Zendegi

Lar, the city where I live, is a panoramic representation of a world full of despair and emptiness: waterless, grassless, ruthless, and disappointing. In that scorching heat, I used to walk on its yellow, barren soil. Here, nature is indifferent, base, and full of depression and emptiness. In this void, I would see the rotted bones of dead animals, which, like definitive signs of "nothingness," had emerged from the earth. At first, this raw encounter provoked anxiety in me. The bones, bleached under the hot sun of Lar, were a message to me about my own inevitable fate: annihilation.
In each encounter, my being would fill with horror and my heart rate would rise.
I didn't even like to look at the bones. Eventually, out of fear, I took refuge in fear itself.
Little by little, I started collecting the bones I saw.
I would take the bones home, and while feeling both afraid and simultaneously curious and eager, I would wash and clean them in a ritualistic manner.

This process of cleaning the bones washed away my final fears. I was no longer afraid of the bones; instead, I loved them. Now, they had become a part of my life's journey.
I took the bones to the studio and carefully arranged them all on the old wooden table. I would watch them for long minutes, then I took a drafting pen and a piece of white cardboard and started drawing the largest skull I had found from the heart of the earth. Every hatch on the surface of the cardboard calmed my heart and filled my being with peace.
From then on, the bones were no longer symbols of death and nothingness for me, but rather symbols of creation. Symbols of the birth of a new work of art on the white heart of the paper🙂

Later, I also added the "egg" element to my works. Because, in my view, the egg is a symbol of birth and life, and its proximity to the bones of the dead conveys the concept of the simultaneity and neighborliness of death and life, and how fragile and unpredictable our existence is.