The Open-Closed Shop

When I see this photograph, I think of Farhad’s Shabaaneh [nocturne] and Shamloo’s Shabaaneh [nocturne], yet the image seems like a negation of that poem and song—the story unfolds differently. The photograph is in the present, and despite this act of recall, it keeps us in the present, not in the past. Whatever it communicates, it speaks of the present. Here, there is no darkness—there is light. The gray of the image is luminous, and the shadows seem alive, reaching upward. I also notice patches of yellow and red. The memory of Nima, the founding poet, comes to mind. This remembrance is entirely accidental, yet even the yellow and red do not feel arbitrary. Perhaps they aim to breathe life into this lifeless scene.

This brings to mind still life genre, yet in that tradition, symbols usually signify abundance. Here, we do not even see poverty—nothing at all. The brightness of the photograph reminds me of Letinsky’s still lifes, yet here, there is not even a remnant; there is nothing. Empty baskets and small carts remain inert within themselves. The depth of the photograph draws us rapidly into its hollow core.