We, the wasted entries of Azad University of Arts in 1995, were there at the beginning of the Valiasr crossroad, in the dim building of Pahlavi. It had so many dark rooms and stairs and windows inside each other that everyone’s’ love flame was chugging. From the open side of the window, the male light was swirling over our drawings, going down, pouring into the middle yard’s hole, that was full of the given-up hearts of artist boys and girls and was always turning into a halo around someone’s head. The crazy heads could be seen from up there, through the eyes of the broken windows, like a rainbow out of light and dense cigarette smoke. We painters are toys of light. Life has wrapped our moments in a thread of light, smokes us and sends us to the air. We look a lot at the sun and get inspired by the days gone by. We are all Van Gogh’s siblings, we see layers of light around everything, the plain of our gaze is full of sunflowers, all wondered towards the sun. From the university folks, Majid Zargandeh and Mehdi Shafiee Ghanad, were the most similar ones to Van Gogh, both were blonde with red beards. They have been both sleeping alone, dead for several years now. Mehdi informed us about Majid’s death. Majid was ill for his last two years. He suffered and was crucified, shrouded and left. Betadine was dripping from his long forehead under the ground, like how Chopin did on his bulk of drawings, in the arms of the dark drawing-3 studio’s lover. We have come from different cities and Mehdi was buried in his own city, Tabriz. Mehdi had brought a jar of Jam from Tabriz, on the day that we were all gathered in my atelier around Majid’s tired body, a nectar of smile and honey. Majid tasted a bit, and we laughed it all and ate. Majid has gone for years and Mehdi didn’t want to stay. The world buried our young painters in anonymity. They painted hard, harder than their famous brother Van Gogh. They were suffered and in love with light, like Van Gogh’s eyes. The light is in my eyes as always. It breaks sometimes and goes directly through a drawn line from Enghelab Street to the University. He also visits the memory of the drawing-3 class. Pours into the yard from the green glasses of the third floors staircase, swirls and sits around the lover’s head.
This text is dedicated to Mahboubeh Norouzi, with respect to all the 1995 entries of Azad University of Arts.
