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Under the Silk Tree
By Jinoos Taghizadeh
sculpture@tehranavenue.com
August 2006
به فارسی بخوانيم
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When you step on the cobblestone path inside the NIAVARAN Cultural Complex, it becomes difficult to keep your eyes from moving skyward. Your head traces the huge trees of the complex and you can hear the screech of parrots flying in between branches. When you climb the stairs, you behold a fountain with a waterway going all the way to the top of the garden and a vast lawn area to the right, and more stairs that take you to the building and its expansive yard on the left, a building designed by {Kamran Diba}, which reminds you of Tehran Museum of Contemporary Art (TMCA) building. On each side of the stairs are two ponds, one small, another large, and in the middle a silk tree, under which a man made of bronze has been sitting for years, reading a book. From here on, I am borne by waves of nostalgia, by the open faces of girls in their tight Islamic cover and the tanned faces of boys with their plastic cups, in which tea tasted like camphor. The tall window led to the student cafeteria. I look closely and I don't see the familiar tables and chairs. I enter, expecting the smell of camphor and fried fish to hit my nose. I listen for the holler of that actor, "Life is at the mercy of a blind and a clown," [*] and look for students who, sitting here and there immovably, offer their faces to their schoolmates for drawing. Instead, my feet meet with a soft and cushiony carpet; in the place of plastic I see wooden chairs and tables. The saxophone of {Jan Garbarek} is in the air, later the oud of {Anouar Brahem}. Where {Haj Aqa Ebrahim} used to give us bean-rice and those smelly kebabs (he had the tastiest, toughest burnt cutlets in the world), through than tiny slit on the wall, is now a fashionable counter, behind which are blue-lit shelves bearing attractive glassware. The hole in the ceiling connecting the boys' section downstairs to the girls' upstairs is no longer there. Apparently the upper section has been turned into an art gallery.

The name of this place is Niavaran Café/Gallery. A few discriminating young individuals have come together to create a cozy place, and they have given the task of ridding the place of its nostalgic past to two artists: {Pouya Arianpour} and {Morteza Darrehbaghi}. Everything is well thought out. See-through parapets on which images of a safety pin have been printed create different spaces. The same huge safety pins can be seen holding the red apron of waitpersons. On the walls, graphic works of {Ruzbeh Mashadizadeh} could be seen with warm colors. The exhibit is called, "Letters, Just That."

Everything is as it should be, with all the perfectionism that can go into creating a public space. Nevertheless, I have to hold back tears when I enter. I have lived in this place, for two years, from the age of 19 to 21. Back then, the complex hosted courses offered by the Art University towards a degree. Graduates could later apply for job with the Ministry of Culture. This was the ideal setting for such training, inviting the envy of many art students in other universities. There were painting courses, graphic arts, miniature, theater (acting/directing and dramaturgy) -- I was studying this latter. The syllabus was unique, void of many useless classes in official universities, with specialized courses that were on a par with those offered in top academic centers, and professors who taught in no other place (or couldn't), like {Bahram Beyzai}, who taught drama and film, when he was banned from teaching, staging plays, or directing films. {Qotboddin Sadeqi} taught theater history and {Reza Seyyed Hosseini} principles of literary criticism. There were also {Jamal Mirsadeqi}, teaching literature and {Zhaleh Amuzegar}, who taught mythology. The late {Parvaneh Mozhdeh} forced us to read {Harold Pinter} in English. The late {Mohammadali Madadi} and {Jalal Shabahang} were visual arts professors. All these when {Mohammad Khatami} was minister of culture; and the first action of his successor, {Ali Larijani}, was to discontinue these courses, which were doing their own thing, which had nothing to do with the populist, uninformed, and simplistic outlook of the educational establishment, and which threatened to train insurgent students.

No longer is the Cultural Complex that vibrant being. The gallery has large, state exhibitions, and the amphitheater shows Atashbas ("Ceasefire," Tahmineh Milani's blockbuster). The library that was once thriving under the librarianship of {Jafar Modarress-Sadeqi}, has apparently lost its vigor. As such, the only thing pumping new blood is the café, under the protection of that silk tree and the book reading bronze man of Tanavoli.

{Kurosh Shahosseini} and {Maham Panahkhah} are the managers (this I was told by {Nazi Kuchak}, whom I know a little, and who is our host). She and Shahosseini run "Kanun-e Anformatic," a digital printing studio. {Masumeh Abirabadi} is the painter in charge of the gallery section of the café, and it seems that she picks the works to be exhibited meticulously. Their objective here is to show serious works to clients, some of who come to see movies at the complex. And it seems that their venture has paid off, judging by the sales of works. The gallery hours are 9 am to 10 pm, and it is quite busy on opening nights. With the projector inside, the café even showed World Cup matches, and they are willing to use it for video art.

We are sitting around a table and the smell of good coffee makes me drunk, as do the taste of homemade cakes and the sight of exotic ice creams and fruit juices. There is also food and snacks. The menu has an image of the latest exhibit printed on one side, and naturally changes with each new exhibit. Prices are reasonable considering the uppity location of the complex. The management has also obtained permission for live music performances. I more or less know most of the clients; as such, I have become quiet, talking only about the student years, how we used to spit on the boys' food from that opening connecting our section to theirs.

The subject of our discussion changes quickly. I know that these memories are only interesting to me. Everything changes again. Plastic cups come back and next to me sits {Ziba Khadem}, at the age of 22 (now she is 36, studying in Paris), and next to her are {Farhad Aslani} and {Nasrollah Radesh} with their sweet accent (which they no longer have) arguing over the superiority of Caspian or Persian Gulf fish with {Fatemeh Hashemi}. {Fariba Kamran}, {Elham Pavehnezhad}, and {Amir Atashani} tease {Ali Hantushzadeh}, who no one heard him speak in those two years. There is also {Sara Namjoo} (sister to our own Mohsen), wearing socks over her shoes and mocking everyone. {Afsaneh Sharif} and I plan the evening gathering to summon ghosts…

How nice that this cozy and quiet café is here, with all the changes that it has gone through -- much like us, who have nothing to do with what we were back then. How nice that I can step into this place, without remorse for the past, loaf on these comfortable, neat chairs, listen to jazz music, sip on coffee, light a cigarette, and think that all those years weren't that bad, really.

Footnote

[*] Dialogue from the play Kuholin, directed by {Roknoddin Khosravi} and performed at the Niavaran Cultural Complex by students in 1991.

Photographs by {Bahar Dashtban}



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