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
London
Autumn 2015
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