A moment may accidentally narrate contiguous emotions and events; a moment rooted in time or abstraction becoming visible as an image, as sincere as possible. The first time that I saw this photo of Majid Dookhtehchizadeh it brought to my mind an obligatory transmutation; transmutation of body and games, a body indifferent to the comprehension of its consciousness or unconscious. I am that small, severed leg at the top of the photo, a deformed but lively limb. I may transmute tomorrow and turn into a palm, a child’s palm, holding a stick.
