Can you start by giving us an overview of your practice and what led you to explore the intersection of identity, displacement, and belonging? 

My art practice is deeply personal, and centred around the human experience, particularly the themes of identity, displacement, and belonging. Growing up in Iran, I faced significant challenges due to my identity. Being a woman, a member of a minority religious community, and living under the oppressive regime of the Islamic Republic, I often felt dehumanised and marginalised. The sense of not belonging was a constant in my life, as I was deprived of basic rights like higher education, and witnessed the imprisonment of my parents due to their beliefs. 

When I moved to the UK in 2021, these feelings of displacement evolved. Although I found safety and peace, I also felt an intense sense of unfamiliarity and alienation. This new environment compelled me to delve deeper into my own identity and the broader human experience of displacement. Through my art, I  explore these themes, using metaphorical visual language to express the complexities of belonging,  identity, and the emotional landscapes of displacement. 

Ceramics have become my primary medium, allowing me to create tangible representations of these abstract concepts. The process of working with clay, which requires patience, labour, and care, mirrors the intricate and often painful process of navigating identity and belonging. My practice is a reflection of my journey—both personal and collective—towards finding a place where I truly belong. 

In your statement, you mention that ceramics' inherent qualities of containment and holding serve as powerful metaphors within your work. Could you share with us the significance of ceramics as your primary medium for expressing the conceptual aspect of your practice? 

Ceramics possess multiple qualities that resonate with my practice’s central themes. I gravitated toward ceramics during my master's research, discovering that this medium aligned with the conceptual framework I was developing. 

I see humans as analogous to these containers, each holding multiple experiences and emotions. We live our lives striving to contain, hold, or let go of these elements, much like the vessels I create in my work. 

One example is my project Love Containers, where each piece embodies a connection in my life. The containers representing my love for my parents have handles and carvings of " مامان) "mum) and "بابا " (dad). My mother’s container has a larger opening, symbolising the ease of pouring love into her vessel,  while my father’s has a smaller opening but a larger base, reflecting the challenge of expressing love but acknowledging its depth. In contrast, the container for my love for Iran is punctured with holes,  representing the painful experiences from my homeland. Despite the love escaping through these holes, it captures the complex and often painful relationship I have with Iran.

Another project where the concept of containing and holding plays a crucial role is Concepts That Changed Deeply After Immigration. After two years of immigration, I developed a project called Concepts That Changed Deeply After Immigration, creating seven pieces to act as both metaphors and containers for these concepts in my mind. For instance, the piece titled 'Loneliness' features small openings and internal spikes, symbolising how isolation can close us off emotionally, creating an experience that is both comforting and painful. 

Additionally, I’m drawn to the earthy, grounded nature of ceramics. The concept of land is pivotal in my practice, and I love that my pieces originate from the earth and nature. This adds a profound layer to my work, suggesting that anyone can craft their own containers from a material that is accessible to all. It underscores the universality of the themes I explore—love, loss, and the human condition—and the potential for everyone to use this visual language as a metaphor for their own experiences. 

Your project, "Container for No Land's Soil," delves into the longing to fully integrate into a new community. How do you use art as a tool for fostering dialogue, connection, and a shared vision for a more inclusive world? 

Container for No Land's Soil emerged from a personal struggle that resonates universally with millions of displaced people. This project was born during one of the most stressful periods of my life. I had just completed my studies, was searching for a full-time job, and my student visa was about to expire. The prospect of returning to Iran, where I no longer felt safe, was terrifying. In this time of uncertainty, I found myself constantly reflecting on concepts of land, belonging, and the right to live somewhere without fear. 

At the time, I lacked access to a ceramic studio, but I had some clay in my room. In a meditative and repetitive act, I started forming tiny balls of clay, as a way to cope with the anxiety of my visa situation.  This small act became an expression of my internal battle—the sense of fighting against forces that seemed to deny my right to belong, both in my new country and in my homeland, which had already rejected me. 

Growing up, exiled family members and friends spoke longingly of Iran’s soil, but it wasn’t until I  experienced displacement myself that I understood the depth of that connection. I began to think about the soil of Iran—its smell, its colour, and the deep connection I felt to it despite everything. As I worked with the clay, I began to envision these tiny balls as the soil of a "No-Land"—a place that didn’t exist, but where people like me, and so many others around the world, could belong without having to fight for it. A  place where the pain of displacement, exile, and alienation could be soothed. 

Container for No Land's Soil thus became a symbol of this imagined refuge, representing not just my personal longing to fully integrate into my new community, but also the collective yearning of those who are displaced, exiled, or marginalised. The project remains ongoing, as I continue to craft this soil,  envisioning a place where everyone is accepted and safe. 

Recognising that this vision could not be realised in isolation, invited others into the process. I began hosting workshops where participants could join me in creating the soil for No-Land, engaging in conversations about land, belonging, and the shared human experience of seeking a place to call home.  These workshops have become a tool for fostering dialogue and connection, enabling people from diverse backgrounds to come together, share their stories, and contribute to a shared vision of a more inclusive world. I plan to continue these workshops, building on this collective effort to create a tangible representation of where everyone belongs. 

Your practice is deeply personal and vulnerable but also collective, speaking on the universal human condition of powerlessness and resilience. How do you navigate the balance between vulnerability and resilience in your art? 

I consider the ability to be vulnerable in my art practice a blessing in my current life. For most of my life, I  had to be extremely cautious about what I created or expressed through my art due to the heavy censorship in Iran. Being vulnerable and openly sharing how those experiences affected me was not a viable option. Now, living in a place where I can express myself freely, I feel liberated and blessed. This freedom allows me to process my personal experiences in ways that were previously impossible. 

While I don’t necessarily share every personal detail about each work, I hope that by being vulnerable and depicting my raw emotions in my art, I can help my audience connect with similar feelings that might otherwise feel out of reach. In my experience, allowing ourselves to fully feel our emotions is freeing, and avoiding this can lead to mental health issues. 

On the other hand, the more I engage in conversations about my practice with audiences, the better I  become at framing this vulnerability in a way that establishes boundaries while also fostering connections.  

My vulnerability is my resilience; the fact that I’m still here, still creating, and still feeling my emotions is,  in itself, a form of resilience. Having been dehumanised under the power of the Islamic Republic for years, where they tried to silence us, the mere act of making art is a celebration of life for me. 

In what ways do you aim to transcend physical and metaphorical borders through your art,  forging connections that transcend language, culture, and creed? 

Empathy and storytelling are the core elements that allow my work to transcend borders and connect with international audiences. While we may not always fully understand another person’s specific experiences, I believe we can all connect on an emotional level. Emotions like grief, love, and longing are universal, and they exist beyond boundaries of gender, ethnicity, or age. 

To me, art’s power lies in its ability to tap into these shared human emotions. By focusing on the emotional experiences that we share as humans, I aim to move beyond the divisions created by man-made borders. My pieces are metaphors for these experiences, leaving space for viewers to bring their own stories and interpretations into the work. This openness invites people to connect with the art on their terms and see fragments of their own lives within it. 

Additionally, I’ve always believed in the human love for storytelling. The narratives in my artworks invite viewers to step closer, to engage, and to listen to the stories being told. In this way, my art becomes a bridge that forges connections across different cultures, languages, and lived experiences, united by the emotional journeys we all undergo.

Your project, "The Story I Didn't Tell" addresses self-censorship under Iran’s theocratic regime.  How has this project impacted your artistic journey and your approach to storytelling? 

The Story I Didn’t Tell marked a significant shift in how I approached both art and storytelling. As a figurative painter, I initially struggled to bridge the gap between my artistic skills and the pressing social issues I cared deeply about. Living in Iran, this was further complicated by the constant pressure of self-censorship imposed by the theocratic regime. I often felt that my work was too indirect, constrained by the fear of crossing invisible lines and endangering myself. 

These concerns weighed heavily on my mind, and when the pandemic arrived, it gave me time to reflect on my artistic direction. During this time, I realised there were aspects of my life and inner thoughts that I  was too afraid to share openly because of the internalised self-censorship. This was the spark for The Story  I Didn’t Tell. I thought if I could create a platform for anonymous stories, I could share my own thoughts without fear, while also giving others the chance to do the same. 

In March 2020, I started talking about self-censorship on my Instagram page, which had 5000 followers at the time. The response was overwhelming—so many people expressed their exhaustion from the pressures they placed on themselves and the loneliness that came with keeping these stories locked inside. In response, I launched The Story I Didn’t Tell, inviting people to send me stories they couldn’t share publicly. For each story, I painted an illustration and published it anonymously on my page. 

The anonymity of the participants brought a unique quality to the project. Without knowing their race,  gender, or age, the audience could connect with the stories on a more personal level, free from unconscious biases. This allowed for a more profound sense of empathy, enabling the audience to self-identify with the narrator. 

For me, this project was transformative. The hidden identities of the participants pushed me towards more abstract and symbolic forms of art, encouraging me to move away from realistic objects. The delicate emotions I experienced while painting these stories led me to explore transparent colours,  layered on top of each other, which captured the fogginess and complexity of the human experience. 

This project was a major step in finding my voice within the contemporary art world. It helped me realise the kind of artist I wanted to become—someone who uses art as a tool for social change and activism. 

Your performance piece, "Getting Out," embodies care and the intricate process of navigating displacement and belonging. Could you elaborate on the symbolism and emotions embedded in this piece? 

Getting Out is a performance piece centred on themes of care, identity, and displacement, featuring 183 ceramic pieces housed in a wooden cabinet that I both designed and crafted. The performance begins with the cabinet closed, concealing the intricate contents within—small bowls, larger ceramic pieces, and a spool of thread. As I engage with the work, carefully wiping each ceramic piece while singing Nahang by  Ebrahim Monsefi, the act of care unfolds. It becomes a personal ritual, reflecting both the fragility of the ceramics and the vulnerability of my memories tied to displacement.

The duality within the ceramic pieces, where their interiors and exteriors are painted in different colours, symbolises the double lives many are forced to lead under Iran's oppressive regime—one that conforms to the public eye, and another hidden away in private. The two large ceramic pieces, yellow on the outside and filled with landscapes of Iran on the inside, both hold all the other ceramic pieces and form a prison around them. This structure echoes my experience of life in Iran—navigating between imposed restrictions and the small freedoms within the walls of my home. 

The broken bowl, the final object to emerge, represents me. Its fractured state reflects the emotional and psychological impact of displacement. Music, especially humming, plays a central role in this performance,  serving as a way to process grief, much like in Iranian tradition. The mournful hum that lingers throughout  Getting Out draws viewers closer, inviting them into the shared experience of loss and connection. 

This cabinet is a metaphor for the one I keep in my mind—closed off, where no one can see. When I’m alone, I open it, carefully handling each piece, wiping them as though they are the dearest things I have. I  mourn for their loss, for the mountains of my homeland I may never see again, for the soil I may never feel beneath my feet. I mourn for loved ones still trapped there, unable to find a way out. I can’t even understand how I managed to get out. Are they stuck there, or am I the one who is stuck here in this forced exile? 

How do you see your work contributing to a more compassionate, empathetic, and interconnected world, honouring the journey of the immigrant as integral to the rich tapestry of human experience? 

My work addresses the experiences of immigration on both a personal and societal level, focusing on two key scales: within Iranian society and globally. Immigration is a reality many nations face, especially today,  as countless individuals flee their homelands for safer countries. In Iran, this has been a persistent issue for as long as I can remember, with many of my relatives and friends either forced into exile or choosing to leave each year. 

Within Iranian society, I’ve noticed a division between those living in Iran and those outside the country. Immigrants, often unable to return home, are seen as "others" by those living inside the country.  In Iran, there’s a widespread misconception that life abroad is free from struggle and that immigrant Iranians should no longer concern themselves with the issues back home. However, many immigrants remain deeply connected to Iran, and while their lives may be more comfortable in certain ways, they face new challenges in their adopted countries. 

In these new countries, immigrants are also seen as ‘others.’ There’s often a perception that their lives are easier than they really are. Host societies may not fully understand the emotional, cultural, and personal complexities immigrants bring with them. This creates a disconnect, leaving immigrants in a kind of limbo between two worlds, fully understood by neither. 

I see this as a crisis not only within Iranian society but globally. Immigration is a huge topic, but its emotional and personal realities aren’t discussed enough. We rarely address the emotional toll, conflicting needs, and long-lasting complexities of this experience, which can persist across generations. That’s why I  believe art plays a crucial role in opening up dialogue and bridging these divided societies.

Through my art, I strive to create a space where immigrants and those who have not experienced immigration can find common ground. By expressing the deep emotions immigrants carry, I hope to foster empathy in both the societies they leave and the ones they enter. In this way, my work aims to bring us closer to a more harmonious future, united by the shared human experiences of pain, love, grief, and joy. 

Do you believe that engaging in artistic expression is a mode of nurturing? If so, what are the reasons behind this perspective? 

I do believe that artistic expression is a form of nurturing, both for myself and potentially for society as a whole. The metaphorical language I use in my work allows me to express experiences and emotions that I  sometimes feel words can’t adequately capture. I often think of it like a scene from the cartoon  Disenchantment, where a king loses his ability to speak and can only make incoherent sounds. But when he finds a ventriloquist dummy, he can suddenly communicate again through it. As soon as the doll is taken away, he loses his voice once more. For me, art serves the same function as that dummy—it gives me the ability to communicate what I can’t say in any other way. 

This creative outlet is deeply nurturing because it provides me with a kind of freedom I’ve often been denied. Having lived under the oppressive regime in Iran, where many forms of expression, even pain or suffering, are silenced and dehumanised, art has become a way for me to reclaim my voice. It’s not only freeing, but also profoundly healing. 

I hope that my art can provide a similar sense of nurturing for others. Whether someone comes across my work as an audience or a participant in one of my projects, I hope they can find something that resonates with them—perhaps even a sense of comfort or healing as they connect with the deeper emotions and stories in the work. 

What message or call to action would you like to leave our readers with? 

I would like to encourage everyone to reconnect with the tactile world by engaging in hands-on creative activities. Whether it’s crafting a small sculpture from air-dry clay, baking bread, painting, or dancing, working with your hands and body offers a unique and powerful experience that’s increasingly being overshadowed by our digital lives. 

Additionally, I recommend setting aside time for personal reflection and solitude. My art teacher in Iran,  Mr. Vakili, once emphasised the importance of having a private space where only the artist and their art are allowed. This advice has become even more significant to me as I continue to appreciate the value of personal space for creativity and introspection. I believe that by embracing these practices, we can foster a deeper connection with ourselves and our creative potential.

Know more about the artist here.

Cover image:

Getting Out by Taraneh Dana. Image courtesy of Taraneh Dana.