My work appears quiet. The objects sit in silence. But are they truly silent? In that stillness, they scream.

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It’s the loud, silent words held within an object that I’m after. The weight it carries, the memory it contains, the transformation it reveals without a sound. This is what draws me to clay, to copper, to fragments and forms that seem still but speak of things we cannot easily say.

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My practice begins with memory, with what was lost, what was broken, and what refuses to disappear. I was born in Iran during the war. My grandmother died when her home was bombed. That place, once full of warmth, the smell of food, and laughter, became rubble in an instant. I carry that silence with me. I carry it into the materials I choose: porcelain, black clay, copper, and concrete. Materials that remember, materials that can fracture, mend, and still speak.

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For over a decade, I have been studying war. Not only the kind with bombs and borders, but the quieter wars, the ones that happen inside the mind, or behind closed doors. Depression. Domestic violence. The war at home. The war within.

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I talk to survivors. I listen carefully. Many speak of a moment they stopped recognizing themselves: “I became someone else,” they say. That moment of “becoming” unrecognizable is what I try to hold. I do not recreate it. I translate it. Through form, through surface, through the slow alchemy of making.

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My process is intuitive. I do not design a piece and then make it. I work with the material, let it guide me, argue with it, wait for it. I have developed my compounds, mixing clay with other substances, layering glazes, pushing the boundaries of ceramics until they could no longer contain what I needed to say. That’s when I turned to copper, electroforming, 3D printing, and metal spraying. These techniques allow me to show change as it happens. Not in grand gestures, but in quiet shifts. A swelling, a thinning, a slow erosion. I am drawn to that moment when something becomes something else without anyone noticing.

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This is what violence often looks like.

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My work has grown from personal pain, but it reaches outward. In exhibitions, I have seen people stop, breathe, and speak. A woman once whispered, “This is my story too.” Others have thanked me for naming the unnamed. These encounters matter. They are the reason I continue.

I am a maker and a witness. A storyteller without words. Objects can hold space for the unspeakable. They can carry what we cannot say. And maybe, in that space, something can shift.

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I make to understand. I make to remember. I make to give voice to those who’ve been silenced.