The Unibrow Interview: Under The Same Skin with Nastaran Shahbazi

Humility. That is the ambience I always felt in Nastaran Shahbazi’s work, and her upcoming NYC solo at Scroll seems to be confirming this. Under The Same Skin is all about nature as a unifier of all human “differences” and “disparities,” an idea presented with a series of hazy, dreamy, mirage-like snapshots of everyday moments turning strange.

After following and enjoying Shahbazi’s work for many years and curating her work in a few exhibitions, I used this opportunity to do an interview about this body of work and her practice at large. And as I hoped, the Paris-based Iranian artist had a lot to say about her process, the emotions behind it, the thin line between reality and fantasy, the life journey that took her from Iran through Paris, Hong Kong, and back to Paris, and how her connection w her homeland directly influenced this body of work.

Sasa Bogojev: Over the years of following your work, I noticed the tendency not to "paint" or "create" your images, but rather to "bring them to life." Is this something that you can relate to, and do you have any idea where such a tendency comes from?

Nastaran Shahbazi: Yes, I do relate to that. For me, painting has never been just about making an image. It’s more about bringing something to life. My relationship with images and colors began when I was a toddler, during the Iran–Iraq War in the 1980s and the years that followed. My father was a political prisoner, imprisoned by the government at the time, and it was an extremely difficult period for my family. I think that, because of those circumstances, colors, lines, and images became a world of their own for me from a very early age.

Even when I was a child, I always wanted to share my drawings with people. If we went to family gatherings or parties, I would take them with me and show them around. I loved that moment — showing them, talking about them, and feeling connected to people through them. So for me, this visual world was never an escape. Instead, it was a way of connecting to the world and to other people. It always felt very alive and special.

And it still feels that way now. The state I’m in when I paint is very important to me. I need to feel present and connected. Not necessarily happy, but open, somehow. If I’m feeling too low, I usually can’t paint, because I often end up destroying the work. So if a painting gets finished, it means that in that moment, I was really there.

Even if the painting becomes darker, or more melancholic, or sadder, it still comes from a living place. It carries the truth of how I felt at that time.

SB: What attracts you to dreamy, fading, almost mirage-like, soft images over more solid, sharply rendered ones? What sort of technique are you using to achieve this?

NS: The more I work, the more I realize that I’m drawn to figures and forms that feel hazy, dreamy, almost like a mirage. It’s becoming a big part of my work, and I’ve been thinking a lot about why that is.

It brought back a memory from when I was fifteen and taking painting classes. We were working from live models, and I found it almost impossible to paint what I was actually seeing. What came out on the canvas looked very different. The figures were blurred, sometimes almost disappearing. And I remember my teacher saying, “These figures seem like people who have gone unseen and are trying to become visible.”

That stayed with me, and I’ve been thinking about it again recently. Maybe it connects to a kind of anger I grew up with. As I mentioned, I grew up in Iran in the 1980s, during a very difficult time, and there was often this feeling that different parts of society had no real sense of how other people were living. I think I carried a lot of anger around that — around injustice, and around people not being seen. Maybe that feeling is still somewhere in the work.

Technically, I work on the whole painting at the same time. I move across the canvas rather than finishing one area before moving on to the next. I usually start with very thin, watery layers and then slowly build up certain parts. But I also try to protect some of the early marks and forms, because they often contain something spontaneous that I don’t want to lose.

I’m very interested in that tension—between the parts that stay open and the parts that become more defined. That’s something I want to keep exploring.

And I think that’s also how time enters the painting for me. The hazy parts can feel like something remembered, but they can also feel like something imagined, or something still becoming. When those different senses of time exist together, the painting feels alive to me.

SB: How much of the work is pre-sketched, and how much does result from your collaboration with the tools and materials?

NS: I usually make some kind of sketch before I start a painting, but with this recent series, I didn’t. I went straight onto the canvas and started drawing there. I don’t really have a fixed rule about it. Sometimes I need a sketch, sometimes I don’t. I try to stay open and see what the painting needs.

Usually, I need some kind of starting point—an idea, a form, a body, a movement, or even just a hand. From there, a lot can change, and the painting can take me somewhere unexpected. But it’s still important for me to remain faithful to something from the beginning, to hold on to some of those first ideas or expressions that made me want to start the painting in the first place.

I really like that oil paint dries slowly because it allows me to keep changing the painting as I work. I can alter something, add another layer, or find a gesture or expression and then move on to another part of the painting.

But that can also be difficult. Sometimes you make an expression that you really like, and because the paint is still wet, you start thinking that maybe you can make it even better. I think that’s something painters often experience. You keep working on it and end up losing something that was actually better before — something that was already enough. I’m very interested in that tension between wanting to continue and knowing when something should be left alone.

I also like working in thin layers of different colors. Each layer changes what was there before, but it also preserves something from those earlier layers. I usually start very lightly and then slowly build the painting up. For me, that’s where the material becomes part of the process. The painting may begin with an idea, but then the canvas, the paint, and the process itself begin to shape it as well.

SB: What about your color palette? It seems like it went full spectrum for this show with each image covering a different range. Is this on purpose, or how do you go about it?

NS: With color, it has a lot to do with my mood and how I’m feeling in that moment. It’s very intuitive for me. For a while, I was using a lot of reds and very dark blues. I usually start a painting with a light base, and somehow it becomes really dark. I think I tend to work like that — I make it dark, and then I try to find the light within it.

But with this body of work, I wanted to move more toward light. I mean, emotionally, I was trying to get out of this comfort zone where I felt like the canvas always had to be dark, and then I had to dig the light out of it. So I tried to stay with lighter, brighter colors and keep working with them, instead of always going back to the dark.

At the beginning, the colors are really intuitive and subconscious. Then, at some point, when the painting starts to develop, it becomes almost like math. That’s actually the interesting part for me. I might really love a color and want to put it somewhere, and then I realize, okay, it doesn’t work here.

Sometimes I can become a little too attached to my idea—almost egoistic about it—and think, no, it has to work. But I think with experience, you gain the courage to change things. Sometimes you just change the color of one part, even if you really love what was there before, and suddenly it becomes magical.

I actually really like making those kinds of changes toward the end of a painting. Sometimes one small change in color can completely shift the whole painting. I think sometimes you just have to trust yourself enough to make a change and let the painting become something else.

SB: The scenes feel everyday, prosaic, yet there is something mystical, almost mythical about them. Do they have any particular meanings, do they serve as metaphors, and where are they coming from?

NS: I don’t really intend to give my paintings a very specific or definitive meaning. I like to let them develop naturally and allow the meaning to emerge gradually. I’m very drawn to mystery in painting—the idea that a work can evoke different feelings and leave room for different interpretations. But I don’t like to push it or force it into something. I want it to happen freely.

When I’m working, I like to discover something new in the painting every time I look at it. If it keeps showing me something I didn’t see before, I feel like I’m going in the right direction. I also look at my paintings a lot, and lately I’ve been very inspired by art history. That’s part of the power, almost the miracle, of painting—that through light, form, and composition, an ordinary scene can suddenly take on a more mythological or metaphorical feeling.

There’s also a sense of narrative that comes into the paintings quite naturally. I don’t necessarily start with a story, but somehow a story begins to suggest itself. I try not to make it too explicit. I like the feeling that there might be a story, without knowing exactly what it is.

The culture I grew up in has definitely affected me. Poetry, mythology, storytelling, and folklore are very much part of Iranian culture, and they’ve influenced the way I see things and perhaps the way I approach painting. Maybe that’s also why an ordinary scene can sometimes take on a more mystical or mythical feeling in my paintings.

SB: Your protagonists feel like placeholders rather than specific people. Is that on purpose, and what is the idea behind that?

NS: Honestly, I don’t really see them as placeholders. And I don’t necessarily think of them as “protagonists” when I’m painting. I don’t approach a painting by thinking, “This is the protagonist, and this is their story.” It’s much more intuitive for me. I’m responding to something I feel, rather than constructing a specific character.

What I do feel very strongly about is that I like them to have a kind of universal quality. I like the feeling that their identities remain open, that they’re not completely defined. There’s something interesting to me about leaving that space for the viewer — so that they can bring their own experiences, emotions, or even memories into the painting. I think that ambiguity is part of what makes the figures feel alive to me.

SB: They seem involved in mundane, non-specific activities, yet there are elements that push them into a sphere of imagination, surrealism, and strangeness. Is this something you construct on purpose, and why?

NS: Yes, I quite like the daily routine, but at the same time, I can get bored easily, so maybe this tension comes partly from that. I’m interested in the moment when something familiar starts to feel slightly strange or uncanny. A scene might appear completely ordinary at first, and then something enters that feels a little out of place. It creates a small shift — you recognize the situation, but suddenly you’re not quite sure what you’re looking at anymore.

I think some of this also comes from my interest in the Surrealists. But I also do it simply because it makes painting more fun for me. I like that it can be personal and playful. One of the most important things is simply to enjoy the process.

That allows the painting to exist somewhere between memory, reality, and imagination. I don’t necessarily want to explain what is happening. I’m more interested in the feeling that something is happening, without being able to fully understand what it is. Actually, talking about it now, it reminds me a little of David Lynch’s films — that feeling of something being both completely familiar and completely strange at the same time.

SB: Do you have to restrain yourself to keep things on the edge between reality and dream or memory or imagination and not go too far into fantasy?

NS: Yes, sure. I think sometimes I should restrain myself, and I do. But I also think that, with more experience, and as I keep working, this barrier is becoming more fluid for me.

Growing up in Iran, with its traditions, culture, geopolitical circumstances, and the experiences I had there, has shaped the way I see and feel things. It has influenced how I understand the world around me, how I relate to others, and how I make sense of my own experiences. And sometimes, when you have a strong narrative sense, it can be challenging not to overthink, not to read too much into things, and to know when to stop.

I mean, I see painting a little bit like cinema in one frame, in one shot. You have one moment, and somehow you have to make that moment enough. So I think it becomes important to focus on what really matters and to let go of everything that doesn’t.

And more and more, I’m drawn to simplicity—not only in my paintings, but also in life, because for me they are absolutely connected. I think it’s about finding a way to make things simpler, but still keep them meaningful. And that’s what I call—well, let’s say—a kind of wise simplicity. I think there is something very beautiful in that.

SB: This show is about a beautiful and unquestionable idea of nature as a unifier, a connecting point between different cultures, different people, different destinies. What brought you to this idea?

NS: When I began working on these recent paintings, it was right in the middle of everything that was going on in Iran. So I needed to jog more than usual, to clear my head a little bit, and to spend more time in the park, on the high hills where I’m living. And that’s where the idea began to emerge.

Because there is something tense about big cities. And in the park, I started noticing this incredible diversity of people—the way they speak, the way they dress. You hear different languages and see all these different backgrounds coming together. And somehow, despite all these differences, there is something very peaceful about being there. I think in the city, our interactions with each other can easily become tense, because there is always this sense of speed, pressure, and being surrounded by so many people.

But in nature, something changes. I started thinking that perhaps we become a little less conscious of ourselves. We forget about our ego, and somehow become part of something bigger than ourselves. It's almost as if you melt into nature. And when that happens, the differences between people become less important. There is this feeling of being together, without necessarily having to communicate or know anything about each other. I think that feeling of becoming part of nature, and the peacefulness that comes with it, was very important to me.

SB: I feel like this dreamy or imaginary atmosphere conveys our inferiority against the greatness of nature and our inability to fully understand and tame it. Is this something you ever thought of in some way?

NS: Yes, definitely. I think there is something very powerful in the fact that we cannot fully understand nature, and we cannot really control it. With climate change, we are seeing more and more catastrophic consequences of that. We realize how limited our ability to control nature really is, and I think that is part of what makes us feel small in front of it.

But for me, it is not necessarily about feeling inferior. It is more about being conscious of the fact that we are not always in control. When you are in nature, you realize that you are just one small part of something much bigger, something that existed before you and will continue after you.

I think this is also where the dreamy or imaginary quality in the paintings comes from. I’m not trying to represent nature realistically. I’m more interested in that feeling you have when you are in nature, when reality somehow becomes a little less fixed. You can lose your sense of yourself for a moment and enter another kind of space.

SB: Your life took you from Iran through Paris, Hong Kong, and back to Paris. Do you see this journey reflected in your work?

NS: Absolutely. It has influenced my work, and I think it always will. Actually, as you ask me this question, I’m reminded of when I was 24. It was 2006, and I was leaving Iran for the first time. I was very emotional at the airport, and my father, who is an agricultural engineer and has always had a very close relationship with the land, gave me a small matchbox containing a little bit of soil from Iran. He handed it to me and said, “Never forget where you come from.”

It’s been almost 20 years since I left Iran, but I still think about it every day—my family, my memories, my experiences, and everything that is happening there.

Hong Kong is also very important to me. It was the place that gave me the courage to step outside my comfort zone and experience something new. I had been making etchings for about seven years and had become very comfortable with the technique. Then I decided I wanted to paint, and somehow, the energy of Hong Kong gave me the courage to do it.

When I look at those paintings now, I can see that they were very much my first paintings. But what interests me is how excited I was about them, and how certain I felt that I wanted to paint for the rest of my life. I think that feeling was important, and I associate that courage with the energy and atmosphere of the city. I’m grateful for that, even though I also experienced some challenging personal moments there.

And then there is Paris, which is the place I chose and which has, in many ways, become a home for me. I feel deeply attached to it. It also gives me extraordinary access to museums and allows me to be constantly surrounded by art history, which is very important to me.