I was born in Tehran, Iran, and grew up in a close-knit family surrounded by relatives. Photographs always held a special place in our home. We would often get together to watch family slides, and there was always a camera around. Later, my dad gave me his camera, and that’s how I started learning photography. I went on to study it formally, got a degree in photography and later in art research, and began teaching at a couple of colleges in Tehran. Over time, I became interested in a more interdisciplinary practice, which led me to move to the U.S., where I began to seriously see myself as an artist. I got my MFA from Washington State University, and since then, I’ve been teaching, working on curatorial projects, and making art.

Many of my works draw on my own story as an immigrant, while also reflecting on the struggles migrants face every day around the world, with people being displaced, families separated, and many forced to leave their homes. I chose to immigrate, but it has been quite a journey. As far as I remember, traveling between Iran and the U.S. has never been easy. There’s always some sort of tension. Most of my connections with my family over the years have been through phone screens or the occasional packages they send. Things that, over time, begin to feel routine, like you’re expected to adapt to. But that hard-to-answer question of “where I truly belong” started when I visited Iran for the first time in years. Sitting on the plane, I couldn’t tell whether I was flying toward home or away from it. The feeling of being in between never fully goes away. You carry it with you—a sense of being split between people and places you love and even parts of yourself. While I was there, I started collecting small things, like photos and mementos, whatever I could fit. Back here, unpacking and making space for those things in a different context felt symbolic. It’s like you’re constantly starting anew, trying to make things and yourself fit again. There’s always this mix of emotions. The excitement of a new beginning and the hope it brings, but also fragility, the anxiety of an unpredictable future, and a quiet sense of emptiness that is beneath the surface. All of these became the inspiration for my recent body of work.

I come from a background in photography, but my practice has evolved over time, becoming more interdisciplinary. Now that I work across different media, even when I’m not working directly with photography, it remains a major reference point. I engage with its history and theories, exploring themes like perception, identity, power, and memory. Reflecting on the dualities between digital and analog, the machine-made and the handmade, I’ve recently become interested in the tactility and essence of materials—their fragility, strength, or resistance. Lately, I have also been working with everyday materials and objects, exploring the references they carry, and reflecting on how larger external factors impact our everyday moments. My work often develops and transforms as I create it, influenced by the materials, the idea, and how things come together along the way.

A lot of my inspiration comes from daily life and the world around me. I find myself constantly responding to the present moment and our timing, whether directly or indirectly. I started making art simply because I enjoyed it, but over time, it has become something I have to do. It’s how I reflect, question, and process what’s happening around me.

This support means so much to me. There’ve been so many times I’d get excited about a new project, start visualizing everything coming together, and then I’d do the math and realize it just wasn’t realistic the way I imagined it. So, I’d have to scale things back, shift plans, and make it work however I could. Or when I try to get my work into galleries, just thinking about the costs (shipping, travel, places to stay), it all feels like such a big barrier. Sometimes, I’d talk myself out of even trying before I got started. At the same time, it’s not just about covering the costs, though that’s a huge help. What matters just as much is the encouragement behind it. It has given me the confidence to believe in myself, continue growing, and share my work.

Living in Pullman, a small college town with limited opportunities, can feel isolating. It’s not always easy to connect with a broader art community beyond this area. Artist Trust’s mission to create “a more vibrant and equitable Washington State” helps artists get the support they need, be seen, and keep creating. I really hope this kind of support continues and that more opportunities become available for artists.