At the same time, the intention was not to make the viewer concentrate only on what is visibly present, but to draw their focus to what is not there — the emptiness, the silences, the unmarked spaces where meaning quietly lingers.

I never met Zahoor, though in reflecting on his work I’ve constructed entire conversations with him in my head. I’ve heard he was a man of few words; in my version, he sits in silence while I talk endlessly — questioning, speculating, connecting dots that may or may not be there. Perhaps this “conversation” is just me speaking to myself, which, come to think of it, is probably how most artists converse with the past. My recent piece follows a similar path: a calligraphic-like line, unreadable but culturally loaded, suspended by two strings that droop into the shape of a miniature border. The shape shifts each time it’s installed, like memory or inherited forms — never quite the same twice, never entirely under control. For both Zahoor and myself, form is the content. The Farmān, the border, the flourish — not fixed relics, but working frameworks. You don’t just preserve them; you test them, bend them, and see if they still hold weight. And if, in my imagined meetings with Zahoor, I’ve said far more than he ever would — perhaps that’s fine. Silence can be generous. Or maybe he’d just be politely waiting for me to finish.

He Listens, I Ramble

Mild steel, string, screws, and paint
22 × 30 × 1 inches / 55.88 × 76.20 × 2.54 cm
Edition of 10 + 2 AP
2025