Mehdi Ziaoddini


The written and oral literature of my land, Kurdistan, gives me pleasure and joy.
Time disappears as folk tales are reborn within me. Another life, in another atmosphere, together with lovers, a constant waiting with women and beautiful mistresses at my side. The sound of romantic melodies with the aftertaste of anticipation of an overt and covert encounter. A parting of lovers during the horrors of war and the uncertainty of staying and dying.
Time and place, a moment with a green Spring and waves of colorful blossoms, a moment of exhaustion from Autumnal life-taking flames, and the white silence of Winter with its timeless and placeless moment of having the last word…
The neighing of horses, the clashing of swords, the wails of girls and women. Worries, worries.
Here exists the chronic battle between death and life. During the unstable moments of connection and separation, as well as the eternal question that lies between the chance of pairing and parting.
The creation of color is the translation of a word and what reflects in our eyes. Crimson can be an illusion to the poppy standing on a battlefield and at times a vestment for mourning. Yellow, an endless desert and the color of the last breath of men denied love.
Here you stand with my narration. A narrative made of colors taken from the materials of form and lines and space.
I have endeavored to share with you, oh noble ones, the souls of the fables that have entered my ears, and the tragic wine of love that I have drunk. May my visual language be one of art and beauty.