28 February 2007

Interview

BEIRUT: "For me, graphic design without the words is like movies without sound," says Reza Abedini, nodding toward a screen reflecting video images above an empty stage. "A powerful image but without meaning. To find a solution you must go back to the roots of the problem: moveable print."

The theater is thick with people. The crowd is full of expatriate Iranians, gathered for a concert by Abjeez ("Sisters"), a ska-inflected Iranian-Dutch band led by sisters Safoura and Melody Safavi, also Iranian expats.

Near the back of the room, Abedini, 40 stands with his arms folded. "Unlike our neighbors, Iran has a rich history of graphic design," he says, raising his voice to compete with the Farsi hip hop erupting from the sound system. "The problem isn't representing images, as it has been in some forms of Islam."

For many Westerners, Abedini pole-vaulted into their consciousness in December 2006. That's when the Iranian graphic designer and professor of design and visual culture at Tehran University was awarded the principle prize of 100,000 euros (just over $132,400) from Holland's Prince Claus Fund.

The jury said they awarded Abedini in recognition of his "skill in adapting the knowledge and achievements of Iran's artistic heritage, making it new and compelling," both for Iranian and international audiences.

Typically, Abedini's work juxtaposes human figures with layers of Persian script. Sometimes individual words are discernable, at least to Farsi speakers, but sometimes not. The designer says he never uses script for its graphic value alone.

"I sometimes use letters for texture," he says. "But each letter has its meaning and it's integral to the image. You can use text in conjunction with image for irony, but you can't alienate the text from its meaning."

One of his better-known prints was composed for Sepideh Farsi's film "Reves de Sable" ("Dreams of Sand"). Stacks of script become the matter of a chador, a woman's tense face projecting briefly from beneath. To a Western eye, it could convey a Muslim woman's freedom of movement being weighed down by words and hijab alike. Abedini's depiction is surprising.

"The idea came from the structure of Sepideh's film," he says, gesturing with his cigarette. "She has four or five characters who can't say anything to each other. Using the script this way seemed to be a good expression of that."

On this particular evening, the designer is most interested in explaining his work in terms of the problem that needed overcoming, the roots of which were Christian missionaries and the printing press. "Ours is a tradition based on illustration rather than graphic design," he says. "The problem they couldn't solve was block print, so they used to convey information rather than design.

"Movable type came to Iran about 160 years ago, though there are books printed in Farsi that date back to Gutenberg."

Abedini abandons his competition with the sound system and retreats to the theater's cafe. He produces a piece of paper and begins to draw words in Farsi.

"My grandfather and my uncle were calligraphers," he smiles. "I'm not. The point of calligraphy right now is dead because the calligraphers can't add to it. From 400 years ago until the Qajar dynasty, the history of calligraphy was a creative one. After that, not.

"At the end of the 18th century, Iran was changing. The world's center of gravity was shifting to Europe. Iran's educated class began to emulate Western education. We lost our poets and began to have novelists. This happened in everything - architecture, literature, fashion.

"Missionaries needed to have Persian script printed as separate letters, which destroys the language because Persian is written, with all the letters connected." He draws a word in Farsi to demonstrate.

"You see," he gestures to the graceful stokes linking individual letters, "it was no longer possible to have this liaison for good composition. Also, Persian isn't naturally a baseline script; printed Farsi was forced to emulate Latin type this way. Then there's the diacriticals, the dots that convey meaning. You simply can't insert these into the metal blocks with the freedom of calligraphy. Print was a disaster for Persian script.

"The revolution came with computers, when the script was digitized. It was now possible to put the dots wherever you like, so it works more like calligraphy.

"When calligraphers compose, they improvise on individual letters in order to achieve a formal harmony. [It's] as much like sculpture as writing. The free space is as important to the composition as the letters themselves. Digital printing allows me to try to do the same."

Like the first wave of contemporary Iranian filmmakers, Abedini says the 1979 Iranian Revolution was a major boon to Farsi graphic design. "The revolution allowed us to get back to our roots," he says. "We had no contact with Western artists but daily exposure to the Koran.

"Personally, I don't believe in the kind of religion they represent" - he gestures to the ceiling - "but I do believe in God and Iran has a long religious history before Islam that I deeply respect. The Sufi tradition is very strong in Iran, too. Anyway, 10 years ago it was stupid to discuss Persian typography. Now, not."

Abedini's work was fostered within the cultural greenhouse of post-1979 Tehran, but his relationship with his audience is complex. He says the regime has not responded to his success, but nor has it restricted his work.

"In Iran I have an audience. I am, if you like, 'famous,'" he shrugs. "But I feel that the only people who understand my work really are outside of Iran. Outside Iran I have an audience that is very young but interested in my work ... I learn from them.

"Here," he gestures to the dozens of Euro-Iranians in the lobby - "is a good example. I'm surprised that they really follow my work. And they're often disappointed when they meet me, because they come away thinking I'm with the regime.

"'Why don't you make a political poster against the regime?' a young Iranian will ask me. 'It's not my work,' I answer. I'm a graphic designer. I view it to be my role to preserve our culture, not overthrow governments.

"Hafiz," he smiles slyly, "our greatest poet, wrote in a politically very difficult time. But you won't find a single political poem in his work. Unfortunately, some of the graphic designers who emulate my work are going the same way as Iranian filmmakers.

"When Iranian cinema became popular in the West, some filmmakers now make films for Western audiences. It's the same with graphic design. I never design for Western audiences. [Some of] those people who emulate my work are trying to please a foreign audience. This is stupid." He grins. "But I have good students as well."

He notes that when some younger artists - Iranian expats and otherwise - emulate his work they infuse it with radical political content. "It isn't bravery, this kind of revolution," he says. "This Western approach to politics, [in the West] it works, but this doesn't in Iran.

"Intellectuals in Iran try to emulate those in the West. They try and they fail, because they're born with this tradition inside them."