Neda Saeedi

Canvas: What kind of relationship do you see between architecture and the body, in terms of both witnessing time and history as well as holding traces of time?

Neda Saeedi: This idea is a core concept in my work and the way I make sense of complex systems. While architectural elements and structures carry social, political and historical meaning, they also shape and organise many aspects of our lives. They influence everything, from how we move through spaces to how we understand and process the world around us.

What I find really fascinating is our body’s relationship to architecture, especially the way we unconsciously follow certain choreographed movements in our daily lives. There’s an almost pre-programmed way of moving, seeing and experiencing our surroundings. But by digging deeper and studying its layers, we can see how the crystallisation of any architectural structure whether it’s something as large as urban planning or as small as detailed design elements – has been shaped by the demands of its  zeitgeist. What I find most interesting about these interconnected relationships is understanding the shifts in power dynamics that occur in different contexts.

You engage with ruins as sites of collapsed histories as well as potentials for new readings of the past. Could you talk about your relationship to ruins? 

I’m really drawn to temporary ruins – those moments right after something is demolished and just before something new takes its place. These shifting landscapes, which usually exist for only a short time, reveal layers that are normally hidden. What fascinates me about these sites is the strong sense of duality. On one hand, there’s an undeniable violence in demolition – an act that feels like it’s wiping something out of existence. Yet at the same time, there’s always the possibility of something reemerging, where you might catch glimpses of the past still lingering.

How does site specificity determine your research and hands-on practice?

It plays a big role in my work. The stories I want to retell are often rooted in specific sites, but even more so in the materials I choose to work with. These materials aren’t just functional elements, they’re key to shaping the narrative. They carry layers of information, associations and meaning, which help tell the story in a deeper, more tactile way. The way the materials are formed and how they interact with one another becomes a form of storytelling for me. Their textures, origins, and even the way they age or change over time, all add to the narrative. Through this combination of material and composition I express the underlying themes in my work, letting the materials speak for themselves while also guiding how the story unfolds.

How do two metropolitan areas instrumental in your artistic growth – Berlin and Tehran – continue to influence your work?

I grew up in Tehran where, even at a young age, I witnessed major changes in my country – everything from economic shifts to sociopolitical upheavals happening at a rapid pace. I think this might be part of why I’m so drawn to the idea of shifting states in different aspects of life. Then, when I moved to Berlin as a young adult, it sharpened my perspective even more. Berlin is a city where history is very openly displayed, but you can also see where there are efforts to either hide or highlight certain things. Both cities continue to inspire me today. Watching how quickly they change – and feeling both estranged and familiar with them at the same time – sparks my creativity. It pushes me to revisit and rethink everything I assume I know, and that constant sense of curiosity and exploration deeply influences my work.

There is an experiential element in witnessing your work that asks the viewer to roam around and internalise themselves with your architectural sculptures. Could you talk about your orchestration of an experience?

I consider myself a storyteller, but instead of using words, I tell stories through materials, forms and objects, with the spatial arrangement acting as the storyline. In this way of storytelling, I don’t dictate how to see or interpret the narrative. Instead, it’s an open experience for visitors to engage with in their own way. There are no fixed entry points or a linear path – everyone grasps the meaning based on their own perspectives.

You repeat colours and motifs from traditional stained glass in your work. Could you talk about how you research and settle on these, and what intrigues you about them?

The choice of colours in my work comes with various reasons, with connotations being the most significant. Familiar colours can evoke specific moods and meanings, even before we fully engage with the motives or start to interpret the narrative. For example, ultramarine, which originated in the East (specifically Iran and Afghanistan) and made its way to Europe in the fourteenth century, carries strong associations when used in stained-glass windows, often linked to Christianity. Interestingly, this same colour was later chosen for the European Union flag, so when we see it, it immediately connects to existing knowledge and cultural references.

In terms of motifs, I aim to use associative forms and images that feel familiar. This way, when viewers encounter my work they have a starting point to engage with, rather than feeling puzzled by complex codes that they need to decipher. While there may be hidden patterns within the pieces that I won’t explicitly mention or explain, these subtleties won’t detract from the overall experience. 

They add layers to the work without overshadowing the immediate engagement that I hope to foster.

Your exhibition at the Taxispalais taps into the fragility of glass. Could you talk about the connection you see between this material and social and historic dynamics?

Glass appears throughout this exhibition in various forms, each carrying different meanings. In one piece, it might represent a glass ceiling that cannot be surpassed, while in another it reflects themes of fragility, unpredictability and instability. What fascinates me about glass is its dual nature. On one hand, it is incredibly resilient – it can withstand pressure, endure extreme temperatures and resist many harsh chemicals. 

On the other hand, it’s also very fragile and can shatter, an irreversible action. By incorporating these well-known characteristics of glass into sculptures and arrangements, as well as using it as a medium to translate objects into images, I create what I like to call “situations”, when visitors can relate to the various social and historical contexts we encounter. These interactions with glass invite viewers to reflect on their own experiences and the broader implications of fragility and strength, both in the material itself and in the world around us.

Can you say something about the inspiration and character of the garden installation in the exhibition? 

It’s something that I created a few years ago as part of my ongoing research into the idea of gardens and gardening as acts of control, segregation and evaluation. When you walk into the large hall with its glass ceiling, you’re greeted by a neatly arranged garden centred around a piece designed to last forever: a tree made of steel and glass, with roots that mirror its crown. From the tree hangs a fan-shaped herbarium displaying leaves from different types of deciduous trees. The walls are lined with fragmented and enlarged Persian miniature garden scenes, but they’ve been stripped down to their geometric patterns – gone are the vibrant colours and storytelling. The sense of order and control has been transformed into steel. 

Between the garden facades on the walls and the steel tree in the centre, there are snow globes carefully placed on small glass tables. Inside each globe, you’ll find isolated avatars, buildings, plants and machines from video games, all in bright green. These miniature pieces, the souvenirs of a desirable prospect, are extracted from strategic video games, where the player unconditionally (most probably) is practicing land grabbing and colonialism. 

This interview first appeared in Canvas 115: On the Wild Side