She Feels Your Absence Deeply: A Family History Woodblock by Golnar Adili
She Feels Your Absence Deeply: A Family History Woodblock meditates on imagery from my childhood, when the political landscape of Iran separated my family for many years and changed our lives for good. While the content of this book is informed by the trauma of those years, the structure takes inspiration from my toddler’s play blocks.
The images printed on the six sides of the cubes reference documentation from the years 1979 to 1981. My father was a member of the Confederation of Iranian Students in the US fighting and organizing against the shah of Iran. In 1979, the year of the revolution and when many began leaving, we migrated back to Iran. The Islamic Republic of Iran radicalized less than two years later in the aftermath of Iraq’s invasion, which led to mass persecutions and elimination of the Left along with any other political opposition. My father was forced to escape due to his continued activism.
The images presented on the blocks repeat throughout my practice in a variety of iterations, forming a personal lexicon of displacement. I hope for the following descriptions to provide some context for the viewer:
The two monochromatic images of my mother are from her two passport photos. The smiling portrait is the passport photo with which she entered Iran, while the somber portrait was taken a few years later, after my father’s departure. These photos are a study in contrast, and the closeup image of the eye brings forth the poignant story told in a gaze.
The airplane image, which stretches in both directions when opening the book, is replicated from my father’s airline ticket. It represents the last leg of his eventual and arduous escape from Iran. I found this ticket among other immigration documents, letters, and photographs after his death—archived meticulously as though he wanted to tell a story.
The book’s outer cover presents fragments of a letter my mother wrote to my father only months after his departure. It is an expression of utter pain and longing about the uncertain future, and mirrors the pain I feel in missing him. One of the six images on the blocks isolates a sentence from this letter, in which she describes my own somber mood: she feels your absence deeply.
She Feels Your Absence Deeply: A Family History Woodblock meditates on imagery from my childhood, when the political landscape of Iran separated my family for many years and changed our lives for good. While the content of this book is informed by the trauma of those years, the structure takes inspiration from my toddler’s play blocks.
The images printed on the six sides of the cubes reference documentation from the years 1979 to 1981. My father was a member of the Confederation of Iranian Students in the US fighting and organizing against the shah of Iran. In 1979, the year of the revolution and when many began leaving, we migrated back to Iran. The Islamic Republic of Iran radicalized less than two years later in the aftermath of Iraq’s invasion, which led to mass persecutions and elimination of the Left along with any other political opposition. My father was forced to escape due to his continued activism.
The images presented on the blocks repeat throughout my practice in a variety of iterations, forming a personal lexicon of displacement. I hope for the following descriptions to provide some context for the viewer:
The two monochromatic images of my mother are from her two passport photos. The smiling portrait is the passport photo with which she entered Iran, while the somber portrait was taken a few years later, after my father’s departure. These photos are a study in contrast, and the closeup image of the eye brings forth the poignant story told in a gaze.
The airplane image, which stretches in both directions when opening the book, is replicated from my father’s airline ticket. It represents the last leg of his eventual and arduous escape from Iran. I found this ticket among other immigration documents, letters, and photographs after his death—archived meticulously as though he wanted to tell a story.
The book’s outer cover presents fragments of a letter my mother wrote to my father only months after his departure. It is an expression of utter pain and longing about the uncertain future, and mirrors the pain I feel in missing him. One of the six images on the blocks isolates a sentence from this letter, in which she describes my own somber mood: she feels your absence deeply.
She Feels Your Absence Deeply: A Family History Woodblock meditates on imagery from my childhood, when the political landscape of Iran separated my family for many years and changed our lives for good. While the content of this book is informed by the trauma of those years, the structure takes inspiration from my toddler’s play blocks.
The images printed on the six sides of the cubes reference documentation from the years 1979 to 1981. My father was a member of the Confederation of Iranian Students in the US fighting and organizing against the shah of Iran. In 1979, the year of the revolution and when many began leaving, we migrated back to Iran. The Islamic Republic of Iran radicalized less than two years later in the aftermath of Iraq’s invasion, which led to mass persecutions and elimination of the Left along with any other political opposition. My father was forced to escape due to his continued activism.
The images presented on the blocks repeat throughout my practice in a variety of iterations, forming a personal lexicon of displacement. I hope for the following descriptions to provide some context for the viewer:
The two monochromatic images of my mother are from her two passport photos. The smiling portrait is the passport photo with which she entered Iran, while the somber portrait was taken a few years later, after my father’s departure. These photos are a study in contrast, and the closeup image of the eye brings forth the poignant story told in a gaze.
The airplane image, which stretches in both directions when opening the book, is replicated from my father’s airline ticket. It represents the last leg of his eventual and arduous escape from Iran. I found this ticket among other immigration documents, letters, and photographs after his death—archived meticulously as though he wanted to tell a story.
The book’s outer cover presents fragments of a letter my mother wrote to my father only months after his departure. It is an expression of utter pain and longing about the uncertain future, and mirrors the pain I feel in missing him. One of the six images on the blocks isolates a sentence from this letter, in which she describes my own somber mood: she feels your absence deeply.
