Ink on paper, working in black and white at obsessive levels of detail. The medium does not let me erase, which is exactly why I trust it. I draw on the Persian miniature and Gol-o-morgh traditions I grew up inside of, but I strip away the color so density and line have to carry everything. Alongside the ink work I make ceramics, which give my hands a different kind of patience. Both feel like the same practice in two languages.

In the contradictions of being a Persian woman living between two cultures. In the gardens my grandmother kept in Tehran, and in the way Los Angeles light falls on a wilting flower. In the women of Iran who cut their hair in protest, and in the small domestic objects that hold a life inside them. I look at what is dying so something new can take its place. My work begins wherever beauty and grief share a room, which is most rooms, if you look closely enough.

Half would go toward securing dedicated studio space in Los Angeles, where I can develop my ink and ceramic work side by side without compromise. The other half would go to charities supporting Iranians affected by the recent war. As a Persian woman making work from a place of safety, I cannot separate my practice from the people whose suffering shapes the questions I ask in the studio. The prize would let me hold both truths at once: the work and the witness.