Being a first generation Iranian-American comes the phenomenon of experiencing life in array, paradox, polarity, a flip-side.
As humans, we identify ourselves in many cultures. We’ve adopted ourselves to many lands, wisdoms, styles, crafts…
To think and feel in two languages. I am the descendant of two worlds. Of earth and of the ethers. And all the lives I’ve learned to become myself in-between.
The suffering and delight of our bodies. The suffering and delight of our souls.
How we respond to them. How they torment us. How we live with them, even to our surprise.
The ambiguity of our existence as both the soil and the soul.
Art becomes the reinvention of the same growing pains and reinterpretations of ourselves as the natural rebellion of our youth and evolution of humanness.
How we are the same, but in a different way. All our mundanity. All our noise. All our longing of acceptance. Our longing to find meaning of it all.
It’s quite funny how we play out the same reactions as they’ve been rehearsed for generations before.
How we can’t survive without another, but still think dominance will make for a satisfactory existence.
So let’s put all our records of trauma, dinner scraps and overexposed film in a museum. Maybe it’ll be worth it. Something to muse over.
A life that was born from art and a body that has been fossilized in it. A last breath of our innocence slips through and tries again.
To remember. To forget. To edit. Build. Scrape. Shape. Melt. Harden. Glaze. Break. Collage. Lift it to your mouth, an elixir of jasmine tea that says, “Hey, yeah so this was fun. Let’s do this again tomorrow!”
Inspired by a visit to OCMA’s new exhibits,
Melody
