The scattered memories of a distorted future

That day I lost my faith in art. On January 8, 2020, when I found out the Ukrainian airplane had crashed in Tehran and all its 176 passengers and crew had died, I fell into a deep silence of grief and despair. Since then, different sorts of unfortunate events have come: political turbulence, a water crisis, recession, the immigration of my family members and friends, and the COVID pandemic to top it all off. When I wake up in the morning, I am like a demolished site, and everything seems to be in ruins: myself, my family, my friends, my relationships, my city, my country. The suffering we endure manifests itself in the language of ruins. As an artist, amid all this suffering (the language of the present), I hope to find how artistic creation can be healing, inspiring, and effective. What effect does the artist have on this state of ruin? What role do we have in the ruins of mankind's constructions/creations? In this series, ruins have become a metaphor for pain. Here, between a silent past and a distorted future, I invited female painters to paint what they like in abandoned places; a painting on the masculine history, a picture on the face of the past, and an unanswered question for the future.