HIDDEN BODIES

(2021)


My sound and photo installation serves as a heartfelt memorial to the forgotten inhabitants of Shahre-No neighborhood, the former red-light district of Tehran, tragically set ablaze during the Islamic Revolution on 29th January 1979. As I worked on the site, I grappled with the challenge of documenting a place that seemed to have lost its memory of the past. How does one capture the essence of something that no longer exists? Despite the apparent erasure of historical traces, I found myself envisioning the place and its atmosphere vividly in my mind's eye, at every corner.

This installation endeavors to approach the traces that may serve as an indirect means of reviving the memory of the place. I depict the figurative representation of the female body and seek to uncover the bodies of the once-hidden prostitutes in a series of stone sculptures. These sculptures were crafted by Iranian and international artists during the 2011 Tehran Sculpture Symposium. Furthermore, the installation incorporates a series of photographs documenting the park and its remnants of the historical past. Accompanied by a sound piece, the narrative recounts the diligent work of the laborers who cleared the mud from the lake and the lamentable fate of the dying fish. Through this multi-faceted approach, I aspire to bring forth a poignant remembrance of the forgotten inhabitants and the history that resided in the heart of Shahre-No. It is my hope that this installation will serve as a meaningful tribute and honor the memories of those who once lived and thrived in this now-altered landscape.






In Remembrance...
Recall the wanderer's plight,
From one estrangement to another's sight.


It's around noon when I enter the park. The cold, dry December breeze stings my face. The weather is sunny, and the intense light pierces my eyes. The peculiar shapes formed by the interplay of shadows and light catch my attention. The park is vast and empty, as if abandoned. Empty benches and chairs appear in every corner, but there is no sign of the usual liveliness and excitement in the park. As I approach a group of young boys riding motorcycles in the park, they notice me and stop, staring at me. I feel a slight uneasiness. I tightly grip my camera and scan my surroundings to keep an eye on possible escape routes. As our eyes briefly meet while passing each other, I don't look back, but I hear their laughter. A little further, the laughter gets lost amidst a loud and strange noise. As I reach the lake, I see a large dredger, rising like a gigantic mosquito, sucking the blood of the lake. I circle around it, taking pictures, observing the men who are emptying the sludge from the lake. I'm glad they don't notice my presence. I walk past the bridge, and the sound of the fishing birds intertwines with the sound of the dredger. They scream, their feast is underway. A little further, next to a lighthouse and beached boats, there is a sign that says, "Please get a fishing permit." I recall a short news article I had read a few days ago: Razi Park Fishing Festival. It must have been full of excitement and enthusiasm. For a moment, the festival participants and the fishing birds merge in my mind, and one that catches a bigger fish will become a luckier winner.

I continue walking around the lake and approach the workers who are cleaning up. I take photos of them. One of them, who has noticed my presence, comes towards me and asks, "Are you with a media team? Without understanding his meaning, I lift my head from behind the viewfinder and reply, "Yes!" He asks, "Where have you been since morning? We're about to finish work. You arrived late for photography." I say, "I had other obligations elsewhere." To avoid further questioning, I inquire, "What happened to the fish now?” He looks at me and turns back toward the lake. He picks up a plastic bag filled with baby fish and returns to me. He raises his hand and says, "I could only save these." Ahead, I find the scattered heads and bodies of the fish. A little further, near the pomegranate and persimmon garden, they are arranged in a stack, tightly connected. This time they are made of stone. Hard, white, motionless! I wander around the park. Only the sculptures assert their presence. I revolve around myself. Around their bodies. I observe them from behind the viewfinder. I get closer and move away. I bend and straighten. I twist and look at my own body, scattered pieces around corners and edges. Disconnected, fallen apart. Then I hear the sound of their silence, intertwining with the dredger's noise and the birds' cries. The scent of mud fills the air, along with damp soil. The trail of the dredger falls onto the lake's body. The fish, seated silently, witness the spectators in silence.