shirin bolourchi

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.