تاریخ تئاتر اسکار براکت ترم یک دانشگاه هنرهای دراماتیک – تهران

اُزیریس ایزد جهان زیرزمینی و زندگی پس از مرگ در اساطیر مصر باستان بود. او فرزند گب (زمین) و نوت (آسمان) بود. با خواهرش ایزیس ازدواج کرد و صاحب حوروس شد. برادرش ست (شب) او را کشت. اما زنده شد و خدای اموات گشت. ارواح قبل از اینکه بتوانند در جهان دیگر زندگی کنند، باید از برابر ازیریس بگذرند و تنها او بود که می‌توانست جاودانگی ببخشد

 Known here as the “bible” of theatre.

دیوگآن | if no one got killed, it’s boring

دی ماه، نخستین روز آن خرم روز است و این روز و ماه هر دو به نام خداوند است که [هرمز] نامیده می‌شود، یعنی حکیم و دارای رای و آفریدگار. در این روز عادت ایرانیان چنین بوده که پادشاه از تخت شاهی پایین می‌آمد و جامه‌ای سفید می‌پوشید و در بیابان بر فرش‌های سپید می‌نشست و دربان و یساولان را که شکوه پادشاه با آن هاست به کنار می‌راند و هر کس که می‌خواست پادشاه را ببیند، خواه دارا و خواه نادار بدون هیچ گونه نگهبان و پاسبان، نزد شاه می‌رفت و با او به گفتگو می‌پرداخت و در این روز پادشاه با برزگران می‌نشست و در یک سفره با آن‌ها خوراک می‌خورد و می‌گفت: من مانند یکی از شماها هستم و با شماها برادرم، زیرا استواری و پایداری جهان به کارهایی است که به دست شما انجام می‌شود و امنیت کشور نیز با من است، نه پادشاه را از مردم گریزی است و نه مردم را از پادشاه

It’s the girl of all the winds who falls in to pieces, from a roof top to another in her red-stockings.

 

It’s the girl of all the winds
who falls in to pieces, 
from a roof top to another
in her red-stockings.
marsh land of her tears 
are the passage of spring
upon the heavyness of her eye lids
It’s the girl of all the winds,
at this moment in time
herself,hers only saint guardian.
selfish of her own pain
at the mistaken place,
perhaps  

I knew that the summer has arrived

I woke up that morning, I knew that the summer has arrived. Crawling in my bed I also knew that this Summer I could not get back to Tehran. Struggling not to think about it too much to be able to survive my first summer in Los Angeles. It’s been 10 years now that I’ve been socializing with my best friends in Tehran through the lens of my and my [face timing] on my iPhone. The lunacy started so recently while me and my friends have started making love to each other in between of those screens, seems we were all prisoners of our 5.4 to 2.6 inches. Among all I was the most angry, the most deranged, full of hatred for the term migration. Asking myself constantly through my nightlong and my day time what is the reality of all those virtual communications? What am I doing to my own psyche? The next day when I woke up quickly and unexpectedly I removed all those applications on my iPhone jumped in to my car and drove for 45 minutes [that’s how long I usually drive to get to my studio at Otis.] I could feel my wet eyes by now. Trying to be brutal to those eyes and to stay concentrated on the road in front. I was so panicked for the amount of silence been invited to my life all at once by myself.
[45 minutes later]
I discovered myself in my studio with my iPhone almost dead
I was so confused mentally, not able to position my psyche in her previous state anymore, A very radical decision been made by me and now I had no way out except for letting the fear out by bringing it in to life on the surface of my paper. Then started to draw my psyche on my paper. For the first time in my life I had this expression of a prisoner who had been released from her jail. I could not control myself not painting. My world instantly got rotated and my addiction to Tehran was alternated within my new paintings. Now everyday at the moment Tehran’s Addiction was coming up in to my psyche instead of contributing myself in to my iPhone I was becoming an asylum to my papers and my brushes. I continued this practice every day for almost 3 months. I painted all my fears in my plain loneliness only talking to myself constantly striving to create a visual vocabulary where I could travel to Tehran with. Drawing my self-imagination at the point where induces so many images. The silence I’ve never experienced before.
During the summer I’ve created over 200s of images and been invited To 4 group exhibitions in Los Angeles. In-between I found that chance to collaborate with my Creative team “Green Circle” as a being a curator of the spectacular project. Today I’m really surprised on how one could divorce one certain predefined lifestyle and how to visualize and create her own vocabulary. Even now I’m so scared while writing my story in English as it’s my second language.
Since me and my friends are not face timing anymore we have posted more than 1000 of images on our during the summer.

 

Being held in solitary confinement

Being sentence to 16 Years of prison might seem like a sentence in this class, 16 years of prison is a deadly punishment is a brutal gift coming to an artist from a repressive religious regime is uncivilized, barbarian, 16 years of punishment is a terrifying nightmare not knowing why you are locked up, 16 years of prison only because you are defending basic human rights, 16 years of prison only for what you are drawing and writing perceived as threat to the system. Being held in solitary confinement with no formal charges brought against you, all you know is all your professors are in prison for being a prominent intellectual figure.
Human rights is a universal standard. It is a component of every religion and every civilization. When a person is humiliated, when his rights are being violated, and he does not have the proper education, naturally he gravitates toward terrorism.  “Shirin Ebadi”
Each time I fall in love I think of Jacques Lacan and his famous sentence “What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe? “Lacan”
Then I instantly remind myself that I’m entering in to my darkness and there is nothing to do with my lovers but for the sun is setting and Culver City is getting dark. I learned the sun set in southern California is my crucial enemy. I still remember when I moved to California I was crying by each sunset, funny ha?!. Every time I think deeply and each time I’m honest with myself I found that I’ve devoted lifetime making you satisfied for I always give you more than what I get. That Tuesday I texted you to come and change the wall and the line that you have used for your installation, I argued along the negative space and some curatorial decision making. You said that you knew this all and you take responsibility for the way you decided to install all the images. I insisted that you still should come and reconsider the wall that you have chosen, Suddenly you said you are feeling turned on by those lines, those texts. You said you are not able concentrating on the images for I killed all the aesthetics in your mind. I said I’m not scared, as I know the pleasure of the text.
I thought I moved on, you are still writing to me I was also thinking if there might
Be a way that we could at least talk to each other as two civilized human beings at least for the language we still share.
After Jacques Lacan I sent you a poem by Elizabeth Bishop, I’ve used this poem in-between of the video art I made at the time I was living in Toronto. I still go back to Eglinton sometimes, below my image I wrote for you; to you “ Civilized
Society’s animal.” Then I typed the poem;
 
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
So many things seem filled with the intent
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster 

Of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. 

The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
Places, and names, and where it was you meant
To travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
Next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
Some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
The art of losing’s not too hard to master
Though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
 
” ELIZABETH BISHOP” The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
 
 
Soon after we got separated I left Tehran. I don’t see Touraj any longer
I don’t know if you are still talking to him. I’ve never missed anyone in my life
The way I miss talking to Touraj, you asked me several times; “ So have you
Been with Touraj, that’s why you love him?”. I always had the same answer for
You; “I’ve never been with Touraj but I’m so influenced by him.”
I thought I was so influenced by him. You were so jealous about it. In retrospect
I feel I love him and also I’m so influenced by him.
All these days I was transforming to my new identity. I celebrated our separation
Several times. By now “I should confess I could be a plain mirror in there to observe self-adornment before entering.”
How I feel tonight I’ve finally started writing my thesis with you with Touraj
With my new Political Iranian American Canadian Russian identity with the sound of Philip Glass. Metamorphosis.
Metamorphosis to catharsis was curated in 2015 for the first time in Los Angeles By Shirin Bolourchi at Otis College of art and Design. For Shirin Metamorphosis to Catharsis is a center of identical and cultural change related to Iranian identity in Los Angeles. In my eyes modern society and technology defines us as individuals. We can all perceive the same concept at the same time, yet our interpretation and experience of the identity; time and space will be unique for each individual. Since we all bring our own life’s experiences to how we see a shared reality, then for me as an Iranian visual artist the question of what is identity is at the stake. Is ones identity of our own making, or do things such as media and propaganda, Time and space, society whom you socialize with, frustration and repression coming from a repressive regime like where I grew up then manufactures my identity? Is identity simply a simulation? A concept? does identity even exist? The artists in Metamorphosis to Catharsis desire to explore this concept. Each has their own vision, their own visual vocabulary to how they perceive their identical world. We have gathered together representing our honest identity in form of art. Metamorphosis to catharsis is a symbol of our dialectic. We hope for annulment of fraudulent reform in the name of fine art. Our identity has no specific image in here. We the members of the Metamorphosis to catharsis have one duty: creating a new rhythm for the benefit of our honesty. We believe in the present. What we are exhibiting here is a dance on our surfaces. We create unity within our pieces; we are criticizing the aesthetic of
Repression and isolation the frustration of repressive regimes only those who do the same shall come with us. So far Metamorphosis to catharsis had three openings and two weeks show in Otis College of Art and Design since 2015. Our group had a significant line of attention from the curators and critics in Los Angeles and as a curator I am hoping to travel through time and space with my spectacular group of visual artists.
“I don’t want to be labeled as anything I’d like to be able to express my ideas my feelings about the society that I live in. I don’t like anybody to tell me what to do, what not to do. The government of Iran doesn’t like my painting; the previous government also didn’t like my painting. I’ve been in trouble with the previous government and I’m in trouble with the Islamic Republic of Iran too, And it’s only because of the paintings. I’m not even an activist.”

 

 

 

My face

My face is becoming all eyes today.
Everyday when I wake up I would like to draw an eye in between
Of my two eyebrows.
Also draw an aye on my forehead.
An eye for my lips and an eye for my noise.
My face is slowly transforming in to my eyes and I love that today.
Tomorrow I might wake up and execrate this revision.
I never want to see my father in my face, the shock of finding
My father in my face is in fact so depressing a sudden upsetting to my psyche. I have this unbroken desire to get distance from my father’s face.
I often make a video of my face to get deeper in to myself, it’s so funny how I repeatedly get back to my eyes.
Everyday I wake up, I jump in to my car, I get lost in to California’s
Highways, the first thing I do is to see myself in my car’s mirror;
[I’m transforming in to my eyes again.]
How obsessed how possessed I’ve become to those eyes.
I tell myself constantly; Shirin be a devil to that face.
My class ends I get to my studio try to get in-between of my face
And draw it on my paper. [I’m transforming in to my eyes again.]
I still remember the day I got deported from Tehran Art University
By school’s Basij for my face was laughing a lot; [The day I’ve hated my face.]
That day I’ve started metamorphosing in to my eyes for I was in the state of shock with my face. A very deranged day in my whole life.
When I returned home I’ve started destroying so many images of mine in which I found myself laughing. I knew to get back to my art school I should start practicing not to laugh in my face. Could I really do that? Could I really imagine myself not laughing? Again I’ve started; [transforming my face in to my eyes.]
Sometimes when I wake up at morning I see Tehran in my face.
Funny ha! Still after 10 years not living in Tehran It’s trace so dominant So colorful in my face. Those days when I look in the to the mirror all I can read in my face is Farsi. Today I can see me more than anything else in my face; I’m still not quite sure about whom this me could be. Still have no true image of my face. I can’t control myself not stealing the term constant metamorphosis to be going on.
Still I can’t deny;
My face is becoming all eyes today.
Everyday when I wake up I would like to draw an eye in between
Of my two eyebrows.
Also draw an aye on my forehead.
An eye for my lips and an eye for my noise.
My face is slowly transforming in to my eyes and I love that today.
Tomorrow I might wake up and execrate this revision.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Power of interconnectivity is a representation…

“An artist is somebody who produces things that people don’t need to have.” -Andy Warhol
Power of interconnectivity is a representation where its own delivery often fails. Not only it is often marginalized also misunderstood in its form and context. The reason we go to interconnectivity is not for wisdom but for dismantling the wisdom. What we present in here is a ghost of a representation, interpretation, disconnection, certified copy, structure, critique as delivered and installed from one medium to another. We are not attending to connect you to the universe. We are giving you something that you don’t have and probably you don’t even want.
The Power Of Interconnectivity is a visual concept in its very becoming. We practice a dance on our inner universe, we aim to create unity within our Pieces, we defend our poor images by creating originality, we try to resist symbolism, there is no specific image of our identity on our drawings, even no faithful image, you shouldn’t come to the show if you are seeking answers, we deny the existence of space and time on our pieces while dancing together, we read Simone de Beauvoir when she says;
“I am too intelligent, too demanding, and too resourceful for anyone to be able to take charge of me entirely. No one knows me or loves me completely. I have only myself”
We found ourselves our only pairs, sometimes self-satisfaction material
to carry ourselves away, we truly know that we rise again after we fall again and we fall again after we rise again.
We exist in your crazy thoughts, we mess the artwork, we goes to clichés
We are incapable of convincing perfection, we do not accept idealism.
We desire to adventure to no limits to no ends.

I remember

 

I remember
[A voice in darkness];
Where have you been?
Where have you been?
Hera
Hera
[Hera standing in absolute darkness]
I remember Hera was wearing a ripped jean, with a T-shirt, I could see David Bowie and his corn on her T-Shirt. The spot light was appearing right on Hera.
I remember the moment she escaped the spotlight she was running right toward my seat I looked back to the crowed behind me, I was ready to scape I remember a 12 year old girl seating right in front of Zeus.
I remember a blue light appeared with a cow, lion and a peacock, Hera was I remember from where I was seated I could view 3 Heras all three in their ripped jeans 2 in David Bowie’s T-Shirt the other one in a blue T-shirt with a different image, I could read a text in Farsi. On the third Hera it was Witten Parishanam. I remember all 3 Heras were worshiping the cow and the lion and the peacock in their ripped jeans and their expensive T-shirts.
I remember;
[They were all singing while worshiping, beheading to the video projection and with their back on the audience.]
I remember them singing;
[Hera, Hera where have you been?]
I remember all the desserts in the middle of nowhere as real as it was like a long skirt spreading out to the eternity.
I remember all the narrow alleys those tall walls all the windows, I still I remember the sound of all the noon’s prayers passing by my window the smell of my morning bread.
I remember the hot autumn wind in Valiasr Street while I was walking to the school, The back yard were we had our circle. I remember the steps taking me to the second floor to my writing class I remember the smell of retained in all the platues where we had to act on stage as someone else. I remember destroying the play by being myself.
I remember the darkness in that classroom I remember all of us while practicing Naked eyes I remember the bird fallen dawn from her nest and not knowing her way back home, I remember the moment I almost forgot my name I remember when my eyes were closed.
I remember the hospital I was born I remember my desire to escape the scene , my last coffee with him.
[We are in Tehran]
He said; tomorrow when I wake up I’m not going to be there to have a coffee with him again.
I remember the fifth floor where we were trying to publish our first book together from where we could hear azan every morning and all the noon. I remember the taxi and the taxi driver in valiasr crossroad I remember all the strangers seating next to me, I remember all the shifts all the ups and dawns all the melancholy
Farms. I remember the tornado when all was escaping and I was
Still cohered to the floor so committed so hard so heavy so intense
To see the Tornado coming toward my eyes, I remember you were yelling at me in the theater repeating run, run you might get yourself in trouble.
I remember the stage I might have been died might have been united I was becoming the unicorn with the power of nature I remember I was not killed I was not destroyed, I remember the brick town in Tehran city center I remember the day we went to Zahirodoleh to buy paper I remember the room we were both High on those red papers I remember the Halva the grave the smell of death the moment grand ma died all I don’t remember anymore I remember all the long texts I remember you eyes Straight in to mine, .I remember myself transforming in to in to my eyes I remember you on fever I remember your room
Those lights.

 

hateful thing

It’s that time of the year I need to renew my Iranian passport.
It’s 10;45 I’m in the post office it’s a quiet post office somewhere
In Highland Park. I’m transforming in to my eyes as always trying to
Record everything in the post office a guy behind the desk comes
Toward me, he picks up my envelope; he looks in to my eyes start
Talking to me I’m trying to pick up his voice, sounds soft and low I’ve
Already missed half of the conversation when I catch him I hear; Iraq is the destination, I take a deep breath trying to pretend I’m calm though anyone could see the red flame in my eyes by now, I say No Iran, Iraq is a different country he picks the envelope instantly continues Iran, Iraq what is the different? I hate to say that this guy reminds me of Mark Twain and his famous sentence; “God created war so that Americans would learn Geography,”
I come back to my studio my kafan is still in the crit room, my phone
Rings It’s my best friend who lives in Berlin how I hate this distance in between I answer my phone at the meantime trying to wash off my Kaftan, he says your process is breathtaking Shirin have you applied for visa yet, I’m still trying to wash off the cloth, trying to wash off the Gel medium on the top I should have washed the papers last night the papers has metamorphosed in to some kind of of stones how I hate my long never-ending process, How I hate my Iranian passport the only place that I can travel with that passport is Tehran only takes me to Iran with itself. Now I’m thinking why do we Iranian go back to Tehran every year Probably it’s not that much that we love Iran It’s our passport that takes us no where else. I’m still on my phone nagging to Berlin;
“ How I hate the visa process.”
The most hateful thing these days among all is those studio visits
While a new curator comes to my studio seeking to locate my Iranian
Identity in my works, seems like a hot pink identity for them not to me though, that question makes me so angry creating the desire for sliding off everything of the table in of my studio on to the carpet in the middle. Asking myself over and over again what is the logistic of that hot pink identity? Makes me wants to put my works on fire the same exact way John Boldassary reacted while they critics asked him too much questions about the essence of his works. The moment
One’s trying to force and locate my identity in those pieces I begin to hate them.