Those Gloomy Faces

Here is a review I wrote for University of the Arts Bremen (Hochschule für Künste Bremen) as an assignment. A review on group exhibition: “70-80” held from January 6th to 16th 2023, Tehran, Iran

This version here has been edited few times as i had more time for it of course.

It has been a while since art galleries and artists in Iran are on a general strike due to the recent anti-government protests begun in September 2022. There was almost no art exhibition and similar events for the past four months. In fact, considering the Covid-19 restrictions on public art events, only few of them have been held here in Iran since mid 2019.

However, there have been numerous group exhibitions by young artists most of which were held virtually via internet.

The “70-80” exhibition is one of those recently-held virtual art events presenting latest works of eight young Iranian artists under 30. As a matter of fact, the title “70-80” itself refers to the age of participants meaning those who were born in 1990s (Persian calendar’s 1370s) and 2000s (Persian calendar’s 1380s). Mohadese Taheri, Hoori Benam, Faeze Foadian, Arash Mozhdeganlou, Ghazaleh Khoshghadam, Pouyan Taherianfard, Farino Atlasi and Rojano Mohamadzade are the eight artists whose paintings are curated at Arthibition Gallery virtual walls*.

The gallery aside from the art and aesthetics, is personally interesting to me as an artist born in 1980s since it shows the huge gap between my generation and the selected artists’. The way those young artists born in the late 90’s see the world has totally altered from what previous generations and I used to see it. The gallery is particularly noteworthy to me as more than half of the artworks (17 out of 32) are portraits, self-portraits, and group portraits.

To many, portraits are magical mirrors; Mysterious portals leading to human’s soul and reflecting what subject of the portrait or the artists her/himself thinks, believes, and states. Therefore, I decided to write only a review on the portraits and the things they have in common which I find related to the artists’ age rather than the curator’s choice.

Pointing out the similarities – I believe- can give us a small vent to look through the new generation of Iranian artists. The portraits, at a general glance, are all gloomy images of women who are neither satisfied nor cheerful if not interpreted as sad or desperate. The cold color palette of most of portraits likewise gives us the same vibe and amplifies the blue atmosphere and dejected ambience of subjects trying to address the audience with hopeless gazes and icy scowls.

Mohadese Tahri’s Artworks in exhibition 70-80 (Down-left shows golden ratios in one of her artworks)

Starting with the self-portraits of 1997-born artist, Mohadese Taheri, she has painted herself in front of apocalyptic landscapes with no trace of humanity as if she is the only survivor of armageddon. Though she is not yet a well-recognized painter, I had seen some of her other works in different exhibitions before: all are oil self-portraits with the similar dark backgrounds whose subjects seem to suffer from a long chronical pain which has made her numb and despondent. This numbness is yelled out through her soft brush strokes and the artworks’ golden compositions dragging the audiences’ attention smoothly from the subject’s eyes deep into the mysterious world in the back.

Personally, I can relate her artworks’ atmosphere to the situation in which her generation -specially women- was raised and brought up: dark economic prospect, tightened cultural norms and imposed choices upon education, career, and living in general. This was the case for a few generations before too -including mine- but the difference is that the improvements of global communications in the 90s and 2000s has put them in an ever-present exposure with the other societies benefiting from all they are longing for. We -mostly generations born in 80s, 70, and 60s- were convinced to believe that we were the luckiest and happiest people in the world heading on our way to build a utopia over the ruins of a frustrating 8-year war (Iran-Iraq war 1980-1988). We had no idea how the rest of the world was doing in that dark communication era. We believed what we were told to believe via state TV or radio which was mostly hand selected realities and propaganda. Hence, we had less chances to see the truth and because of not being able to compare ourselves to our fellows overseas, we had less chances to feel disappointed. But to the generation born in the late 90s, our cultural and economic restrictions are a heavy load. Since early childhood, they were constantly reminded about the better situations they could live in. This could seriously trigger a dissatisfaction chain reaction making them see the world a different place with many out-of-the-way alternatives for living. Their art is different, and so is their lifestyle.

4 pieces of Hoori Benam’s artworks in exhibition 70-80

This dark perception also flows in the portraits made by another 1997-born artist, Hoori Benam. She also uses a cold palette in her paintings. Though her portraits lack apocalyptic landscapes -as Mohadese’s- and use more simple neutral backgrounds, we can trace those end-of-the-time scenery in one of her non-portrait paintings exhibited in the same gallery. One of her portraits is a young girl -maybe a child- with a pale face taking a colorless glance at the audience. The girl seems detached and frozen, finding everything pointless. Maybe the gesture is not an unusual face as many children may have the same face when embarrassed or annoyed but the pale color tone, the vagueness of the frame, and wet watercolor brush strokes imply that this is no ordinary situation and the subject is not an ordinary child. Maybe it would be an over-analyzed comment if we suppose the portrait is based on one of those old pale photos that many of us have in our albums. Assuming so, the artwork could be a self-portrait, a vague image of the artist’s lost -or at least passed- childhood. While seeing Hoori’s three portraits in the exhibition, which all reminded me of old photographs, I was thinking that thanks to handy-cams, abundance of photograph films and emergence of new digital cameras in 90s and 2000s, why should the childhood of a person from this generation be vague? I suppose that unlike my generation, they must have a record of every event of their life such as birthdays, first day of schools, proms, reunions, etc. I suspect that maybe this artist imagines her own world as a mentally vague place lacking a specific identity as an Iranian child. But lack of identity is a vast concept caused by myriads of socio-cultural factors we cannot trace back in a review. So, maybe it is enough to presume that in spite of many capturing technologies available in the late 90’s, people born back then can also perceive their past as a cold vague place missing clear memories just as reflected in Hoori’s portraits.

Faeze Foadian’s artworks in exhibition 70-80

Faeze Foadian, unlike the other artists mentioned above, used a warmer palette and her choice of charcoal and pastel lines makes her portraits seem more energetic and active, suggesting an inspiring anger and rage in addition to feeling fatigued, disappointed, and aimless. Faeze seems to have no social profile or web footprint -which is uncommon for a young artist of our time- so I have not been able to say how old she is and whether her portraits, which are all a same woman, are self-portraits or not. Using symbols, emphasizing on a short-haired -too short and untidy- female portrait can indicate some cultural contexts such as mourning, loneliness, lack of enthusiasm, combat, and even crime. Regarding the frown and decisive face gestures of all four paintings, the artist’s message could be interpreted as of Mohaddaseh’s and Houri’s: illustrating a toxic environment where hope is dead and the subject is succumbed. Warmer colors like red in some of her works also implies that Faeze’s portraits feel infuriated and are thinking of a courageous reaction or maybe taking a revenge. Though the flow of life is more tangible in Faeze’s portraits but they do not tell stories of a joyful moment or even a normal life. The audience can feel some levels of pressure, pain, and uncertainty in the subjects’ eyes.

Artwork by Arash Mojdeganlou in exhibition 70-80

2 pieces of Ghazaleh Khoshghadam’s artworks in exhibition 70-80

Putting all these portraits of three different and unrelated artists of the same age can ratify our assumptions of their generation’s fears, emotions, and hesitations. However, taking a glance at other participating artists portraits also gives us the same conclusion: No joy of life is found in the face of a drowning (or sleeping) girl of Arash Mozhdeganlou and hopeless faces are seen in portraits of Ghazaleh Khoshghadam. Similarly, their color tone is rather cold and even one of Ghazaleh’s portraits, with strange patterns on her dace and a green background make us think of a corpse decomposing of maybe a decaying hope or feeling.

To sum up, over generalizing a generation’s thoughts and feelings upon a dozen of portraits may seem unreliable. On the other hand, though, it is no accident if various artworks of independent painters – which do not belong to a same artistic group- are mostly comprised of sad face portraits of women. This may make more sense as no deliberately curation is seen on this and it seems more like providing a marketing opportunity for young artists, I should add. Well, as an individual living in the same society and time of the artists, the artworks seem as the scars of an old familiar wound to me. Well maybe all people of the same age suffer the aftermaths of our modern lifestyle but the number of female sad portraits with cold hues in a single group exhibition can tell us about something deeper, a more regional phenomenon. And yes, that is what art and artists are meant for; reflecting pure facts of individuals, people and cultural atmosphere of the place they come from. As said before, portraits are portals to either of the subject’s or artist and art itself is a portal to the community it presents.

* arthibition.net/en/gallery/exhibition/605

My Artworks Among the Main Winners of “Good Stories for Good Children”

On July 1st, 2022, The illustration exhibition “Good stories for good children” commemorates the 100th birthday of Mehdi Azarizdi’s inauguration held, and the jury at the end of an opening ceremony announced the winners.
According to the public relations of the illustrators’ society, during the event, the Iranian Artists Forum’s ‘ “Momayez” Gallery and its conference hall, witnessed the presence of great artists, young illustrators, and others who attended the exhibition on a hot Friday afternoon, on July 1st, 2022.

At the beginning of the event, a video message from the secretary of the Children’s Book Council, played for the audience, emphasizing the importance of Mehdi Azaryazdi’s collaborations and efforts toward updating and presenting Persian old tales and fables to the new generations.
Ali Bouzari, CEO of the Illustrators Society, the first event’s speaker also highlighted Azaryazdi’s important role in children’s publication by telling a memory of his childhood reading Azaryazdi’s famous book collection “Good Stories for Good Children”.
“During the summer, I used to stay at my grandmother’s house and many times after we’d done shopping, we always went to AmirKabir bookstore on Khaje Nasir St. where she used to buy me a new book from “Good stories for Good Children” book series, said Bouzari.

IIS Annual Festival Main Award

Then, after presenting a brief report on how the event was organized and how the works were being selected, the three main winners were introduced including Niloofar Ataeifar, Arvin Fouladifar, and Pedram Kazroni for illustrating the stories of the book series “Good Stories for Good Children”. In the same section, Armin Abolfathi, Zahra Amini, Sahar Khorasani, and Najla Mahdavi were acknowledged with a certificate of appreciation.

The exhibition will be going on until July 20 at “Momayez” Gallery, Iranian Artists Forum.

گلدان

 دیروز گلدان چینی قرمزمان شکست
گلدانی با کلی گل مرغ بازاری که ارزش هنری خاصی هم ندارد. ارزش اصلی گلدان البته جز قدمتش، مالک اول آن بود؛ عزیزی که سال‌هاست رفته.
پدرم با چسب همه تکه‌ها را با وسواسی که در او معمولاً دیده نمی‌شود سر هم کرد و با غرور گفت: «بفرمایید! دوباره جان گرفت!» ولی من می‌گویم که هیچ‌گاه مثل قبلش نیست. گلدان همیشه بوی چسب را بین زخم‌هایش حس خواهد کرد و خطوط بی‌شماری که می‌گویند دقیقاً چند تکه شده بود همیشه رویش خواهند ماند. گلدان -ولو سرپا- تا ابد یک گلدان شکسته است.

Farewell The Millennium Bank

Well, today was such an emotional day. My colleagues -I would better say ex-colleagues-surprised me with a goodbye party there in the bank PR office. There was a cake, memory telling, impressions of the way I use to speak by Vahid, and even an hiphop performance about my resignation by Sarah and Pejman. Well, I have been working there for 12 years as a PR expert and I resigned as the head of the communications and media team. I somehow was raised there while working with a dozen great people who taught me many things I know today. People like Mr. Rafiee, Elham, Niloofar, Somayeh, Najmeh, Fereshteh, Arshad, Yaser, Mohsens (since we had 3 of them), and Morteza.

Last day of my career as a bank employee, March 2022

But the reasons that made me resign at the end of my contract period this March was something I would like to explain. Officially, as I said to the bank’s HR, I wanted to change my field of work and concentrate more on NFTs and making illustrations. Working an unrelated full-time job did not let me spend enough time necessary for making artworks and related marketing (e.g. personal branding) activities. But if I had not made that decision, I would resign either way. So, there is a bigger reason for stopping working there.

We (all my colleagues and I) in the PR department had experienced a catastrophic situation caused by our new chief officer of public relations since the end of 2019, and the saddest part is we implicitly were not allowed to make any official objection or to complain about it. I am not going so deep through this since it could be interpreted as personal or unprofessional but on the other hand, I have to say it since organizations should be responsible about their choices for managerial positions. The ones who always take the management seats are not the best choice for the business. Thus, like the control tools monitoring employees and processes, a sound and robust system also needs to check on its managerial layer via many managerial tools. Apart from questionnaires, interviews, and other official procedures, the employees’ (and ex-employees’) direct feedback is one of the most important control tools every executive board member should be using – as every one of them usually is responsible for several departments in many organizations. Forthright communication channels with the senior management always should be open to anyone and this doesn’t mean simply introducing CEOs’ -or other board members’- direct email addresses. This means senior management -especially the CEO- should listen to their employees from any layer and respond to them professionally. Additionally, this communication should remain confidential and employees should not be afraid of their feedback’s negative consequences. Unfortunately, we -there as PR staff- had no access to such an open channel to relate the crisis we had. Ironically the CEO’s direct email is checked by the PR manager there… So, sending feedback to CEO has never been an option for our department. I am sure the CEO had heard about our problem but he has not reacted yet for some reason. Whatever the reason is, he has preferred to lose more than 25 employees in his PR department in less than a year and did nothing about it. However, after the first wave of resignations in early 2021, he only had a meeting with us. Not letting anybody speak about the issue, he called all those quittings nothing but the ex-manager plots to sabotage and destroy the reputation of his new successor. Then he intimidated us and recommended we had better not follow the schemes made by those who resigned. Well, none of his thoughts were true… there were all conspiracy theories people usually make up to escape reality! I cannot think of anything but the idea that we -me and literally all the PR team at that time- were only the cost of a bigger interest. In other words, our CEO had to keep his new manager in position regardless of whatever she does.

me and my coursmates during our new-hire training classes, April 2010

Well, I always have loved the bank. It was my second home, my colleagues were my second family. I have been witnessing losing more than 25 of them leaving for good. That was a horrible experience! Here I want to address the bank’s CEO. Despiting knowing that this is not going to make a difference, I have to say it. 25 resignations only in a year in a single department are no accident, Mr. CEO! Even though either of them gave excuses, you can be sure their main problem was not immigration and having two little kids. They could not simply stand working in a toxic atmosphere where the manager -the one you put in the office- constantly humiliates them and smashes their self-esteem. They could not stand being constantly under deadly stress for unimportant things. Yes Mr. CEO unimportant things like how should we ask a simple question from our manager? whether via her office, a text message, a voice message, or an official letter?! Yes Mr. CEO we had the most basic communication issues with your chief communications officer! Yes, these are unnecessary things we have faced bad consequences for. It is not possible to work with a manager who uses anger, ire, and intimidation as a managerial tool, who enjoys seeing people being scared of her, who does not respect her employees’ privacy wants them to be accessible 7/24, who does not welcome dialogues, and communications, the one whose ideas and thought should be executed without any questions. I can understand why she is so scared of employees’ comments and questions; that is your fault, Mr. CEO, you have chosen a person as your PR manager with no communication skills not able to give a simple speech; someone with no background in social and traditional media; someone with no executive and event organizing work experience, someone with no artistic or aesthetics viewpoint who has not even watched a movie or theatre in eons, someone with no managerial skills to stimulate people and lead even a small team of three. Besides working skills, she is not behaviorally and mentally qualified for any managerial position Mr. CEO and you know it. Someone with a military sergeant language, with an up-to-down way of looking at people (I am not talking about the common hierarchy of course), and with an ADHD detail-oriented approach has no place in a modern organization’s management, specifically an organization with the slogan: “The Millennium Bank”. I am not a psychologist but I am sure she even would fail a simple personality test!
I am not sure if someday you read this Mr. CEO but if someone sends you the link, instead of ordering the bank’s legal department to set a complaint against me (your favorite approach toward media and journalists) please think of it. I am not writing here to destroy your brand. Believe it or not, this is a personal blog, only reachable to a limited audience (at least now). Sorry to say that unlike what you defined as the bank’s vision, the organization will never rank among Fortune 500. Maybe it makes huge profits, but the way you and other managers see the human capital and the business itself definitely could not lead you among the globally-recognized companies and organizations.

۲ بختک

عقربه‌های ساعت، درست وقتی که به زمان نیاز داری تو را پشت میز کارت، روی صندلی اتاقت یا روی تخت‌خوابت میخ‌کوب می‌کنند. باید مرور بدترین‌ احتمالات و عبور بدترین اضطراب‌ها را تجربه کنی و هم‌زمان گردش مستمر و پویایی‌ بی‌نقصشان را در برابر انفعال خورندۀ خودت ببینی. این خود شکنجه است. بنابراین همیشه زمان تنگ است و همیشه دیر خواهد شد؛ برای تصمیم گرفتن، برای دست به کار شدن، برای جوان ماندن، برای رسیدن به اتوبوس و برای امتحان.

زندگی، آن طور که مجبورمان می‌کنند سپری‌اش کنیم به تکلیف‌های ملال‌آور دوران مدرسه می‌ماند. رونویسی‌ها و حل مسائل بی‌سروته که باید انجام بدهی تا مسئولیت‌پذیر و موفق به نظر برسی. دوران‌هایی هم هست که خدا خودش را به خواب زده است و به عجز و لابه‌هایت گوش نمی‌دهد. مثل شب امتحان است. من همیشه شب‌های امتحان در چرت‌زدن‌های کوتاه آن نیمه‌شب‌های برزخی بختک می‌شدم. امتحان، چه تعلیمات اجتماعی و هندسه باشد و چه دوام آوردن در یک ادارۀ جهنمی، برای تلاشی بیهوده است. یادگرفتنی‌ها را یاد بلدید و یه نه. امتحان فقط نوعی محک زدن غیرضروری و زجر‌آور است برای ارزیابی دیگران از شما.

حقیقتش برای خواندن کتابِ این امتحان مضحک دیگر رمقی ندارم. خواب‌آلودگی جانت را قطره قطره از درون بخار می‌کند. ماهیچه‌هایت انگار در بدنت پخته‌اند و درون جمجمه‌ات شیره‌ای نوچ و شیرین نمی‌گذارد تمرکز کنی. صبح از سویی نزدیک است چون نیمۀ ماندۀ این کتاب این را می‌گوید. از طرفی هم خیلی دور است؛ چون نمی‌رسد! و ثانیه‌ثانیۀ این رنج مثل ماه و سال می‌گذرد. خودت را قانع می‌کنی چُرتی بزنی تا با انرژی بیشتری بیست دقیقه دیگر دوباره شروع کنی وهر یک دقیقه یک صفحه جلو بروی. اما این چرت خودش برایم آغاز رنجی دیگر است.

بختک، کابوس است. خوابی که در آن فکر می‌کنی بیداری. یا شاید نوعی بیداری که در آن که فکر می‌کنی خواب هستی. به هر حال همیشه اتفاق بدی در پشت سرت در جریان است: وزوز حشرات موذی، صدای قدم‌های یک جانی یا آژیر حمله هوایی را می‌شنوی اما نمی‌توانی حتی پوستۀ پلکت را تکان بدهی. دست و پا و کمرت انگار مال تو نیستند و تقلا کردن و زور زدن هیچ کاری را از پیش نمی‌برد. هزچند گزینۀ دیگری هم نیست.  چنان سنگینی که انگار خود کوه دماوندی که در میان البرز زنجیر شده. بی‌حرکت و خاموشی اما هشیار، مستأصل و زیر فشار سنگین ترین وزنۀ جهان.

بختک همیشه با یک ضربۀ انفجاری باز می‌شود. رها شدن فنری که از فشار زجر، تا انتها جمع شده. رهایی یک پیروزی کوچک است اما اندکی بعد از آن دنیای دیگری را می‌بینی که نه حشره‌ای موذی‌ای در خود داشته و نه حمله هوایی در آن نزدیک است. انگار ریشۀ این خودخوری طولانی فقط یک فریب زننده بوده است.

ساعت یازده و نیم شب است. فردا صبح دوباره باید بروم و به آن اهریمن همیشه‌حق‌به‌جانب گزارش کار بدهم. کاش این فنر سرجایش برگردد و صبح در جهانی بیدار شوم که نه در آن کسی کارمند جایی باشد و نه اصلاً بتوان در آن دفتر و دستک و اداره‌ای پیدا کرد.

کودکی ام

کودکی گنجی بود
نقد شد به پای بالیدن
مغبون و خاسریم
که هزاران روز بالغ بودنِ بهترینمان
حتی به یک خواب نیمروز کودکی هم نمی‌ارزد

پيچ

نمي دانم از كجا روي كتم چسبيده بود اما بلوا از همان يك تار موي سياه صاف بلند روي كت شروع شد و رزوه رزوه درون گوشتم پيچيد بهتان و شك… پيچ فرو مي رود كه بماند. حتي اگر بازش كني، درونش را گچ بمالي و سطحش را رنگ آميزي كني، در اعماق آن بدنه سوراخي خواهد ماند كه يا خاليست و يا اگر پر، از خميره اي غريب.

دوستي و دوستان بين دو قطب چرخنده

انگار آهنربايي كثيف و سيم پيچي شده باشم كه مدام به بدترين شكل ممكن قطب عوض مي كند. ساده ترين ها صعب مي شوند و عميق ترين ها سطحي. بعد همه چيز برمي گردد. اين وسط هم پر مي شود از دلتنگي و اضطراب و نيم دوجين رفيق بي معرفت كه تا دو روز حالشان را نپرسي از تو دلگيرند. پير مي شوم انگار هر روز. غر مي زنم. با خودم خودآزارانه   فكر مي كنم كه آيا همه براي منفعتي تن به دوستي مي دهند؟

كه سودي به تنشان بماسد؟ كه غصه هايشان را رويت بالا  بياورند؟ كه به خودشان ثابت كنند بهترينند و به اين دليل شخصيت و انتخاب هاي تو را به گند بكشند؟

هركس به نوعي، همه هم حق به جانب. چه آني كه فكر كرد غيبت ما به دليل ارزش قائل نشدن براي شخصيت والايش بود، چه او كه پيش خود گفت ٥ تومان اثاث بنجل به ما بيندازد نابغه تجارت است و چه او كه پنداشت اگر عشق ما به دريا يا ساير تفريحاتمان  را به سخره بگيرد خودش بهتر در اين دنيا زندگي خواهد كرد.

قطب عوض مي شود. صدا مي گويد:دوستي همين كشمكش ها را هم دارد ديگر عزيزم، چرا سخت مي گيري؟

ببين اين آهنگ “مردي كه دنيا را فروخت” است… هرچند كسي از اينها گوش نمي دهد اين روزها. لذتش را ببر!

دارم پير مي شوم. حتي براي خودم هم ضرب آهنگ ترانه هاي نيروانا كندتر به نظر مي رسد، بچه ها دوستشان ندارند. 

پير شده ام، از استوري هاي دختر بيست ساله فاميلمان هيچ چيز نمي فهمم… كي اين قطب ها براي هميشه مي ايستند؟

سيفتال

وسیله گاهی هدف را نه توجیه که گم می‌کند. درست مانند آن شب شلوغ که در میان غرور و نخوت و دود و صدای بلند ِ ضرب‌آهنگِ تند، گیج و گم بودم. از ساعت‌ها پیش از رسیدن شب، همه‌ چیز با وسواس و دقت فراهم شده بود، تا همگان ساعاتی خوش بگذرانند و آرزو کنند که صاحب این بزم، سال‌های سال در کنارشان شاد باشد و دوستی‌ها بماند تا مانندگان مانند، نزد هم. همه چیز بی‌نقص می‌نمود. فقط نگران بودم که نکند یکی از خواهرانم کبوتر سفیدم را با تیر تیز نگاهش، در بدو ورود به خانه بزند، که زد.

پس از کلی التهاب و بی‌قراری و تپش قلب، بالاخره زنگ خانه آواز خواند و همه‌ی حاضران، كلامشان را بريدند و در اشتیاق دیدن پریسا چشم به در دوختند. درِ را که گشودم، چشمم جز زردی ندید. یک زردی خیره‌کننده. همان خنده و نگاه معروفش بود اما یک لباس زردِ تا نیمه‌ی ران و یک ساپورت مشکی با کفشی به همان رنگ لباسِ بالاتنه برای لحظاتی میخکوبم کرد. سلامی کرد و آغوشی و بوسه‌ای، اما کوتاه و غریب. نمی‌دانم آن شبِ خردادیِ لعنتی آن‌قدر سرد بود یا او از فرط اضطراب یخ زده بود و رنگ به رخسار نداشت. گویی  زنبوری در راه کندو، راهش را گم کرده و داخل خانه شده است. پرپر می‌زد و  چشم می‌چرخاند که اوضاع را رصد کند. در مسیری نامنظم و پیچ پیچ، راهش را به جایی خالی در سالن باز کرد. خواهر وسطی، در همان بدو ورود، سلامی میزبانی و صاحب‌مجلسی کرد و از بد حادثه، میزبان مآبانه هم پاسخ شنید. و همین شد جرقه آتشی که سوزاند، شمع و پروانه و محفل را.
من همیشه در مقوله‌ی پوشاک و پوشیدنی، آبی و قرمز و توسی و سفید را به هر رنگی ترجیح داده بودم و نهایتاً انتخاب بعدی می شد سبز مات. گاه، از شدت استیصال روی به یاسی و گل بهی می‌آوردم. این بود که حیران بودم در این‌که چرا خلاف همه صحبت‌ها، رفته بود و رختی بازاری از جایی جسته بود و با آن به دلبری آمده بود. فکر می‌کردم شاید انتخابش زرشکی یا سرمه‌ای با شلوار یا دامنی مشکی باشد. ترکیب رنگ‌هایی که به سفیدی پوستش، جلوه خیره کننده‌تری می‌داد. همه‌ی نگاه‌ها در گردش بود. گاهی به سوی من و گاه او و گاهی نیز به یک‌دیگر. رنگ لباس که ساده‌ترین مشکل بود، کلی ماجرا پیش آورد که یک در هزار هم در مخلیه‌ام نمی‌گنجید. از جمله نق‌زدن‌های خواهرم و این‌که او، چرا هم‌چون بیگانه‌ای، حتا تعارفی خشک و خالی هم نمی‌کند و دستی برای پذیرایی نمی‌جنباند و این‌که  سرِخود آهنگ عوض می‌کند.  یک بار هم زبان اعتراض به نوشیدنی گشود که پریسا با خودش به همراه آورده بود.
در مجموع، خودش نبود. آن یکه‌سوارِ آزاد و سرخوشی که همیشه دنیا را آسان می‌گرفت و با پرچم و اسب خودش می‌تاخت. نه. او نبود. برج مراقبت لرزانی بود که می‌رقصید و می‌نوشید و می‌خندید اما همه از روی احتیاط و ترس. از آن شب حتی کلامی از او  در گوشم نیست. گویی یا او لال بود یا من کر. فقط به خاطر دارم مايه‌ي مباهاتم بود كه حضوری زردپوش، نگران سرافراز نبودن ِ احتمالی من است. در همه‌ی مدت حضورش، سر و گردنش خیس عرق بود و چشم‌های نگرانش خیره به سوی من. به نظر می‌رسید جرأت نگاه‌ کردن  مستقیم به کس ديگری را ندارد. و من چه ساده همه‌ی اینها را به پای بی‌تجربگی‌اش نهادم و افسوس می‌خوردم که چرا در این شبِ مبارک، به من خوش نمی‌گذرد! چه خودخواهانه نفهمیدم آن چشمانی را که حمایتی می جستند و ناگفته نماند که اندکی یافتند. اما نه به میزانی که باید، و زود رفت. و آن‌گاه سیل نجواها و پچ‌پچ ها بود که به گوش می‌رسید، تا چند روز ….

اکنون می‌فهمم و چه دیر. که چه آشوبی در سينه داشت و چه هوای سنگینی تنفس کرد میان آن همه داوری چشم‌ها. نامش را نیز اگر فراموش می‌کرد جای ملامت نبود. و من اکنون و سال‌ها بعد از رفتنشِ، فهمیده‌ام که چون رنگ محبوب من زرد است، کلی بازارگردی کرده و از جایی آن لباس را که شبیه زنبورش کرده بود یافته و خریده بود. خب چطور بايد می‌دانست رنگ مورد علاقه‌ی من شامل لباس نمی‌شود؟! حالا که نیست و نمی‌دانم کجاست، فهمیده‌ام، نمی‌بایستی در گوشش و از چندی  قبل می‌خواندم که خودت نباش و بیا. خودت نباش و بیا تا همه بمانند در حیرت از اینکه چه صنمی هستی. این من بودم که او را از خودش گرفتم و بي دفاع رهايش كردم میان آن همه نگاه ياغي که حتی تأیید و رد کردنشان نه برای خودشان و نه من، ذره‌ای ارزش و اعتبار نداشت و ندارد. من بودم که بی‌دلیل شخصی‌ترین دریچه را به سوی چشم‌های بیگانه گشوده بودم تا بنگرند، تا افاضات کنند. و چه مظلومانه بال زد به دور شمعی که می‌پنداشت، منم. خاموش ماندم… مسخ و منفعل میان آن همه سایه‌. و هرگز نفهمیدم که اگر زنبور هم بود، آن شب بزرگ‌ترینشان بود، همچون زنبوری که همه‌ی کندو به خاطرش به تکاپوست. یک زنبور ملکه. 

روبان اریگامی

می اندیشی که منطق بر می آید از پس چند خم و تای ساده. بیرون می ریزی اش، باز می کنی سفره را و رسوا می شوی… هیچ گاه بر نمی گردی، خسته می مانی و لگدمال