Attempted Rift in Thickness of the World ( فارسی )

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Writen By Vahid Hakim

An immaculate grain in the stillness of the centre. Doubting the certainty of numbers. The doubtless anatomy of insects. The soul of fish incarcerated in a narrow plaster tablet. Temporary woofs of life, warps of death. ‘An attempted rift in the thickness of the world….’ More than that: the trivial curvature of unfinished curves. The black, visible on the now insipid blood of time. A trace of incomprehensible numbers. An unmeaning lexicon in the corporeal silence of canvas. Red on red. White on white. Pale numbers on ancient arch of usual measures … Even more: ‘being the dark backbone of the thunderbolt.’ And if I want to say more of what in Shahla Hosseini’s paintings might penetrate you in a strange and unfortunate revelation, it would distance you further. Much further. Very far, such that you would not even recall names or shadows of things … (probably the task of words is to distance you!) Is this not truly the same domain that rejects language, the same domain that drags an image into body and leaves it there, hence, the woofs becoming the woofs of life and warps, warps of death? Are closest forms and furthest thoughts not of the same nature? Do things invite us to the same aspect of their truth whenever they increase or decrease? In Spinoza’s thought, what we consider fixed and permanent is nothing but local and temporal forms; just like the wrinkles of a piece of cloth, or waves of the sea … However, he maintains that in this world everything tries to preserve its form: tiger tries to remain a tiger and the stone tries to remain a stone. Similarly, Shahla Hosseini in times surrenders to the wavy unnamed simple uniformity of being, and in other times, places objects in their own dimension, continuation and names. In times, she travels in the domain of non-beings aligned with threads stitching the attempted rift of the world to the emptiness of white canvas; and other times, wanders in the multiplicity of objects placing on her tablet wood, stone, cables and watches in an irregular unity. (Think of wooden boxes.) Whatever it is, she wanders in a narrow domain between a waving seamless world and a world in which the door to differences and their references is open. In her recent paintings, between the desire to ‘say everything’ or to remain ‘silent’, she chooses silence. Silence beats when time is contracted and squeezed: silence, at the moment when the mysterious force of the world trembles in the woofs of ‘becoming’; silence, when the last force of life escapes through something similar to a keyhole, a rift, a kernel, a grain, a cell, etc.; silence, when wind blows in the fringes of familiar and unfamiliar bits throwing them around: a silence which is a cry, intertwined with curvature and number on the emptiness of the canvass… So come closer to the strand of the artist’s canvass, as close as an open hand: here, where the grain dies, the lymph which is life and a sign of the inevitable decline of life: the thrilling which is the power of a voice, the power of remembering the simple chance of ‘not-being’; the thread which is a blow, to spin time; the thread stitching the soul to the short drape of life; the thread which is a piece of eternity passing through the allusive needle of life… Yet, a cocoon is being spun! You observe how it transforms nothingness to the achromatic warps of ‘being’? (And let me say that its trembling transparent warps are pleasing to the eye.) It is as if Shahla Hosseni every time finds the power to gather its scraps through looking at the coquetry of a cocoon, the sound of a bird flapping her wings or the passing of a butterfly: the power to rise again and continue… . Vahid Hakim Translated by:Bavand Behpoor