Friday, December 28, 2018-Friday, January 4, 2019



……it seems like a joke, or nonsenses of a drunk. You must be insane to imagine this place, “Tehran” under the angels’ wings. Yes, there are a great many “musts” to be ignored, I know that.

Yet, I do not perfectly recall; was it raining or it was a scorching summer noon when I heard something fall? There, on the white canvas. It was white, quiet and invisible. It was not audible. It was only white, very white.

To make it manifest, I gave it colors, lines and forms.

It became a crow, a hand, a woman, a man. It became a hug.

I looked at it. It looked back.

There was no need for questions and answers. It was an angel.

I looked up at heavens. There was nothing. There was just the smog, the suffering and a vanishing sunshine, but they were there. I believed they were.

I put another white canvas on the easel.

Once again, there was another crush. Once more, I gave it colors and forms. One more time, it turned into a crow, a hand, a woman, a man and an embrace.

And I repeated the same. Little by little, drop by drop; days turned into nights and nights turned into days and years passed. Now got then and they kept falling, got together and became pictures. They became paintings and they are here now. We are here: I and my angels.


Roya Shamohamadi