Sculpting memory, space and human connection
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been drawn to the subtle ways people interact with space; how we carry our environments within us and how the structures around us shape what we feel, remember and become.
I don’t see buildings or sculptures as static objects. They are living frameworks; soft thresholds between people and place. This perspective was shaped by my background in architecture and later deepened while working with architects like Renzo Piano and Jean Nouvel. These experiences taught me to think about form and material not just structurally, but emotionally. What we build carries weight; emotional, historical, spatial.
Micro-spaces and the language of form
My sculptures often begin with what I call ‘micro-spaces’: creases, edges, pockets of intimacy. These aren’t rooms or walls, but delicate environments shaped by stillness, tension and presence. I work with layered surfaces, translucent skins, earth-based pigments and found objects. These materials have their own histories; they hold memory.
The human figure is at the heart of this practice, not always fully formed, but always present. The gestures are subtle, almost whispered: a lean, a fold, a reach. These are not literal figures, but echoes; murmurs shaped by longing, migration and emotional inheritance.
"Diaspora is not a place, nor a choice. It is a state of being... like stepping stone to stone across a restless river: foot to stone, stone to water. I sway. I cross. I miss. I land. Then I move again."
Building from duality and displacement
Having grown up between cultures, I carry with me a sense of duality: tools and wounds, compasses and contradictions. Zoroastrian fire sits at the root of my being. It’s a lineage of survival and flame, of memory passed palm to palm. I hold onto this as I shape materials, letting silence and breath become my language.
To sculpt is to remember, to repair, to hold what words cannot. I stitch fragments together, layering memory, dust and space into structures that feel intimate yet open. My forms are often vessels, skins, shelters; spaces that cradle but don’t contain.
“Each form is a hinge; a holding point, a question suspended in weight. Form is my language; structure is my breath. Weight carries memory; surface scripts the body’s story.”
A practice of quiet resistance
My sculptures do not insist. They invite. I use light, colour and rhythm to suggest presence rather than declare it. Warm tones speak of intimacy, while cool shadows create space for contemplation. The work moves between abstraction and emotion, architecture and the body, silence and trace.
Artists like Isamu Noguchi and Louise Nevelson have long inspired me, not only for their material sensibilities, but for how their work straddles discipline, memory, and ritual. I hope my practice continues in that spirit—bridging what’s felt and what’s seen, what’s personal and what’s shared.
Becoming through making
This is not a performance. It’s a return. A way to hold space for questions that don’t have answers. I don’t explain. I build. I shape. I listen.
“So I build micro-worlds; scattered, suspended, resilient. Like breath, dust, self. I build because the flame still moves within me. Because the palm that passed it on still warms mine.”
Each sculpture is an invitation; to pause, to feel, to remember. To move within and through a space that listens back.
Body in Flux
Swaying, foot to foot. I lean. I ask. Where do I belong? Where is familiar? I don’t know. I stay in-between. I hover. A body in flux. A vessel in-between. I stay there. I don’t move forward. I don’t go back. I hold.
I was born from fire. Zoroastrian fire. A memory of fire. A flame passed down. Palm to palm. Mouth to mouth. Still burning. I hold it. I hold it in the work.
I carve space. I carve silence. I don’t fill it. I don’t explain. I make it. I let it breathe.
Diaspora is not a place. Diaspora is not a choice. It is the state. It is the air. It is constant. It is the condition. A swirling pot. Adopted. Adapted. Fragmented. Re-imagined. Re-applied.
Foot to stone. Stone to water. I sway. I cross. I miss. I land. I keep moving. I leap between tongues. Between cities. Between memories. Between spaces.
I stitch. I repair. I weave a way through spatial fabric. I build rhythm. I look for calm in structure. I look for stillness in repetition.
I make space to wait. To rest. To hold. To be. Micro-spaces. Not rooms. Not walls. Creases. Corners. Edges. Surfaces. Pauses. Places that hold without owning.
I build skins. I build vessels. I build shelters. They don’t protect. They hold. They breathe. They remember.
Figures appear. Not figures. Fragments. Echoes. They come from distance. They come from memory. They’re not literal. They’re shaped by longing. They don’t pose. They murmur.
I shift scale. I shift texture. I shift rhythm. You move. You feel. You move. You don’t know why.
Meaning doesn’t arrive. It flickers. It brushes past you. It stays under the skin. Tangible. Visceral.
You are not outside the work. You’re in it. You’re part of it. It breathes through you.
Material has weight. It has temperature. It tells the truth. You can touch it. It touches back.
I grew up between cultures. Between currents. It rolls over you. It splits you. It shakes you. It builds you.
You walk with fire and wind. You carry duality like a tool. Like a wound. Like a compass.
To make is to survive, to be stirred, to be touched. So I build. Micro-worlds. Scattered, suspended, resilient. Like breath. Like dust. Like self.
I build because the flame still moves.
Because the palm that passed it on still warms mine.
I build with fragments. With memory. With ash. With dust. With the body's way of knowing.
Each form is a hinge, a holding point, a question suspended in weight. Form is my language. Structure is my breath. Weight is my memory. Surface is the body’s script. Edges whisper. Hollows hold.
This is my practice— not a performance, but a return. A rhythm I trust. A way to hold the questions. I don’t explain. I shape. I listen. I remember.
I become.