Soheila Sokhanvari is a British-Iranian artist whose diverse practice delves into the complexities of identity, politics, and social commentary. Drawing on her background as a former biochemist and her experiences as an immigrant to the UK at the age of 14, Sokhanvari’s journey as an artist has been shaped by her exploration of hybrid identities and the impact of her Iranian heritage. Her multimedia works, ranging from Iranian crude oil on paper drawings to traditional miniature paintings on calf vellum, reflect her fascination with storytelling, symbolism, and magic realism as tools for political expression. Sokhanvari’s recent exhibition, ‘Rebel Rebel’ pays homage to pre-revolutionary Iranian feminists, shedding light on the struggles and resilience of women in navigating patriarchal oppression. Through her art and activism, Sokhanvari continues to challenge societal norms and advocate for human rights, particularly in response to the ongoing injustices faced by women and minority groups in Iran.
CJLPA: Welcome, Soheila Sokhanvari. We would like to begin by thanking you for taking the time to interview with The Cambridge Journal of Law, Politics, and Art. Your extensive body of work, including multimedia pieces and miniature paintings, delves into the contemporary political landscape, with a particular focus on pre-revolutionary Iran of 1979. By employing unconventional materials such as Iranian crude oil and calf vellum, you weave together narratives of collective trauma and individual experience, addressing themes of sacrifice, democracy, and societal consciousness. Through magic realism and symbolism, your art offers a nuanced commentary on political discourse, inviting viewers to contemplate the complexities of power and identity.
What drew you to art? I understand you were a scientist prior to becoming an artist. How did your journey as an artist progress?
Soheila Sokhanvari: My father was a fashion designer and fashion model in the 1950s and 1960s. He was also an amateur artist, so he taught me how to do miniature paintings, using egg tempera, how to see the world, how to look and to record that looking. As a child, I was always exposed to Persian miniatures through folklore books or reproductions of masters. My father used to tell me stories: by looking at one painting, he would tell me the story of the entire book. So, for me, miniatures have always been like book illustrations, and I always associated them with storytelling. Perhaps I wanted to be an artist because I have so many stories I want to tell. As a child, I was like any other child, I was always drawn to painting and drawing. But that feeling of wanting to paint and draw never actually left me, and that’s the difference between being an artist and not being an artist.
My father supported me through my teenage life, although he wasn’t physically with me because I came to this country alone. I arrived with my brother, but we were separated and went to different schools. I feel like art saved my life, because when I came to this country and had to endure being away from my family, I would draw them from photographs over and over again. For me, that made them come alive, so I could relive those moments again and again. It was therapeutic, cathartic for me to have painting and drawing. It truly saved me throughout my teenage and adult life.
Although I was a scientist, I was always painting and drawing in my spare time. I studied biochemistry and I became a cytogeneticist, which is the study of chromosomes. I worked for Cambridge University’s Department of Haematology until 2005, when I decided to take a leap of faith and pursue a postgraduate diploma at the Chelsea College of Art and Design. But even before that, from 2001 until 2005, I had studied art history and fine art part-time at Anglia Ruskin University. It was a balancing act, studying three days a week at university, working three days a week, and then on Sundays catching up with both my scientific reports and my coursework. It was like wearing two hats at once. After all, until the Victorian era artists were polymaths. They could be artists, mathematicians, alchemists, architects, astronomers, astrologers, engaged in various other professions at the same time.
I became an artist because my father was an artist, and it was always my dream to follow in his footsteps. However, I often felt like an imposter in the world of science, as if I was trespassing because deep down, I knew I was meant to be an artist. It was a difficult internal struggle. My mother never wanted me to become an artist, she always hoped I would pursue a career as a doctor or a lawyer. I had a mortgage, a child, responsibilities, and a husband who opposed my decision to become an artist. Family pressures weighed heavily on me. My mother even warned me that I would end up in a gutter if I pursued art, implying I would become homeless. It felt like a constant struggle, and I had to rebel against those expectations.
CJLPA: It must feel rewarding now that you’re fully immersed in your art and excelling at it.
SS: When I decided to leave my job, I was very desperate. I just couldn’t continue anymore. When faced with such a situation, the decision felt natural and organic. The decision was actually not that difficult, but it was difficult for everyone else to accept. Women are very tenacious and rebellious by nature. Particularly Iranian women, we are always swimming against the current.
When I decided to become an artist, I was happy to give up everything, to give up my good income for a lesser income, for a bit of peace of mind and a love of what I was doing. I wasn’t looking to become an acknowledged contemporary artist, my ambitions were quite small. I thought, what’s the worst that can happen? It was all about feeding your soul, being happy, being authentic, and following your dreams. To be happy is the most important thing in life, because that’s success. Success for me is not about money or fame. Success is about being happy in what you’re doing, getting up in the morning, and just doing what you love. Success will come to you, maybe if you’re lucky, if the planets line up. I’ve been very lucky, and I have to accept that fact.
CJLPA: Often children of immigrants have a hybrid identity and can feel stuck between two worlds, similar to you being between science and art. When you emigrated to the UK at the age of 14, what was your experience like? Is this hybrid identity something you relate to?
SS: Definitely. In 1978, Iran wasn’t that different from present-day Turkey. You had women walking around in miniskirts and shorts, as well as women completely veiled. Not so different from London. I experienced some cultural differences when I first came to this country, but on a larger scale there wasn’t much difference between England and Iran. When I first came here, I saw Muslim women wearing hijabs and non-Muslims living closely together. As an immigrant, whether you come alone or with your family, you become a collage of both cultures. You embrace the new culture but still hold onto your roots. It’s about finding a balance between the two. If you abandon your previous culture, you lose your family and history. If you cling solely to your old culture, you become an outsider. So, the best approach is to embrace the hybrid situation, becoming a collage of both cultures. Depending on the context, you adapt. Having lived most of my life in England, I’m often told I’m more English than others. But with my Iranian friends, I feel more connected to my Iranian roots. Being a hybrid means you don’t fully belong to either culture, which can make you feel like an outsider. But integrating and becoming a hybrid is important for immigrants. It adds richness to cultures and makes for interesting people.
Identities are fluid, I don’t just have one fixed identity. It can change from one day to the next, depending on the group of people I’m with. I came to this country at the age of 14 and enrolled in an all-girls school. I couldn’t speak much English, and being the only brown person in the school made me an outsider from the start. Not being able to speak the language further isolated me. I didn’t know what to talk to my classmates about because our experiences were so different. While they were discussing boys and fashion, I was preoccupied with the political turmoil in my home country. It felt like we had no common ground. Even in Iran, I felt like an outsider as a child. Among my siblings, I was always the one who preferred solitary activities like drawing and reading. So, I guess I was a loner, in a way. That doesn’t sound very flattering, but it’s true.
CJLPA: Your portraits feature a unique technique, painted on calf vellum with a squirrel brush, using the ancient method of egg tempera that you learned from your father. You’ve also mentioned the influence of Persian miniature paintings. Alongside your father, what specifically drew you to these techniques and styles?
SS: Persian miniature art dates back centuries and is related to miniature paintings in the Mughal and Chinese traditions. Portraiture, on the other hand, has always been a form of propaganda, with influential and powerful individuals using it to tell their stories and immortalize themselves. I’ve been drawn to portraiture since my arrival in England. My first encounter with art was at the National Gallery during a school visit, where I was overwhelmed by works like those of Rembrandt and Van Eyck. There’s something very human about connecting with another person’s face through art. I felt compelled to tell the stories of women who have become martyrs of the revolution in Iran, marginalized and oppressed by the patriarchal regime, their images banned, and their voices silenced. It felt important to me to give them a voice through my art. This story has been burning in my chest for 44 years. Painting portraits and miniatures felt like a natural choice for me, given my love for the Persian miniature tradition passed down from my father and my cultural heritage. I wanted to create contemporary art in England that combines traditional Persian miniatures with techniques like egg tempera on calf vellum, transforming them into modern illuminations. Ultimately, I wanted to do something that had never been done before.
CJLPA: Similarly, your paintings combine Islamic patterns with the stylized aesthetics of the 60s and 70s. What was the motivation behind this form of hybridity?
SS: I think the women whose stories I tell were caught between the modernity pushed on them by the Pahlavi regime and their own traditional backgrounds, being from conservative, religious, and patriarchal families. They were chosen to represent the conflict between these two forces. That’s why I wanted to incorporate these patterns in my paintings, as a metaphor for the idea that these women had their roots in traditional Islamic culture, often represented by the background resembling Persian carpets, while being influenced by the modernity of the 60s and 70s, depicted through patterns reminiscent of pop culture wallpapers and clothing. These women were pulled by different forces—modernity and tradition.
Patterns are inherently political. This is something that may not be immediately apparent, as patterns are often used in branding. For example, the Gucci pattern conveys a certain level of wealth associated with the person wearing it. On the other hand, in Islamic culture, geometric patterns, because they appear to go on forever, are meant to represent the infinity and greatness of God and the vastness of the universe. For me, patterns are never innocent; they are always deeply political. Unfortunately, Westerners have lost this connection with the meaning of patterns. Patterns also reflect a specific era. You can look at a pattern and identify it as being from the 60s or the 70s, for example. I use these patterns to place my subjects in a specific time, a specific era, as a way of storytelling.
CJLPA: Your art serves as a powerful tool for political expression, from your paintings commenting on the global impact of crude oil to your passport series reflecting alternative identities. The ‘Rebel Rebel’ exhibition pays homage to the pre-revolutionary feminists of Iran, showcasing portraits of women involved in the arts who had to navigate modernity amidst an oppressive patriarchal tradition. How did you conceive of this concept and develop it into the exhibition we see today?
SS: In 1936, the Shah of Iran decreed that women, particularly those in the cities like Tehran, had to be unveiled. Until then, they were veiled, and their lives were heavily controlled. Just imagine how oppressed they were, being forced to walk on the left-hand side of the road and disguise their voices when talking to men they weren’t related to. The Shah’s decree changed the clothing for both men and women. Men had to give up their traditional clothing and wear Western clothes, while women had to be unveiled. I was interested in the idea that women, by force, have always been subject to whatever the government wants to impose, as they become a symbol of the government’s ideology. After the Iranian Revolution, women lost all the freedom they had gained through previous struggles. They lost their human rights, their legal rights, their identity, everything.
Initially, I wanted to tell this story using my mother and father as muses for my storytelling, utilizing my family portraits as a way of telling the history of Iranian women. I understood that the story of Iranian women, my family, and women artists is something that resonates deeply. In 1979, after the revolution, one of the first things destroyed was the entire film industry in Iran. They not only destroyed films but also the equipment. They arrested actors and actresses, forcing them to sign letters of repentance, promising to never appear on screen again. I wanted to tell the story of Iranian women from 1925 to 1979, all those who tried to navigate through patriarchy, misogyny, and oppression. It’s a story that’s not widely known but one which is crucial, especially in times when fascism is on the rise globally.
My platform was provided by Eleanor Nairne, a feminist curator who saw the importance of my work. She plucked me out of anonymity and gave me the opportunity to share this narrative. Before the Barbican exhibition [Rebel Rebel], I had a smaller exhibition based on these iconic women at my own gallery, Kristin Hjellegjerde Gallery, in 2019. It was a step towards what I’m doing now, but on a smaller scale. The curator at the Barbican recognized the potential in my work and gave me an incredible opportunity to showcase it on a larger platform.
As an artist, I’ve always been political, always an activist, always speaking out on human rights, women’s rights. Even from childhood, I’ve always been a feminist, always addressing the plight of marginalized people. Before the Barbican exhibition, many people saw my paintings but never grasped how political my work was; they often saw my work as merely aesthetically pleasing without understanding the narratives embedded within. The Mahsa Amini protests taking place in 2022 at the same time as the exhibition provided context for my work, revealing what I was truly addressing. It was a bittersweet moment for me because it gave my work a global platform, but at the same time it saddened me deeply knowing people were being killed for protesting.
CJLPA: How did you decide which women to feature, and what was your experience like researching them?
SS: Researching these women was incredibly challenging, mainly because Iranian culture has not been particularly interested in documenting the biographies of its artists, especially female artists. In the past, women artists, such as dancers, were often derogatorily referred to as ‘raqqaseh’. People would attend their performances but showed no interest in knowing more about them.
Finding information about these women was nearly impossible. Many Wikipedia pages contained erroneous information, and the Iranian government actively removed or distorted information, tarnishing their reputations. However, I received a great deal of help from the curatorial assistant, Hilary Floe, who was amazing at researching for me. Another thing that greatly aided my research was the fact that some people from that era are still alive today. These women formed a close-knit group, as there were few of them in their respective fields, and maintained this bond even more tightly after the revolution, finding support and protection in one another. Through the connections of one person, I was able to contact many others. This network of friendship helped these women survive the pre-revolutionary era, the revolution itself, and the post-revolutionary period.
Another significant resource was the documentary film Razor’s Edge: The Legacy of Iranian Actresses by Bahman Maghsoudlou. Maghsoudlou, a film critic, historian, artist, and filmmaker, spent 15 years creating this documentary, interviewing many of these women. Watching the film allowed me to hear these women speak about their lives and the challenges they faced in achieving their goals.
While my sources were limited, they were authentic. I was confident in the stories I was telling, knowing they were reliable. As for why I chose these women in particular, I was spoiled for choice, as there were many remarkable options, but I ultimately decided to focus on pioneers or women who were extremely famous and beloved by Iranian culture. I knew I could only paint a limited number of portraits.
CJLPA: Can you describe your daily painting routine and walk us through your portrait painting process?
SS: I would start by searching on Google for portraits of the women I wanted to paint. Depending on their fame, there would be either many portraits available or just one or two. For those with limited portraits, I would spend time staring at them. When you look at a photograph without taking your eyes off it for a long time, the image starts to come alive in your mind. It becomes like a frozen moment in a cinematic scene. I would see them as cinematic and capture them in my mind.
I would then create a collage by taking patterns from search engines, cutting them out, and placing them next to each other to see which patterns complemented or opposed each other. Next, I would draw the portrait on vellum using a pencil. With vellum, you have to know exactly what you’re going to do before you start because it doesn’t allow for changes easily. It’s a living support, the skin of an animal, so once you start, you can’t change your mind easily. This process is similar to miniature painting, where you design everything beforehand, and the only changes you can make are minor, such as colour adjustments. The actual painting process would take six to twelve weeks. I would grind the pigment, mix it with egg yolk, water, and five drops of white vinegar to create egg tempera, and then apply it using a miniature brush. It’s a slow technique, not fast or glamorous, but rather zen and methodical. Every shape in those paintings requires five layers of paint, so you can imagine how long it takes to complete one. By the time I finish a painting, I find myself falling in love with the person depicted. You develop a certain affection for them as you intimately know every curve and feature. You get to know them both biographically and biologically. So, these women become like friends to me. If I disliked or hated them, it would feel intolerable to paint them. Portrait painting, to me, is an act of love. It’s like expressing love through a visual medium.
CJLPA: Let’s discuss some of the women showcased in the exhibition. First up, we have Kobra Saeedi, a renowned dancer, actor, filmmaker, journalist, and poet. Could you share some insights into her and explain why she holds significance for you?
SS: Kobra Saeedi was an incredibly talented individual who hailed from a background of poverty and abuse, starved of love and food alike. Forced while still a student to perform in cabarets to raise money and support her family, she even financially assisted her siblings through their education, acting essentially as the head of the family. Following the revolution, she actively participated in protests against the compulsory hijab, aiming to document the events through film. However, her fame made her a target, leading to her arrest, torture via electric shocks, and confiscation of her assets. After her release, she found herself homeless on the streets of Tehran, a stark contrast to her previous stardom, as though Madonna were to become homeless. Kobra Saeedi is still alive, living in a shelter in Iran.
In my painting of her, I used two photographs as a reference, a headshot and a three-quarter-length photo, both very grainy and out of focus. I stared at the headshot for days until I could visualise her in that pose, taking a drag on a cigarette. I even recreated this image and had my husband photograph me, embodying her spirit. By lending her my body, I aimed to lend her a voice and depict her defiance against societal constraints, symbolized by her act of smoking, which was considered rebellious in Iran. Through her story, I sought to convey a message of resilience and empowerment, echoing Maya Angelou’s insistence that, despite everything, ‘still I rise’.
CJLPA: Second, we have Roohangiz Saminejad, known for being first Iranian star in a talkie film: Lor Girl, released in 1933.
SS: Interestingly, the film had to be made in Mumbai (Bombay, as it was back then). Filming was undertaken in 1932, when women in Iran were not yet unveiled, so it was taboo for her to appear in public without her veil. That’s why it had to be filmed in India, which at the time had a much better film industry, with the know-how and all the equipment needed. When the film was released in Iran, Saminejad was both completely embraced by the public and faced outrage from a portion of Iranians who were appalled by her appearing without a veil and dancing. She went against every single prejudice in one go: she works at a tea house, falls in love with a government agent, rides on horseback, is chased by bandits, saves her lover from the bandits—she was a heroine! In a way, the director of that film gave her power; he was unknowingly a feminist, because he was talking about the plight of Iranian women.
She received death threats, not only from the people of her village but also from her own family. Despite the threats, being a rebel, she appeared in another film called Shirin and Farhad (1934). After that, she had to change her name and live in anonymity because she was so hounded by men. She had to have three bodyguards, one of them being her driver, because of the number of people who wanted to harm her, who found the films outrageous. She feared for her life and said she had to give up the art she loved in order to save her life.
CJLPA: There is also Zinat Moadab. What is her significance?
SS: Zinat was the first woman who appeared in a talkie that was filmed in Iran: The Storm of Life, made in 1948. Not only this, in the film she criticizes the idea of arranged marriage, which was completely unacceptable for many Iranians. Her own family did not know she was going to appear in this film, so she filmed it in secret. When her family found out, they were shocked. Her distant cousin was so outraged that he wanted to carry out an honour killing, so he came after her, although she’d never met him before in her life. He was chasing her with a gun, while she was going from family to friends to family to friends’ houses, and even went into the jungle to hide and escape her family.
This episode demonstrates the split, the chasm in Iran at the time. The Shah was educated in Switzerland and came to Iran without really understanding his people. He wanted Iran to be modernized, but I think he couldn’t understand how people were thinking, and you can’t force people to modernize, you can’t push people in that direction. The more you push people, the more they resist, the more they hold on. They kind of draw the anchor, and just sit in their own opinion, and don’t shift. Iran, in my opinion, had always been ruled by two forces. There were the Mullahs, the conservative religious people, and the Shah. These forces were constantly pulling at the Iranian people from before the revolution. Some people became atheists, or they decided to practice Islam in their own terms, and made this leap towards westernization, while others anchored down their own ideologies even more. The chasm that grew in Iran was just massive, as epitomized by this chapter in Zinat’s life. Ultimately, she married a satirist and became an editor, also doing voiceovers for films.
CJLPA: I wanted to ask also about Fereshteh Janabi, who did the first depiction of sexual pleasure on screen in Iran.
SS: Fereshteh Janabi was an amazing actress, incredibly talented. A lot of these films, I don’t like to call them pornographic, but they were certainly erotic. Many of the actresses who appeared in these films were abandoned afterwards by directors, who just used them once and then dumped them afterward, before finding a new person. But Fereshteh appeared in a lot of these films and made lots of more mainstream movies also. They were very heavy movies, they were very metaphorical, and the subject was not light. They deal with the idea of an Islamic man who’s attracted to this beautiful young woman, and he’s enticed and fighting his desires: a very controversial topic. As part of appearing in these films, Fereshteh even portrayed the first orgasm on cinema.
After the revolution, she was not only threatened with arrest, but even given a death sentence, so she went on the run. She died after, I think, 19 or 20 years of hiding. Living in secret on people’s sofas for 20 years takes its toll, as does the fact that she was not allowed to pursue the career that she loved. She died at the age of fifty, very young, of a drug overdose, though nobody knows if this was suicide or not. If you see her films, you can see how talented she is. She’s very natural, a very good actress, and I think she was just born at the wrong time and wrong place, because if she was in any other country she would have won an Academy Award for her acting.
CJLPA: Finally, let’s discuss Forough Farrokhzad? She also seems to have often explored themes related to female desire in her poetry and films.
SS: Forough Farrokhzad was a great modernist poet and Iran’s first female documentary filmmaker. She hailed from a military background, with her father holding a high position in the army and exerting his authority at home. Since childhood, she had a passion for poetry and literature, and her brother was also talented at writing poetry. At the age of 16, she decided to marry a man who was 30, seeking an escape from her father and her household. Despite not being in love with him, she bore him a son. However, she became attracted to another man closer to her own age, who was also a writer and filmmaker: Ebrahim Golestan. Eventually, she engaged in an affair, facing ostracization as a consequence.
In 1958, she published a volume of poetry titled Osyan (Rebellion). In one poem, ‘Divine Rebellion’, she imagined what she would do if she were God: to ‘let the sun loose in darkness’ metaphorically expressing a desire for enlightenment and liberation. Later:
weary of divine asceticism,
at midnight in Satan's bed
I would seek refuge in the downward slopes
of a fresh sin.
I would choose at the price of
the golden crown of godhood,
the dark and painful pleasure
of sin’s embrace.
Can you imagine writing words like that, with such a candid expression of ‘sinful’ sexual desire, as a Muslim woman in such a repressive society? Even her fellow poets found such language totally unacceptable, and used to call her a harlot, the ‘scarlet lady’.
She died at the age of 32 in a tragic car accident. Her car slid on the snowy road as she tried to avoid colliding with the school bus. Unfortunately, she lost control and hit her head against the curb, resulting in her death. Her lover, Ebrahim Golestan, rushed to the scene and carried her to the nearest clinic, which happened to be just across the road from where they lived. However, the owner of the private clinic, a woman who disliked Farrokhzad’s poetry, refused to treat her. I cannot imagine a greater and more tragic insult, to refuse to treat someone for the words they have written. She died in the arms of her lover.
Some of these stories are deeply personal to me because I admire and love these women. As an artist, I can’t imagine how I would feel if someone prevented me from creating my art. My art is what gives me purpose and drives me every day. I’m fortunate to have the freedom to express myself through my art. If I were ever banned, censored, or oppressed, I don’t know how I would cope. It’s incredible how these women found the strength and resilience to keep fighting and living despite the obstacles they faced.
CJLPA: Why do you think art, especially women’s involvement in art, posed such a threat not only to the regime and the revolution, but also to the men of the time?
SS: I think conservative ideologies are dangerous, regardless of the culture or religion they stem from. Fascism and patriarchy often go hand in hand. In Iran, many men, though of course not all, traditionally view women, their voices and desires, as inherently sinful, so oppressing them is seen as a way to maintain purity. They might feel that by suppressing women they are preventing themselves from sinning. This mentality is deeply ingrained and can lead to victim-blaming. Men are fearful, and whenever you have the rise of feminism, you have an antagonistic rise of fascism. Whenever there’s a wave of feminism, I feel like there’s equal and opposite wave of fascism and patriarchy.
Nowadays, Generation Z is currently experiencing significant stress, but they are also proving to be a remarkably open-minded and socially conscious generation. Across the globe, Generation Z is known for their environmental awareness, liberalism, and strong feminist ideals. In Iran, something unprecedented is happening: men are standing in solidarity with women in protest for the first time in history. This unity is historic and has never occurred before.
CJLPA: You mentioned earlier the death of Jina Mahsa Amini and the 2022 protests in Iran, primarily led by women. Jina’s tragic death at the hands of the morality police, after being arrested not adhering to hijab regulations, sparked widespread protests, particularly among Kurdish Iranians. The timing of these events coincided with your exhibition, which already had political undertones in its rebellious foregrounding of Iranian women’s bodies. Can you elaborate on how this period personally impacted you as an artist and influenced your activism?
SS: As an artist I’ve always been political, and I’ve always considered myself quietly activist in my own way, though never overt. When I found out about Jina’s death, I was setting up the show, the space was being prepared for the exhibition. I was completely devastated because as a mother, Jina could have been my daughter. I couldn’t imagine how a mother must feel to lose their daughter in such a senseless, brutal act of violence. Afterwards, the protests started and Internet connections in Iran were blocked, so I was left in this silence and cut off from everybody. It was very difficult.
After three years of working hard on this exhibition, I was relieved that the show was coming together and was open to the public. I felt it was as I wanted it to be. I wasn’t sure how successful it was going to be, but I said to myself, ‘I’ve done the best that I can’, and I was happy with the work. But at the same time, these protests were happening in Iran, just two weeks after the murder of Jina. So it was very timely, a bittersweet opportunity which put my work into context. It was extremely emotional. During my interviews for the radio and newspapers, I was always on the verge of tears. I have been painting the stories of Iranian women for many years and talking about the plight of women. I’ve been an activist and an ally, and all of a sudden, I was becoming the public speaker for them. I was a reluctant public speaker because I doubted my abilities in that respect, feeling like I was really not trained and did not know how to express myself. I felt like my art was supposed to speak for me, so I could be hidden behind the paintings. Being pushed out of my studio into the public space, appearing on television and radio, being in newspapers, I felt exposed, but at the same time had to take on responsibility.
CJLPA: Could you share your thoughts on Jina Mahsa Amini’s impact, considering it sparked significant protests, with women burning their hijabs and cutting their hair as symbols of resistance? If you’re comfortable, perhaps you could shed some light on her story or what her family endured, offering insights into women’s treatment and life in Iran.
SS: There has been a media blackout regarding the protesters due to audience fatigue, which is quite disheartening. Many of the victims’ families have faced pressure from the Iranian government to remain silent. They even attempted to claim that Jina suffered a heart attack and brain injuries, which her family courageously refuted. Jina, a Kurdish girl, had to adopt the Iranian name Mahsa due to the oppression of Kurdish identities in Iran. She was a courageous young woman who was arrested outside a Tehran underground station by the morality police for a perceived minor infraction related to her hijab. Three days later, she died in hospital, suspected of having been beaten by the police.
The entire population came to the streets was because everybody could relate to Jina. She could have been your daughter, she could have been your sister, she could have been your friend. And because she was so innocent, she wasn’t politically active, she was just a little girl, a young student who came to Tehran and was killed because of something as mindless as her hair showing a little bit more than it supposedly should have been. The Iranian government and morality police reacted brutally to the uprising and shot at peaceful protesters with live bullets, arresting thousands of people, with over 500 deaths. The cutting of hair relates to the fact that historically and culturally, Iranian people cut their hair before going to war. So the act was a statement of war, but also mourning and empowerment, taking autonomy of one’s body and showing an angry disregard for the repressive beauty standards of the regime.
CJLPA: Absolutely. Do you have any final words for our readers?
SS: I would just stress the importance of talking about these interlinked topics: human rights, environmental rights, animal rights, and so on. I think we should all be activists, we should all be activists in our way, and we should all be educating and enlightening our neighbour, so that the light can burn out the darkness. Yeah. As Forough Farrokhzad said, if I were God I would take the sun into the darkness. As an artist, I think that’s my responsibility, to be the sun in the darkness.
CJLPA: Many thanks indeed for your time and insights.
This interview was conducted by Nancy Lura. As a final year Film and Literature student at Warwick University, Nancy combines her passion for the creative arts with a keen interest in pursuing a career in the film industry. Alongside this, she advocates for human rights and believes strongly in the transformative power of the arts in driving social progress.