Tehran, 22/12/2019

To observe Tehran, as if I were behind a window: disguise as myself: absent amongs the city’s entropy.

A breadmaker has his mind away from us, he is not aware he’s being spyed on. Dressed as an unripped thinker who can’t ever take off his pijama, he lays down the dough on the hot rock of the oven. Behind us only the cold night, the closed walls of the other shops, the curb of the street.

Another night will end in Tehran: like a smoked sigarrete in a furtive alley.

The Yalda that was not

Tehran, 21/12/2019

To describe Persia it is not an easy thing nor a granted one: is easy to enter its borders, easy to interact with its inhabitants, easy to be moved and stounded by its martian geography, easy to be engulfed by the weight of a civilization that centuries before being seduced, forced and covered by Islam was – and to some extend still is – the bellybutton of the world and the obsession of every cultural and military power of its own time - nihil novum sub solem.

What is that fascinates to such high degree?

What lies behind all the insidious propaganda and delusions we have to cope with in our current era of intense [mis]information?

Is reality still stronger than any ideas or we have failed to create a proper division between the objective reality and the virtual ones: are we ought to dig into the details to find the underlined coherence and contradictions?

My iranian adventure was a deep trip into a country that appears more like a piece of acid jazz: non estatic, convulsed, to be redifine, changing skin, chaotic, noisy, unpleasant (at moments), mesmerazing, inspiring, fermenting, enthusiastic, melancholic, and in conflict within itself and within the power that dominates its demons.

A trip into the stomach of the ancient and current world to see and admire the patina that men from other centuries and millenea ago fell for.