The recurring mountain-scapes in Ghazaal Nasiri's current exhibition, Sarab, or mirage, stems from dreams she has had since leaving Iran, now reworked into a story of seven trials - a structure borrowed from the Persian myths recorded by Ferdowsi in his epic poem Shahnameh, or the Book of Kings, to hold the stages of her own journey. 

In the conversation below, Gallery Director Karen Foss Becker speaks with Nasiri about myth as a natural language for feelings, and about her way of working, seated on the floor without a fixed motif, a method passed down through the women in her family.

The exhibition title, Sarab, is Persian for "mirage." What does this concept hold for you?

Mirage, or sarab in Persian, has been an important image in my life since I was growing up in a very dry landscape. As a child, it was difficult to understand that the water I could see in front of me did not actually exist.

The works come from recurring dreams I had after moving away from Iran, where I would find myself in the desert always running towards something that I could never quite reach. Sarab became a way of thinking about that distance between what we imagine is ahead of us and what we actually find.

The Persian myth of the Shahnameh serves as a framework for the exhibition. How did the myths you grew up with find their way into your practice?

I think many of the first ways I learned about the world and about life came through stories. Growing up in a country with such a long history, they were always around me. I encountered them through children’s books, cartoons, films, and bedtime stories. Some of my earliest memories are of stories like Kelileh va Demneh, Bahloul, and the Shahnameh. They were often retold in simpler forms for children, and became part of how I understood emotions and the world around me.

This exhibition mimics the sequence of the story of Rostam and his seven trials in the Shahnameh however the different trials introduced here are shaped by my own experience of moving away from Iran, and each trial takes the form of a stage in this journey.

Myth has always felt like a natural language to me and when I later found myself unable to express certain emotions directly, these stories naturally found their way into my work.

Mountains recur throughout the works. Where does this landscape come from?

I grew up in Shiraz, which is surrounded by mountains, so mountains have been a constant part of my life. But the mountains in this exhibition come more directly from the above mentioned series of recurring dreams I started having after I moved away.

I began to think of these landscapes as a universe of their own, and they became the setting for the different trials in the exhibition.

The mountains are unknown and seem to continue endlessly. There is no clear sense of where they begin or end, and the only direction available is towards the sun. The figures move through this landscape as if it is the only world that exists for them. Like in a dream, they are searching for something, even though it is never clear whether what they are looking for can actually be found.

The figures in your work are nude, bald, without individuating features. What does this anonymity convey?

It is important that the figures do not have physical features. In some works, there is a large group moving together, while in others there is only one. I don't necessarily see them as separate characters. They can be understood as the same emotion taking different forms. What remains important is their facial expression and the movement of their bodies. These are the characteristics I need in order for the figures to communicate what I am trying to express.

You work seated on the floor, without a predetermined motif. Can you share more about this way of working?

I come from a Turkish nomadic family called the Qashqai, and one of my strongest childhood memories is being in the room with the loom. There was one of these rooms in almost every house I would visit. I would play with the colourful wool threads and watch the women working on carpets and kilims.

I remember always looking for a pattern or a sketch and wondering how they knew what colour or shape should come next. They often weren't even looking at their hands. They would be talking to each other about everyday life while their hands continued moving from memory.

The first time I found myself working in a similar way was during Covid, when my bedroom became my studio and the only empty working space was the floor. I would listen or watch something while drawing without having a plan in mind. After four years of studying art, learning about contemporary art, and spending time copying classical artists, I had somehow returned to what all the women in my family had been doing for many generations.

The exhibition is kindly supported by OCA – Office for Contemporary Art and NBK.