned that part of an artist's role is to create questions and that imperfection can evolve into something accepted and perfect. What inspired this perspective?

SA: In the early stages of my career, I created realistic sculptures, but my dissatisfaction with this style led me to contemplate how to create different forms and meanings. By introducing imperfections in the works and gradually achieving a deeper understanding of beauty, I aimed to create a work that transcended its flaws and became complete in its own right. Every day, I try to expand my perspective, merging meaning and form, so I can transcend the material world and embark on a journey of meaning. These works invite humanity on an aesthetic journey, free from political and social biases.

Sadegh Adham, No.2, 2020, 99 x 58 x 21 cm (39 x 22.8 x 8.3 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: How do you manage the contradiction between imperfection and perfection in your creative process, and what is your concept of imperfection in art?

SA: I believe imperfection is inherent in us as humans. When imperfection is accepted consciously, it can be nurtured and developed. Denying imperfection is essentially the beginning of creativity in the works. The more we search for imperfection, the more we realize that there is a decisive and mysterious world behind it, and by accepting it, we come to understand that perfection is the end of the road.

OM: How did migrating from Masjed Soleiman to Tehran affect your artistic perspective, and what differences in themes, subjects, and the feeling of your works can be observed after this change in location?

SA: In 2009, when I frequently traveled between Tehran and Shushtar — one traditional and small, the other relatively modern with tall buildings — I experienced a contradiction and paradox. I found a sort of suspension in my works, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, where this contradiction seemed to create a sense of uncertainty within me. I lived three days in one city and three days in another. This difference in space, with its ancient villas and modern high-rise buildings, seemed like time moved slowly in a town, while in Tehran and industrial cities, time was always in short supply.

Sadegh Adhma. Untitled. 2018. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: In the “Sufi” collection, how did you arrive at a poetic and mythical perspective in your artistic expression, and how has this viewpoint affected the form and content of your works?

SA: Initially, the Shahnameh [The Persian Book of Kings] symbolized an epic for me, but the more I explored this work, I realized it was actually a journey of self-discovery. Even the moment when Rostam kills his son with his own hands seemed to me like Rostam killing his own breath to achieve a higher, transcendent path. The Simurgh symbolizes for me a form of witnessing, and for me, the Shahnameh became more about spiritual growth than heroism.

Sadegh Adham, ‘Cow,’ Bronze, H36 x D45 x W23 cm (H14.2 x D17.7 x W9.1 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: How do you establish this global connection in your works, and what elements of Iranian culture and art do you showcase in them?

SA: In my works, particularly in the Shahnameh-inspired pieces, I have tried to use simple and complete forms such as circles, squares, and cylinders. By blending these forms with Iranian architecture — emphasizing specifically Iranian architecture — I have been able to achieve a unique expression within the  Saqqā-ḵāna School. I believe the only genuinely impactful Iranian style, which unfortunately remained at the surface, is the  Saqqā-ḵāna School. Through studying Iranian art in sculpture, I aim to elevate it to a different level.

Sadegh Adham. ‘Urban Life.’ 2013. Image courtesy of the artist.

Originally published on Global Voices

‘Al Khidr,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor on aquaboard, 101.6 x 152.4 cm (40 x 60 in), 2009. Image courtesy of the artist.

Shiva Ahmadi’s art is a dance between tradition and contemporary narrative, where vibrant colors and intricate details converge to tell stories of power, resilience, and identity. Her works are steeped in symbolism, drawing from the poetic richness of Persian, Indian, and Middle Eastern traditions while addressing modern socio-political realities. 

Born in Tehran, Ahmadi’s early experiences during the Iranian Revolution and the Iran-Iraq War significantly influenced her artistic voice. She later pursued multiple graduate degrees in fine arts in the United States, where she also navigated the challenges of being an immigrant artist post-9/11. 

Currently a professor at UC Davis, Ahmadi is dedicated to nurturing creativity and critical thinking in her students. Her recent exhibition, “Tangle,” held at the Shoshana Wayne Gallery in Los Angeles, showcased new works highlighting female figures immersed in fantastical landscapes of land and water. Through luminous colors and mystical figures, Ahmadi intertwines themes of “migration, war, and the brutal treatment of marginalized people,” inviting viewers “to probe beneath the surface of inherited narratives.”

Shiva Ahmadi at her studio in San Francisco. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Ahmadi’s work has been exhibited internationally, with shows at prestigious institutions such as the Asia Society Museum in New York and the Ontario Museum of Arts in Toronto, Canada. Her pieces are part of esteemed collections, including The Metropolitan Museum of Art and The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles, underscoring her global impact. Her animations, paintings, and installations consistently push the boundaries of artistic expression, offering fresh perspectives on cultural and political ecosystems.

In an interview with Global Voices, Ahmadi spoke about the influence of historical myths and personal experiences on her art, the challenges of being an immigrant artist, and the evolving role of women in her narratives. She also shared insights into her creative process, her passion for teaching, and her vision for the future of her artistic journey.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

‘Lotus,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor and ink on aquaboard, 304.8 x 152.4 cm (120 x 60 in), 2014. Image courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): Your art often incorporates rich symbolism and references to historical myths. Could you elaborate on how these elements inform your narratives, particularly in series like “Throne” and “Apocalyptic Playland”?

Shiva Ahmadi (SA): Growing up in Iran, I was surrounded by Persian miniature paintings that adorned the walls around me. While beautiful, intricate, and detailed, these images were also surprisingly graphic — many depicted scenes of conflict and fighting, which stood in contrast to their purpose as decorative art. Years later, in graduate school, as I searched for a way to reflect on the world around me, I found these historical images to be a highly relevant source of inspiration.

‘Pipe,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor on wquaboard, 101.6 x 152.4 cm (40 x 60 in), 2014. Collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: In your series “Reinventing the Poetics of Myth,” you examine issues such as capitalism and glorifying oil in the Middle East. How do you navigate the intersection of art and politics?

SA: I believe it’s impossible to be Iranian and not be political. As an Iranian immigrant woman, my life has been directly shaped by political decisions. A glance at history reveals how oil politics in the Middle East has played a significant role over time. I firmly believe that much of what has happened in my country throughout its history is deeply tied to the oil dynamics in the region and the impact of capitalism.

‘Against the Pull,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor on paper, 38.1 x 57.15 cm (15 x 22.5 in), 2024. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: How did your upbringing shape your artistic vision, and in what ways do they manifest in your work?

SA: Growing up during the Islamic Revolution and the eight-year war between Iran and Iraq made me acutely aware of my surroundings, instilling a deep sense of anxiety and instability that later became central to my work. I believe one reason I’m so drawn to working with watercolor is its uncontrollable nature — water flows freely, requiring significant effort and skill to manage. This quality perfectly conveys the instability that resonates with my experiences and themes.

OM: How do your techniques and vibrant colors, rooted in Persian, Indian, and Middle Eastern traditions, reflect your process and the cultural ecosystems shaping your narratives?

SA: Although I am not formally trained as a miniaturist painter, nor do I create Persian miniature paintings, I have immense respect for this traditional art form, which requires dedicated training to master. With its many stylistic schools and rich history, it is a profound artistic tradition. Conceptually, I draw deep inspiration from the narrative elements of Persian miniature painting. The intricate stories, featuring unique heroes and villains, are captivating and thought-provoking. These paintings invite prolonged engagement, revealing new details with each viewing. This quality inspires me to use metaphor and narrative to reflect on contemporary issues in today’s world.

‘Broken Balance,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor on paper, 38.1 x 57.15 cm (15 x 22.5 in), 2024. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: How have your fine arts degrees and residencies shaped your artistic practice and concepts?

SA: My education proved invaluable, especially since I did not get my BFA in the U.S. and lacked training in critical thinking. At that time, art schools in Iran did not emphasize conceptual development. Attending fine arts programs in the US and participating in residencies significantly helped me cultivate the skills to analyze and discuss artwork while experimenting with new ideas. 

Watch: : ‘Marooned,’ by Shiva Ahmadi, single-channel video animation with sound (handmade animation), Edition of 3, Collection of Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts, 2021.

OM: How do you teach art at UC Davis, balancing its intuitive nature with fostering creativity and critical thinking in students?

SA: Teaching art students how to observe genuinely is essential. Looking is different than seeing. One of my first exercises for beginning students involves placing a bag of apples on the table and asking students to draw them using simple lines. When we review their drawings, I often notice that the apples look almost identical in shape and size. This happens because students glance quickly at the apples, memorize the first one they see, and replicate it across the drawing. They are drawing from memory rather than observation. This exercise underscores the importance of mindful and intentional observation, which enhances creativity. Once students master this skill, they can apply it across various artistic practices and experiences.

‘Cascade,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor on paper, 57.15 x 76.2 cm (22.5 x 30 in), 2024. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: What inspired your focus on female figures in your recent exhibition, “Strands of Resilience,” and how do they embody resilience and strength in your narratives?

SA: Before the [COVID-19] pandemic, the main characters in my paintings were faceless and genderless. This was intentional, as I wanted my audience to focus on the actions and message of the work rather than the gender or identity. Like everyone else, when the pandemic hit, I isolated myself in the studio. To cope with the anxiety, I began creating gestural drawings. Over time, I realized that the figures were predominantly female. I believe my subconscious was deeply aware of my own body. Gradually, I started placing women at the center and making them the focus of my work, which led to the creation of the Strands of Resilience series. A few years later, with the uprising of Iranian women, I became even more focused on the issues surrounding women’s oppression, as this is something I have personally experienced growing up under the Islamic Republic.

‘Fiery Descent,’ Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor and silkscreen print on paper, 104.14 x 152.4 cm (41 x 60 in), 2023. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: How do you see your artistic journey evolving, and are there new themes or media you want to explore?

SA: No matter the medium, my work will always serve as a commentary on the world around me. Currently, I am working on a new animation that will be part of an immersive installation incorporating space, lighting, and music. The interplay of lighting and sound will amplify the emotional narrative, creating a powerful and immersive experience. This project is still in its early stages, and we will see how it evolves. In today’s fast-paced world of constant social media scrolling, I believe immersive installations that engage all the senses can create a profound impact, drawing people into the experience in a way that static media often cannot.

‘Flame Proofed’, Shiva Ahmadi, watercolor and silkscreen print on paper, 104.14 x 152.4 cm (41 x 60 in), 2023. Image courtesy of the artist.

Originally published on Global Voices

Maryam Eisler, ‘Tango dans l’Arene’ ( 2021) from ‘If Only These Walls Could Talk,’ shot in Arles, France. Image courtesy of the artist.

Maryam Eisler is an internationally acclaimed photographer and author whose work blends the poetic and the profound. Her photography navigates the intersections of personal identity, collective memory, and the sensorial sublime, often exploring the nuanced strength and beauty of femininity. 

Photo of Maryam Eisler. Diamond Beach, Iceland, 2018. Image courtesy of the artist.

Eisler’s artistic journey includes a series of celebrated books such as Voices: East London and Art Studio America: Contemporary Artist Spaces (co-editor), each capturing the layered aesthetics of cultural and spatial narratives. Her works have been showcased in renowned exhibitions, with series like If Only These Walls Could Talk and Imagining Tina: A Dialogue With Edvard Weston earning critical acclaim for their ability to evoke emotion while embodying conceptual depth.

Born in Iran and now based in London, Eisler’s educational path took her to Wellesley College and Columbia University for postgraduate studies, a foundation that has deeply influenced her intellectual and artistic pursuits. Her contributions to the art world extend beyond her photography, as she has held esteemed positions, including Trustee of the Whitechapel Gallery and Chair of the Middle East Acquisition Committee at the Tate Museum for 10 years.

Additionally, a chief contributor at LUX magazine, Esiler's editorial roles for prestigious art publications like Harper’s Bazaar Art and Vanity Fair have made her a leading voice in the discourse on contemporary art and culture.

Eisler’s work is distinguished by its profound celebration of femininity, exploring the themes of resilience, sensuality, and empowerment. Her lens captures women not as subjects but as forces of nature, weaving narratives that highlight their strength, beauty, and complexity. Through her photographs, she reclaims and redefines the gaze, offering a compelling commentary on the role of women in art and society.

In an interview with Global Voices, Maryam Eisler delves into her artistic philosophy, process, and the cultural reflections that shape her extraordinary body of work.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Maryam Eisler, from Age of Innocence series, 2023. Image courtesy of the artist.

Omid Memarian (OM): In your “Age of Innocence” statement, you describe life as “poetry in motion, a living, breathing canvas which twists and turns, never still or static.” How does this perspective influence your approach to capturing movement and emotion in your photography? 

Maryam Eisler (ME): Life as “poetry in motion” deeply informs my photography. I see every moment as fluid and constantly evolving, thus shaping the way I capture movement interlaced with emotion. Rather than focusing solely on stillness, I aim to evoke a sense of transformation within each frame. Whether it's the way light shifts, the movement of fabric, or the expression of a subject, I try to convey the energy that animates the world around us. Emotions are never static — they ebb and flow. By embracing this perspective on life, I strive to create images that resonate with deep emotional content, at times nostalgic, maybe even melancholic and sometimes romantic, inviting the viewer to feel the pulse of life in every shot. My end game is to create a deeply poetic painting using the camera as the medium to achieve my goal.

Maryam Eisler, ‘La Lionne’ from the‘ If Only These Walls Could Talk’ ( 2021) shot at the Nord Pinus hotel in Arles, France. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: Reflecting on your “If Only These Walls Could Talk” series, you mention the joy of “meandering through corridors and spaces once trodden by the greats of art, culture, music, entertainment and literature.” How does the historical significance of a location inform the narratives you create within your photographs? 

ME: The historical significance of a location deeply informs the narratives I create in my photography, particularly when capturing spaces rich in cultural and personal histories. The Nord-Pinus Hotel in Arles is one such place where the past seems to echo through every corridor. Known for hosting iconic figures like Picasso, Van Gogh and Hemingway, it also has a strong connection to the world of bullfighting, a major part of Arles’ cultural identity. Suite 10 at the Nord-Pinus, for example, was frequented by the legendary bullfighter Luis Miguel Dominguin, who greeted the crowds from the suite’s balcony, imbuing the space with a raw, masculine energy. This contrasts sharply with the hotel’s connection to the world of fashion and photography, like Helmut Newton’s famous shot of Charlotte Rampling in 1972, where the sitter is presented in a sexy yet highly feminine and empowered manner.

The juxtaposition of these energies — the grace and vulnerability of Rampling’s powerful femininity with the raw, intense masculinity of bullfighters — adds layers of complexity to my visual approach. When I shot at the Nord-Pinus, I wasn’t just capturing a location, but I was also engaging with the tension between these contrasting forces. The hotel’s bullfighting history, combined with its artistic heritage, provides a unique backdrop that informs the mood and narrative of my images. I find that the interplay of light, texture, and space also becomes a way to visually explore these contrasting energies, creating a dialogue between the masculine and the feminine, the timeless and the contemporary, in each frame. Each image tells a story that is both personal and universal, shaped by the history of the location and its past occupants. 

Maryam Eisler, ‘Stillness in Motion’ (2021) from ‘The Now’ series, shot in Antiparos, Greece. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: In your “The Now” series, you aim to capture “motion in stillness, anchored in ‘The Now’, consciously present amidst the glory of nature and light.” How do you balance the dynamic interplay between movement and stillness to convey a sense of presence in your work? 

ME: In The Now series, I have tried to capture the delicate balance between movement and stillness, allowing both elements to coexist in harmony. A key theme in this particular body of work is the meditative presence of a lone figure, photographed in the stillness of water, where the subject seems at one with nature, space, and place, as if suspended in the eternal flow of nature. By capturing motion within stillness — whether through the gentle ripple of water or shifting light — I have tried to create a visual dialogue between the fleeting and the permanent, inviting the viewer to experience a profound connection to the present, grounded in the glory of nature.

Maryam Eisler, ‘The Sublime Feminine’ (2017) shot in the Baux de Provence, France. Image courtesy of the artist.

 OM: You have expressed a consistent exploration into “sensuality and the female gaze.” How have your upbringing and personal experiences shaped your portrayal of femininity and sensuality in your photography? 

ME: They have all played significant roles in shaping how I approach the portrayal of femininity and sensuality in my photography. Attending Wellesley College, an all-women’s institution, was particularly transformative in reinforcing my sense of female identity and empowerment. Surrounded by strong, intellectual women, I gained a deeper understanding of the complexities of womanhood and the power of solidarity in shaping one’s voice.

Maryam Eisler, ‘Elle et Le Chandelier’ from the ‘If Only These Walls Could Talk’ series ( 2021), shot at the Nord Pinus hotel in Arles, France. Image courtesy of the artist.

Later, my professional journey in the beauty industry, working with companies like L'Oréal and Estée Lauder, also profoundly influenced my visual narrative. At the time, my focus was placed on women’s external beauty in developing ad campaigns that emphasized aesthetics. This gave me a refined understanding of how beauty can be presented to the world, but as I transitioned into photography, I sought to go deeper — capturing not just the surface but the essence of a woman's inner world, her soul, and her psyche.

Growing up in Paris in the 1980s, I was immersed in an environment where the fashion and advertising industries were heavily focused on female sexuality and sensuality. The ads and movies of that time, often daring and provocative, struck a fine balance between empowerment and objectification. This exposure shaped my approach to sensuality in my own work, where I aim to portray women in a way that is both empowering and authentic, respecting the fine line between self-expression and vulnerability. Through my photography, I seek to capture the essence of femininity as a multi-layered experience, not just as a surface image but as an exploration of strength, sensuality, and identity.

As an Iranian woman, I am especially proud of the brave women in Iran who are fighting against bigotry and oppression. Their courage and resilience inspire me profoundly and shape my commitment to portraying women in all their strength, resilience, and beauty.

Maryam Eisler, ‘The One and Only‘ ( 2021), shot in Greece. Image courtesy of the artist.

 OM: In your “The Now” series, you reference Laozi's concept that “true power is stillness within motion.” How do philosophical ideas inform your photographic practice, particularly in capturing the essence of a moment? 

ME: Philosophical ideas, especially those rooted in my own cultural heritage, as seen, for example, in Persian poetry’s timeless wisdom, have deeply informed my life and, therefore, photographic practice, particularly when it comes to capturing the essence of a moment. Laozi’s notion that “true power is stillness within motion” resonates with me profoundly as I strive to find that perfect balance between the fleeting and the eternal in my work. This idea aligns with the musings of Persian poet Omar Khayyam: “Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life,” emphasizing, in my case, the capture of a single frame that speaks to the fullness of this present moment — its transient beauty, its truth.

Maryam Eisler, ‘Mindscape, Landscape’ (2024). Image courtesy of the artist.

Saadi’s wisdom also comes to mind: “Have patience. All things are difficult before they become easy,” – speaking to the art of patiently waiting for the right moment to unfold, just as Henri Cartier-Bresson famously described the “decisive moment’, when all elements of a scene align perfectly, and the essence of the moment is captured in a single click.

For me, this kind of philosophy is about embracing both stillness and motion, waiting for the universe to reveal the perfect moment, and then trusting my instinct to photograph it. The result translates into an instant where motion and stillness come together, intertwined. 

Maryam Eisler, ‘Motion in Stillness’ series. (2021). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: You have been recognized as one of Artnet’s ‘100 most powerful women in art’ and have a focus on “the feminine sublime.” How do you see the role of women evolving in the field of photography, especially with advancements in technology and AI? 

ME: As a woman, and especially as a woman photographer, I believe that emotional intelligence and intuition are vital in creating imagery that connects deeply with my viewers. For me, photography is about conveying feeling, not technical precision. I’m more interested in evoking an emotional response than in capturing perfect compositions or sharp focus. My work is an exploration of transposing my own feelings onto the photographic paper, creating a visceral experience for the viewer that resonates on a deeply human level. While AI and technology can offer new tools, I believe they can never replace the human touch — the emotional depth and intuition that women bring to their craft. The physicality of the image, the human hand that captures a precise moment, and the eye that witnesses it all remain irreplaceable. Photography, for me, is about transcending the technical to communicate a deeply personal, emotional truth.

Maryam Eisler, ‘Positano, Portrait of a Lady‘ ( 2021), shot in Positano, Italy. Image courtesy of the artist.

OM:  In your “Age of Innocence” statement, you mention that life is “always marching forward, in an endless flow of time.” How do you address the concept of time and its passage in your photographic compositions? 

ME:  In my “Age of Innocence” series, I explore the passage of time as both a force and fleeting beauty. Much like Martin Scorsese’s film, where the past and present coexist in a delicate dance, my work reflects on the tension between innocence and life experience. In my manner of capturing movement, I have aimed to create images that feel both timeless and transient, inviting the viewer to pause and reflect on the profound beauty of time as it slips away, one moment at a time.

Maryam Eisler, ‘We Will Always Have Paris’ ( 2024). Image courtesy of the artist.

Whilst shooting the series back in January 2024 in Paris, on Place Furstenberg, a most charming and romantic corner of Saint Germain des Pres, I was reminded of the timeless quality of Chopin’s “Nocturnes” … particularly in the way that his genius mind blended longing and melancholy with fleeting beauty, like a delicate waltz between past and present. The movement in Chopin’s music often feels like a slow, elegant passage of time, evoking both nostalgia and the ephemeral nature of life. Similarly, in my photography, I aim to capture moments that are infused with that same sense of delicate interplay, where the innocence of youth and the wisdom of experience coexist in harmony.

As I move beyond my own “Age of Innocence,” I realize that time has granted me a new layer of wisdom and experience. This evolution allows me to approach my work with a deeper understanding and a more nuanced perspective. My current age, 56, and the life I've lived, I believe, add depth and richness to my photographic vision — transforming each image into a reflection not just of the moment captured but of the wisdom that comes from seeing life unfold over time. Photography, for me, is not just about what is seen but about infusing each moment with the knowledge and emotional depth that comes from living through many.

Maryam Eisler in the iconic Suite No.10 at the Nord Pinus Hotel, Arles, France, October 2021. Image courtesy of the artist.

Originally published on Global Voices

Sara Qashghai, photographed with one of her intricate Pateh pieces, 2024. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Sara Soleimani Ghashghai’s work with Pateh, a traditional Iranian needlework art, offers a fresh and contemporary interpretation of a centuries-old craft. Pateh, distinct to the city of Kerman in southeastern Iran, is a form of embroidery where wool, silk, and sometimes gold threads stitch intricate designs, often of flowers, birds, and vibrant patterns. 

Yet, through her mastery of seven distinct sewing techniques, Qashghai transcends traditional motifs, weaving not just images but complex narratives that convey emotions and stories with remarkable depth. By pushing the boundaries of this ancient art form, Sara elevates Pateh into a medium for sophisticated storytelling, communicating her feelings, reflections, and powerful social messages in a way that feels both intimate and universally resonant.

This art dates back centuries and has roots in the Persian Safavid era, with the earliest known examples from 1868. It has long been a way for the people of Kerman to bring the colors of nature into their homes, compensating for the lack of greenery in the arid desert landscape.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Say Her Name,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. 80 x 100 cm (31.5 x 39.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Qashghai’s journey into Pateh began after studying historical preservation and fine arts. She completed her bachelor’s in historic preservation and pursued her higher education in painting. Qashghai worked as a restorer of antique wooden objects for over a decade, but eight years ago, she shifted her focus to Pateh.

In 2024, Qashghai was invited by Persian Place, a nonprofit supporting Persian artists, to the United States for a month-long residency. Established in 2022, “Persian Place offers space for artistic experimentation and research, with a focus on Persian art, allowing her to create new works and collaborate with fellow artists.

Her work gained recognition when the Aran Gallery in Tehran began showcasing her pieces. Since then, she has exhibited widely, including in prestigious Los Angeles and San Diego galleries. Her work is featured at the Advocartsy Gallery in Los Angeles and the Mingei Museum in San Diego. Her exhibitions abroad highlight her commitment to elevating Pateh on the global art stage while staying true to its cultural roots.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Memories,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. 55.5 x 116.5 cm (21.9 x 45.9 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

In an interview with Global Voices, Qashghai discusses her unique artistic journey, which blends creativity with cultural preservation.

Excerpts from the interview follow:

Sara Qashghai, ‘Humans and Anthropoids in a Dance of Liberty,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. Size: 128 x 65 cm (50.4 x 25.6 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Sara Qashghai (SQ): My works evolved from handicrafts to art through my unique approach to technique based on two main factors. First, while this craft once earned recognition in global museums, rising material costs and mass production led to diminished quality with repetitive designs. I focus on using high-quality materials and creative techniques. Second, Iranian women, particularly nomadic ones, have historically used wool to create beauty in everyday life — through carpets, kilims, Gabbeh and Pateh.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Farewell,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. 50 x 110 cm (19.7 x 43.3 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Through the help of my artisans, I express emotions, thoughts, hopes, and dreams using thread. The threads reflect the mood of the piece — soft and close together to convey calm or spread apart, rough and expressive to show anger or frustration. Each stitch and color choice has its own meaning. In the past, I directed all stitching techniques, but now, the emotions of my artisans — who have experienced violence and injustice — naturally influence the work, creating a powerful collaboration.

For example, in my piece on Mahsa Amini, the harsh stitches and colors conveyed a deep sense of bitterness and violence. The threads, sometimes harsh like a noose or delicate like flower petals, help me tell my story. Technique and theme are equally important. In “Niloofar in the Swamp,” I portray the Iranian woman as a resilient water lily growing in harsh conditions. The threads can symbolize different elements —war, peace, or even angels — ultimately conveying my hope for peace and victory.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Till You Are Unaware of Body and Soul, How Can You Know the Beloved’s Heart,’ inspired by The Conference of the Birds by Attar, 2024. Pateh Douzi on Wool. 200 x 100 cm (78.7 x 39.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

SQ: I don’t consciously choose the themes; I am deeply influenced by events, memories, and experiences around me, as well as how society and people respond to these changes. I believe an artist cannot be untouched by social transformations. Therefore, the themes of my work are inspired by my feelings and the events around me.

OM: How does collaboration with local artists and showcasing your work globally impact the revival of these arts?

SQ: Unfortunately, due to economic challenges and high production costs, Kerman Pateh and materials are experiencing a noticeable decline, leading artisans to replicate previous designs. When artists like myself enter the scene, focusing on material selection, injecting financial support, and applying creativity, they significantly revitalize the themes and techniques, contributing to the resurgence of this art form.

 Sara Qashghai, ‘Mothers and Children of the Middle East,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. Size: 182 x 67 cm (71.5 x 26.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

SQ: My process typically begins with an idea reflecting my concerns and the issues facing my community at that time. I collaborate with local artisans, making it a collective, feminine effort. Initially, I would paint the design on paper and transfer it to fabric. Now, I draw directly on the fabric, sometimes sketching multiple ideas and combining them spontaneously. Half of the design is improvised for some works, and I always create color sketches to guide my thread selections before adding intuitive stitches.

OM: What is the perception of your work in Iran, and are there other artists using similar techniques for their artistic expression? How does it differ from your experience abroad?

Sara: I can confidently say that no one in Iran has woven their imagination with Kerman Pateh as I have. In Kerman, this technique is typically viewed as a handicraft with designs that have undergone minimal changes for nearly a century. I have not seen anyone else use this technique since my work. However, I have encountered some pieces in museums near San Diego that employed sewing similar to mine. Still, they did not match the diversity of Kerman Pateh, which features seven distinct and fascinating stitching techniques — something even specialists in American museums have noted.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Astonished, She Said, “The Army of Iran Has Come,”‘ Inspired by ‘Women in Shahnameh‘ by Ferdowsi, 2024. Pateh Douzi on Wool. Size: 300 x 100 cm (118.1 x 39.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: To what extent can you freely express your ideas and balance between conveying a message and artistic expression, ensuring your work doesn’t become merely propagandistic?

SQ: When I create and begin sketching, I become so immersed in the narrative that I simply draw whatever comes to my mind and heart, influenced by my emotions and experiences. I do not think about it becoming propagandistic; if it happens, it’s entirely unintentional. I believe that even if it were to occur, there would be an authenticity that transcends mere slogans.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Memories,’ 2023. Pateh Douzi on fabric. 55.5 x 116.5 cm (21.9 x 45.9 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: Who are some artists within and outside Iran that inspire your work?

SQ: In some pieces, I have been heavily influenced by poets and artists from Iran, particularly the themes in the works of classical Iranian poets. For instance, images from “Shahnameh” by Ferdowsi, “The Conference of the Birds” by Attar, and “Kelileh o Demneh” have had a profound impact on me. Regarding Western artists, I draw inspiration from Cézanne, Matisse, and Degas, whose works I adore. Of course, there are many others, as I love exploring galleries and museums and have a strong visual memory.

Sara Qashghai, ‘Wondering in the Land and See,’ 2024. Pateh Douzi on Wool. 200 x 100 cm (78.7 x 39.4 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

Originally published on Global Voices

Portrait of artist Alexis Peskine. The photo was taken by Thomas Babeau and used with permission.

Alexis Peskine is a visionary artist whose work seamlessly fuses materiality with metaphor, invoking both aesthetic grace and profound cultural resonance. Peskine's distinctive technique employs nails hammered into wooden surfaces, creating a tactile dialogue between destruction and construction.

His work, which often explores the complexities of Afro-descendant identity, embodies a raw yet harmonious intersection of spirituality, historical memory, and collective consciousness. Peskine’s art transcends the confines of portraiture, offering instead a visual language that speaks to the collective soul, capturing the nuances of strength, vulnerability, and transformation.

Born in 1979 in Paris into a family rich with cultural and artistic influence, Peskine’s identity is shaped by his Afro-Brazilian heritage and his French-Lithuanian roots. His father, an architect, and his grandfather, a carpenter from the island of Itaparica in the state of Bahia in Brazil, who raised Peskin's mother in Salvador, Bahia, instilled in him a deep appreciation for craftsmanship, while his mother’s Afro-Brazilian lineage connected him to the spiritual practices and cultural legacies of the African diaspora.

Raised in a household in Issy-les-Moulineaux, a city in southwestern Paris that revered art, Peskine was encouraged to develop his creative voice, drawing upon the stories and experiences of his lineage. His work is, therefore, not just an aesthetic pursuit but an ongoing exploration of justice, healing, and spiritual awakening.

Alexis Peskine and assistant at work gilding nail heads, October Gallery. Photo: Jonathan Greet.

Peskine’s formal education at Howard University and the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA) in the United States laid the foundation for his technical expertise. Yet, his artistic vision has expanded far beyond the classroom. Currently based in Paris, he continues to evolve as a dynamic presence in the global art scene. His recent solo exhibition, “Forest Figures,” at October Gallery in London (October 3 – November 9, 2024), marked a significant moment in his career, showcasing a body of work that blends spiritual introspection with a radical exploration of form.

In an interview with Global Voices, Peskine delves into the evolution of his practice, the influence of his familial and cultural background, and the shifting focus of his recent work — from politically charged to spiritually resonant. Through his work, Peskine offers a bold visual language that seeks not only to represent but to heal, bridging the material and immaterial realms with every stroke of the nail.

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Alexis Peskine, ‘Power,’ 2017. Moon gold leaf on nails, earth, coffee, water, and acrylic on wood. 195 x 250 cm (76 x 98 in). ©Alexis Peskine. Majed Halawi collection. Photo courtesy of the artist and October Gallery.

Omid Memarian (OM): Your work often incorporates nails hammered into wooden surfaces. Can you explain the technical process behind this technique and how you developed it over time?

Alexis Peskine (AP): I first considered using nails at Howard University. My mixed media teacher, Professor Sorrels Adewale, encouraged us to think about materials as metaphors. My work has always centered on the Afro-descendant experience, influenced by my upbringing in France, Afro-Brazilian heritage, and time spent in various Black American cities and 33 African countries.

Initially drawn to silkscreen printmaking, I experimented with dot patterns to explore the historical significance of our people. My interest in nails grew after learning about the Minkisi Nkondi power figures from the Congo, sculptures adorned with nails. This concept of destruction and creation resonated with me. When I arrived at the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA), I was inspired by a wooden board left behind by the previous occupant and began using nails in 2004.

My process starts with a photograph, which I translate into dot patterns using computer software, mimicking the values of gray through dots of different sizes. I reverse the typical process by using a black silhouette with white dots to represent light areas, creating portraits illuminated by natural sunlight.

Alexis Peskine, ‘Moto wa Uhanini,’ 2020. Orange gold leaf, nails, Havana Ochre, curcuma, earth, and white hibiscus on lumber core wood, 122 x 122 cm (48 ×48 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: How has your childhood and upbringing influenced the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?

AP: My father is French and Lithuanian, while my mother is Afro-Brazilian. My grandfather, born in St. Petersburg, Russia, survived a concentration camp in France. These experiences, along with my Brazilian roots, shaped my values. I grew up in a family of artists and creators: my great-grandmother worked in a hardware store, my grandfather was a carpenter, and my father is an architect. My artistic inclinations were encouraged from a young age.

These influences instilled a deep sense of justice and fairness in me, which I channel into my work. It’s made me sensitive to the world around me, shaping how I express my thoughts through art.

Alexis Peskine, ‘Orí,’ 2024. Basil, Vessie green pigment, lacquer paint, lemon gold leaf, and nails on wood, 175 x 154 x 9 cm (69 × 60 in). (AP126) Photo courtesy of October Gallery.

OM: The first experience is beauty and harmony when we see your work. How does this complex concept resonate with your audiences?

AP: My goal is to represent both softness and strength, sensibility and abundance — qualities that reflect our people. The power in my work isn’t about domination; it’s a softer, more nuanced form — an aura rather than an aggressive force. This resonates with viewers because it reflects the spirit of those portrayed, not just portraits of individuals but representations of a collective soul. The subjects give their energy to the work, which connects with the viewers.

Alexis Peskine, ‘Akutjhe’ (‘Let it Burn’), 2020. Gold leaf, nails, clay, hibiscus and coffee on lumber core wood, 150 x 150 cm (59 1/10 × 59 1/10 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: You address complex social and political issues. How do you balance the technical precision of your pieces with the emotional and political messages they convey?

AP: My early work was intellectual and political, but in the last decade, my focus shifted toward art's spiritual and energetic aspects. While politics affects us all, I believe my recent work transcends immediate issues. It connects to something timeless, aiming for balance, harmony, and peace. What viewers feel from the work goes beyond politics and reaches into a deeper, more universal realm of experience.

Alexis Peskine, ‘Safara’ (‘Fire/Hell’), 2020, Gold leaf, nails, coffee and earth on lumber core wood 150 × 110 × 10 cm (59 1/10 × 43 3/10 × 3 9/10 in). Photo courtesy of October Gallery.

OM: Can you tell me which artists or movements have had the most significant influence on your work?

AP: My first influence was my family. My parents encouraged my artistic pursuits, and my aunt, who ran an industrial design company, gave me a strong design foundation. At Howard, I was introduced to figures like Aaron Douglas, Jacob Lawrence and writers like Toni Morrison. The Negritude movement deeply resonated with me. I realized I wasn’t alone in my journey as an Afro-descendant artist.

Artists like Basquiat, Kara Walker, Hank Willis Thomas, and my friends — Zak Ové, Fahamu Pécou, and Zana Masombuka — have influenced me. Conversations and exhibitions with them have shaped my perspective. My brothers, who are involved in music and film, have also been a major influence. We critique one another's work, pushing each other to grow.

OM: I think art schools in the U.S. tend to be a bit kinder when critiquing work.

AP: At Howard and MICA, critiques were harsh, even from classmates who didn’t always understand the references in my work. This helped me learn to accept feedback, discern its value, and understand that critique is part of growth as an artist.

Alexis Peskine, ‘Aljana Moons IV,’ 2015. Edition of 5 plus 1 artist's proof. Archival pigment print on Hahnemühle Photo Rag 308 gsm paper mounted on Dibond, 82.5 x 154 cm (32.4 × 60 in). (AP022). Photo courtesy of October Gallery.

OM: How do you decide what themes to depict in your work? If it’s a portrait, how do you choose the subject? What drives your choice of technique, or do you prefer sculpture?

AP: My studio is small, so I take a different approach from artists who work nonstop. Instead, I walk and let my spirit guide me, absorbing ideas and making mental notes. I create bodies of work rather than individual pieces, expressing my feelings at specific points in my life.

For example, “Forest Figures” came after my residency in rural Cameroon, where I faced a life-threatening experience. This event sparked a need for peace and healing. The work evolved from the more political “Fire Figures,” which reflected my feelings of revolt during the George Floyd protests, to the more spiritual “Forest Figures,” which explore healing and reconnection with nature.

Left: Alexis Peskine, ‘Kékéréké,’ 2024. White and black paint, archival varnish, 24 k, gold leaf and nails on wood, 150 x 110 cm (59 1/10 × 43 3/10 in). Right: ‘Séetal, ‘2024. White and black paint, archival varnish, 24 k gold leaf, and nails on wood, 150 × 110 cm (59 1/10 × 43 3/10 in). Photo courtesy of October Gallery.

OM: The art world has become complicated with art fairs, galleries, exhibitions, and money involved. What’s your advice to emerging artists looking to find their voice in the contemporary art world?

AP: Always look inward and pay attention to how you feel and what you want to express. Don’t hesitate to explore what you love and understand yourself. Early on, I wanted to develop my own visual language, and I admired artists who created distinct, resonating works.

Create with purity — don’t focus on commercial concerns while you’re making art. Once your work is done, find ways to make it visible. Social media today makes it easier than ever to share your art worldwide, reaching people who will connect with your expression.

Alexis Peskine in front of his artworks at October Gallery in London, 2022. Photo by Elisabeth Lalouschek, October Gallery’s art director.

While having a gallery is beneficial, as I learned through my experience with October Gallery, it's not the only way. When I started, I walked around with a portfolio, went to galleries and art fairs, and tried to get my work seen. Ultimately, gallery representation helps, but you can create your own path.

Success in art comes down to drive, curiosity, and a willingness to ask questions. Teachers don’t always need to be formally recognized. If you have a mentor, whether in school or outside, appreciate those who help you along the way.

Learning to talk about your work is essential — whether you're in school or not. Being able to articulate your vision is as important as the art itself. If you can’t do it, find someone who can write or talk about it for you.

Originally published on Global Voices

Korosh Ghazimorad, ‘Breathing with Nature,’ 2024. Mixed media on canvas, 120 x 80 cm (47 x 31 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

In contemporary Iranian art, Korosh Ghazimorad, 55, is a leading artist known for his unique approach to blending traditional calligraphy with modern artistic expressions.

With a degree in wood industry and paper engineering and certifications from Iran’s Calligraphy Association, he has spent decades merging established techniques with innovative forms. 

His work embodies a unique synergy of historical reverence and innovative spirit, as he masterfully blends classical styles with contemporary forms, most notably through the development of the Sarir calligraphy style. As a seasoned educator, he has imparted his knowledge in calligraphy and typography for over 25 years at esteemed institutions, nurturing the next generation of artists.

A commitment to graphic design and art direction marks Ghazimorad’s professional journey. He has played significant roles in various high-circulation newspapers and in curating exhibitions for renowned Iranian artists. His artistic influence extends beyond national borders, with notable works in prestigious public collections, such as the Museum Funf Kontinente in Munich, Germany.

As a board member of the Iranian Graphic Designers’ Association and a jury member for journalism competitions, he has consistently championed originality and artistic design, reinforcing his dedication to elevating visual arts standards in Iran and beyond.

Iranian artist Korosh Ghazimorad working at his studio in Tehran. Photo courtesy of the artist.

In an interview with Global Voices, Ghazimorad shares insights into his artistic philosophy, exploring the themes of cultural identity and the sensory experience of letters in his work. 

He discusses his innovative techniques in utilizing pen and ink, which convey emotions that resonate deeply with viewers. 

Excerpts from the interview follow: 

Omid Memarian (OM): Your work uniquely combines traditional calligraphy with abstract forms. How do you define your artistic style, and what distinguishes it from traditional calligraphic practices?

Korosh Ghazimorad (KG): My style merges traditional calligraphy with modern abstract forms, allowing me to express the essence of classical art through a contemporary lens. Traditional calligraphy serves as my foundation, while abstract and free forms infuse new life into the lines. This approach transcends mere writing, evolving into a sensory and spiritual experience where movement and line embody energy. Here, the line is detached from its original meaning and repurposed as a tool for conveying emotions and more profound concepts. I aim for an expression that challenges the viewer's mind, inviting them to reflect beyond the surface meanings of the lines while preserving the authenticity of calligraphic art.

Korosh Ghazimorad, ‘Silent Words,’ 2020. Acrylic on canvas, 180 x 200 cm (70 x 78 in). Photo courtesy of the artist.

OM: What themes and concepts do you explore in your works, and what do you hope audiences will take away from the experience?

KGH: In my work, I focus on the classical and the sensory elements. The classical section, which includes my Sarir style, features a distinct penmanship and letter inclination that differ from traditional calligraphy. This section emphasizes cultural themes and profound concepts like authenticity, identity, and human values in relation to the past. The sensory section focuses on the energy and sensation of letters and the interplay of positive and negative spaces. Through these abstract forms, I aim to depict the enduring essence of culture. I hope audiences connect with the depth of my content, discover their own interpretations, and reflect on the links between past and present, fostering a personal connection with my work.

Korosh Ghazimorad, ‘Branches of Being,’ 2024. Four pieces, mixed media on canvas, 400 x 150 cm(158 x 59 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

KGH: My innovative method using the colapen nib has garnered varied and largely positive feedback within the Iranian art community and beyond. Artists and critics have embraced this approach, viewing it as a fresh and distinctive avenue in modern calligraphy. Internationally, this approach has been received well, blending traditional elements with abstract forms. Audiences outside Iran experience a different emotional resonance through my work, recognizing a shared cultural language amidst the lines and movements. This enthusiasm indicates that art, particularly calligraphy, can create a bridge between cultures, conveying emotions without the need for translation.

Korosh Ghazimorad, Untitled, 2013, acrylic and gold leaf on canvas, 236 x 183 cm. (92.9 x 72 in.) Image courtesy of artist.

OM: Tehran boasts a rich and dynamic art community. Following your recent exhibition in November, what insights do you wish to share about the current art landscape in Iran?

KG: Tehran's art community possesses a unique dynamism that has evolved despite various constraints, attracting many art enthusiasts with a blend of traditional and modern influences. Observing the works of young artists, I see a vibrant energy; despite challenges, they continue to engage creatively in their artistic pursuits, shining both domestically and internationally. In Tehran, there is a strong inclination towards creating works with social and cultural messages. Young Iranian artists are adopting new tools and techniques while maintaining their connection to cultural roots. This interplay between the past and future creates a distinctive art scene in Iran, enabling its voice to resonate globally.

Korosh Ghazimorad, ‘Tree of Vitality,’ 2021. Ink on cardboard, 21 x 29.5 cm(8 x 11.5 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: Considering the popularity of calligraphy in the Middle East, especially in Arab countries, how has your work been recognized in the region?

KG: Calligraphy holds a special place in Middle Eastern culture, particularly in Arab countries. My work integrates traditional and modern calligraphy and has been well-received regionally. Many enthusiasts view my approach in exhibitions and events across the Middle East as innovative, reflecting the authenticity of calligraphy and a symbol of transformation within the art form. The positive feedback from Arab countries indicates a desire among artists and audiences to experience calligraphy in new ways, using it as a tool for expressing complex emotions. This reception facilitates cultural exchange and artistic dialogue that transcends linguistic barriers, showcasing the shared cultural spirit between Iran and the Arab world.

Korosh Ghazimorad, Whispers of the Woods, 2021. Acrylic on Canvas, 150x 100 cm(59 x 40 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: As a prominent graphic designer in Iran, how has your background in graphic design influenced your calligraphy and artistic expression?

KG: Graphic design has significantly impacted my calligraphy and artistic expression. It has provided me with a structured perspective on organizing visual elements, which is less common in traditional calligraphy. This experience enables me to design my calligraphic works with a focus on composition and the effective use of space, enhancing the message's impact. Graphic design has also familiarized me with concepts like color, contrast, and harmony, which I creatively incorporate into my work. This integration allows me to elevate my art beyond classical forms, facilitating a deeper and more lasting connection with viewers.

Korosh Ghazimorad, The Sound of Infinity, 2020. Nitro cellulosic on cardboard, 70x 100 cm (27.5 x 39.5 in). Image courtesy of the artist.

OM: Your journey in calligraphy spans several decades. How do you envision its future, particularly in relation to contemporary art and technology?

KG: After four decades in calligraphy, I believe the future lies in its increasing integration with contemporary art and technology. Calligraphy, rooted in culture and history, can now leverage new technologies and digital tools, especially artificial intelligence, to create innovative works. This technological integration allows emerging artists to present calligraphy in novel ways and interactively engage with audiences. Furthermore, this connection ensures that calligraphy remains a living, evolving art, appealing to new generations and the rest of the world. I envision the future of calligraphy as a blend of tradition and modernity, using emerging technologies to foster new creative expressions, which can rejuvenate the art and establish it as a popular and innovative form globally.