PROFILE

afshin pirhashemi
looking at you looking at me

The three of us are veiled. In single file, we walk towards the gate, our skirts rustling gently against the white BMW 3-series parked outside. We already knew Afshin Pirhashemi has a fondness for the Bavarian-made machines through some of his artworks, which feature the BMW logo. “You can drive BMWs anywhere in the world,” he later says, “but in Iran they’re [considered] very cool because they’re three times the price.” The metal gate buzzes open and I catch a glimpse of a figure with long dark hair disappearing into the inner recesses of the apartment. We stride into the white-walled space, slowly shedding veils and jackets, to the blaring notes of Vivaldi and a pungent odour of cigarette smoke. The room is large and sparsely decorated, save for three white leather sofas on the left, a white table, a black cabinet and six paintings of women hung all around. None are grimacing, but they all look as though they are in pain, silently screaming; their eyes appear to hold grave, hurtful secrets, their torsos seemingly bound.

Each one of us stands hushed and in awe before the women. The accuracy with which Pirhashemi had painted them, in strong, and at times fleeting, strokes of black and white – his painterly characteristic – furthered the ghost-like element in their execution. While I felt a sense of morbidity, it was hard to surmise if these women were in fact, dead or dying. Within this sanatorium-like atmosphere, Laurence Sterne’s quote came to mind – “Pain and pleasure, like light and darkness, succeed each other.” Pirhashemi’s paintings, while potentially sinister, can also be interpreted through themes such