Untitled - 2015

My creation began exactly when letter C of Creation was written. The thought process and even the sense of creation were always concealed in the final piece and even myself sometimes do not remember the source forthe creation. For a while I have been wondering why and how to have this process recorded and prior to that; why and how do we consider an image or a volume as a piece of art. How much of a role does the reason behind creating of the piece and much of a role does the method of creating the piece play. How does the quality of execution affect the final result and its acceptance? I assume that I am not alone in my admiration for the classic art; at list in regards to its execution. The drawings of Rembrandt, Da Vinci's images and Caravaggio's lighting are all admirable. The exemplary quality of the classic art sometimes leads me towards returning to the classic values. Sometimes I'd rather hold a few pencils in different brown tones and draw a nude with all its shades and highlights caused by the fading light of the autumn, spreading through the window; emphasizing on her form of hands; with attention to details of her bed sheets... but it seems something's not quite working; there is a sound coming through the window; the noise of the people of the crowded city; the sound from headphones of a teenage boy whose trousers are half way down his ass. The sound of a running woman in high heels and a tight skirt; The sound of a running woman who will miss her train. The sound of a falling coin into the hat of a music student who has not yet started to play; the protesting sound of the blowinghorn of a white van and a grinding gear sounding like a fruit processor. And all these will not allow the tones of brown to sketch the nude that is lying in the autumn sun.

Though an almost dried plant, my eyes catch a glimpse of an old work statement on the wall: 'in my opinion the art object is a unique context born from the new approach in contemporary art, something different from the highfalutin works of the skilled based classic art or the ideologist-philosophical, material based and abstract works of the modern era or even the ready-mades...'
Yet still I seem to be longing for that undrawn brown image. (I wrote this half a sentence to help the composition.)

Concerns of the modern world changes colour, it changes shape and form; sometimes it sinks deep and sometimes it just touches the surface.

Somewhere on my mind though is concerned with two main issues; first for my work to be unique regarding form and execution, second for my work not to 'waste'material! This is not my art manifestation; this is my today's delirium to fill in this piece of cardboard.

I will leave an empty space for the drawing of the autumn girl; the one who had delivered her image to me in the blink of an eye from faraway. Even though I don't have the brown pencils, even though I don't have time for the details, shadings and highlights, even though I always use the minimum amount of lines in my drawings, even though the composition of this writing still doesn't work moreover the quality of my writing has worsened, even tough I satisfy the urge to draw the autumn girl by sketching a few simple, naive lines on the piece of paper which was under my hands in order to keep them from smudging this piece of cardboard. My urge was satisfied and now I have the time to visualize the girl in a new method. The 'new method' did not quite fit my work; it is not a new style but in fact one of the oldest methods for man in visualization; the method of literature in taming the brain; the method for the imprisonment of the soul of the concept inside the body of word; the method which I select for drawing the autumn girl. I like writing about the girl so that you who are reading can visualize your own autumn girl or boy. I'd like to know how many lines it will take for me to visualize the autumn girl. I'd like to know the part extend of which I am willing for you to imagine from the picture. I don't know why I brought 'you' here. I don't know why this text mustn't transform into a letter. I don't know why entering the 'you' here is frightening. Maybe it's supposed to be a writing that is not a writing; maybe it is not supposed to be read. Maybe its supposed to turn into a chaotic sequence of calligraphy. If that is the case, then what difference does it have with a framed calligraphy, which has been clumsily and impatiently illuminated? Is it the madness of a calligrapher orDelliriumms [How esthetically ugly is the word delirium] of a painter? 'Painter' does not fit me either. I am an incurable in need of creating; with no specific claim. I am slave to a brain that steals sleep from my eyes until it's drained. I am slave to a soul that will die if it's not seen, if it doesn't create.

And now the girl; she has spread her burgundy, wavy hair; the messy, fizzy hair that is an emphasis on her being true. She has laid her head on the arm of the leather sofa; a sofa which has diamond-shaped creases all over its back; with a button sewn on every corner of each diamond; dark and chocolate brown with lighter arms and frame. The wooden frame of the sofa is the same colour as the girl's nipples, and maybe a bit lighter; breasts that are spread over her reclined body and a red scarf around her neck, has covered one of them; Full, red lips through which the crookedness of her teeth is visible. A chin with the decisiveness of presence and wearing rings on the middle finger on each hand and a bangle on her left hand that seems to be stroking a tress of her hair;An ass and buttocks that meet with the plumpness of the legs wearing red sheer tights. As if the photographer is kneeling in front of her, as if her ass and buttocks have become a veil for her body, only sparing the tip of a nipple, a bend of an arm, and a head or a look... how minute was the setting for the visualization of the girl.

How satisfying writing the girl felt. It seems as though I like the writing better than the brown drawing that I never drew! How much more I like my handwriting when I read it upside down. And how much the crookedness of the sixth line disturbs me and how ridiculous re-writing these words seem to me. Maybe the crookedness is a proof of the fact that the execution in my work is only a small part of a whole unit. I must frame these sentences in white. This must become my new method for representing my ideas. Isn't it the case that I write in my idea books in the same way? With the same pen and sometimes with a few quick and practical sketches. But this piece does not have a sketch. I must include something. Maybe a sketch of a demon. Why a demon? Who knows. I like demons. I like drawing demons in its basic form. The demon's root! A head, an eye and a horn. I assume I should draw it with a golden pinball, in the bottom third of the frame on the left. How much the demon suits this calligraphy [or whatever it may be called] of mine. With this text one should listen to 'Ebrahim Monsefi'; 'Nahang' or 'Adameh Pouch'. I'm not sure why but I like it. And what a shame that this song is so short. And how nice that 'Namjou' has sung a longer version of it, which I also like. Shall I add music to this? Or shall I leave that to the audience as well? I believe savoring the simplicity of this work is important. I forgot to leave a space for the Demon. I've got an idea for the sixth line as well. It was an empty claim when I said that the execution of work does not matter to me. If that crookedness is disturbing me so much then I shall take advantage of my luck in leaving empty the lines above and below and rewrite the same words and whiten that disturbing crookedness! The Demon's space is too much to the left and despite what I had planned; it is not in the bottom third but more towards the center. It's all this white paper's fault; the white paper which was under my hands in order to keep them from smudging this piece of cardboard. It stops my snap judgment regarding the size and layout of the piece of cardboard; with the coffee stain on it and those two quick and bad sketches that I drew of the autumn girl... the space above the demon's head could be left empty. As big as it would allow me to draw him as I want and where I want. Maybe the size of this work should be bigger than this or a lot smaller and in the same size as my idea books; the original size of the etudes or the effective size towards the intensity of words. Now there is the question weather I should keep writing till the physical ending!!! Of the piece of cardboard or should I stop writing as soon as the idea takes form in my head. Isn't it the case that choice of the size for the cardboard is also a part of creating this piece? On the other hand couldn't one pick up the knife and announce the bottom of this very line as the physical ending of the cardboard? Should one stick to the original choice or make a new one in an instant? How many times have we stuck to our original choices in life? How many times have we aimed for one destination and ended up in another. How much should my work depend on myself or how independent is it of me? How much am I myself independent of my own presence? In between the autumn girls I read about explosions in the middle of peaceful dances of Kurds in Turkey. Have I been lucky to leave this space for the irrelevance of a demon? It could be made into a monument for what should be shouted today. One could even draw the demon! One could cover the demon's body in gold; the one that one thousand years of stories about his wickedness does not compare to the brutality of these so-called human. I will write of the man's filth be it a cliché; even if it is condemned to having an expiry date. I will draw a golden demon inside the frame at the bottom left! This piece was not supposed to be a manifest. It was a personal and simple experiment that was trying to differ itself from a simple framedcalligraphy and to find an independent presence. Yet it seems to have become a proof of the fact that it's not possible to not talk about today in an artwork. One cannot live the 'todays' and talk about the autumn sunlight on the breast of the autumn girl. No matter how much I like Ebrahim Monsefi's music, 'Mohammad Mirzavand's 'Biberari' is the music for this piece. 'Adameh pooch' comes from the Sunday syndrome and 'Iraj Rahmanpour's 'Hawar' becomes the music for this piece. Maybe the music for this piece is yet to be composed. Maybe there should be a piece of music compose of every victim, every warrior, every man in his mythical form, every man in his true form, every corpse [how small is the word corpse for their lifeless, hopeful body]; the body of each martyr of today should be laid on the stave so that one thousand 'Kamancheh' should play it. 'Today' not as a turning point in anything butonly as one day out of all the days that we have lived through; the days that we will live through. Maybe I should whiten all the deliriums [it no longer matters if it's ugly] and nonsenses of the first few lines up to the point of hearing the news or maybe I should keep this process as it is. If there wasn't enough room for these words then I had no other way but to write them over the first few lines. And how well I had picked the size for my piece. And so much good timing; when I wrote of Caravaggio I found out that it was his birthday and I had written about his work without knowing this and these days that I had not got the chance to come to the studioand today despite the look of unhappiness in Niki's eyes, I came and the work took another direction. The fortune is an ominous fortune and I wish I had produced thousands of kitsch calligraphy but wouldn't hear the 'today's. but how nice that I got the chance to write these; to release myself; to calm my mad brain. How nice it is that I didn't settle for a Facebook rant and wrote instead. What should I write about in these 'today's? What should I talk about and what should I draw? What should this damn art od today be; a piece which sits on the tall wall of a rich man's house or a scream of the artist for the misery and hardship of himself and his society? Should it be sellable or should I wake up everyday at five o'clock in the morning and go to work so that I am not reliant on selling my work and can make a living or is there a third option that I don't know about? A voice in my head says that if you reached forty and had not made something of yourself by then ...you're a screw up. How can one make something of himself; should the gallerists make something of you or the buyers? When will you realise that you have made something of yourself? How much should your concerns develop? How much should they be presented in your work? How many people could be bothered to read this text the whole way through; even if it is translated and has a non-Iranian audience as well? How honest has this piece itself been in its context? Should it even be honest? Isn't it the case that being direct gives the artwork a specific tendency which itself is a subject of criticism and discussion? Is it better to be a requiem for these 'today's of ours? Or is it better to become famous so that we can find a louder voice to scream. I wish instead of Barbad Golshiri I had reached this point that we should make gravestones; we should talk about death; this idea should have come to my mind. I wish the artist would get monthly pay. The artist should create and get paid. The artist should live everyday and gat paid. The artist should die everyday and get paid. The artist should get hardship payment. Although I feel sorry for the non-artists who do not have this capacity to release themselves, to leave a trace, to speak for others, to die for others. I feel sorry for the non-artists who cannot visualize their own universe. I feel sorry for the artists who put themselves in the mercy of gallerists and buyers and I kiss the hands which have created for their pain with no expectations [how uncreative was the 'kissing the hands']. I am tired and again my sentences and words have become worthless. I wish I had picked a smaller size for this piece and only would write on it: 'a dance on the minefield'. I wish I had only described a face for those in power and everyday would spit on it! I wish I would go and teach the Kurdish dance to all the people in the world to hold hands and dance. 'Oat and wheat' means man and woman interlaced and for my wish not to be nationalistic I would not have insisted on the dance being Kurdish and for it not to be male dominated [maybe] I would exclude the 'sarchoopikish' [the dance leader] and everyone, hand in hand, oat and wheat, would dance in a circle; a closed circle so that there are no first or last; to dance till tomorrows and stomp our feet and shake our shoulders...I should come back another day and add the golden demon to this piece and for the respect of the negative space, I might colour them all in white.

Nasser Teymourpour
Autumn 2015