Living In The Islamic Republic Is Like

Reality Has Become So Intolerable, She Said, So Bleak, That All I Can Paint Now Are The Colors Of My Dreams.

We All Had To Pay, But Not For The Crimes We Were Accused Of. There Were Other Scores To Settle.

We Speak Of Facts, Yet Facts Exist Only Partially To Us If They Are Not Repeated And Re-created Through Emotions, Thoughts And Feelings. To Me It Seemed As If We Had Not Really Existed, Or Only Half Existed, Because We Could Not Imaginatively Realize Ourselves And Communicate To The World, Because We Had Used Works Of Imagination To Serve As Handmaidens To Some Political Ploy.

When I Walked Down The Streets, I Asked Myself, Are These My People?, Is This My Hometown, Am I Who I Am?

Every Great Work Of Art ... Is A Celebration, An Act Of Insubordination Against The Betrayals, Horrors And Infidelities Of Life.