Hajar Satari
During a ritual to call forth rain on an arid mountain, eight figures kneel and join hands, facing the horizon. They bow before the sky and extend their tongues to ask for water. These eight wide-open mouths wait, in a suspended temporality, for the water that will fertilize the earth.
I recall the rose gardens of Isfahan and the pure water that flowed in the wells, protected from the fire of the day by earthen domes—maternal and nourishing. Dome-shaped cisterns concentrate the water from underground springs to prevent it from evaporating. Today, they are largely parched due to the depletion of groundwater reserves. If these cisterns had mouths with which to speak, no doubt they too would stretch out their tongues toward the sky, longing to bring life back to the lands that surround them.
Mon temps de création se partage entre trois lieux d’expérience : l’atelier, mon domicile et les milieux montagnards de haute altitude. Ces lieux forment ensemble le socle de ma vie d’artiste. Dans chacun d’eux, je cherche à matérialiser des échelles temporelles singulières, en m’appuyant sur un rapport ralenti et une perception diluée du temps – un état que j’avais déjà exploré par la consommation quotidienne de l’opium.
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