Artist is a part of the world. Like mountains which are parts of the world. You can take a part of the mountain with you and fit it somewhere. On your wall or death tomb. The mountain merges into your house or death. The mountain even takes the form of your death.
Rasoul Ashtari has fitted part of himself in the the world of ‘ones’. Simple. He has spoken from other people’s mouths. He has said what he has meant. Like a novelist who speaks from the mouth of a carpenter. Here, it is centuries now that people are being repeated in each other. They are born in one another and die in each other. They merge into one another. To say it in simple words: here, even a thirty-centimeters-long stick is enough for me as a form, and that bit covering the mouth qualifies as technique.
Satisfaction is relative. At this moment, I’m satisfied. The art of an artist has brought me what I wanted. Even for a moment.