And there are those old, big houses here in Tehran. For many years they are already abandoned, uninhabited and devastated. Surrounded by the everyday bustle of the city, they stand here as silent eyewitnesses and eyewitnesses to a past everyday life that has long passed. These are places full of history and stories. These places of nostalgia have mesmerized me. If you listen carefully, then these old houses can tell a lot, about their everyday life earlier: at that time, when all the rooms were alive, when the inhabitants there led a well glamorous life. How did people live in those houses then? Were you happier? How did the children spend their childhood there?
I have been here continually for years, my relief, etched onto the dignified, enduring walls and windows that are the portals of mercy and forgiveness.
Each recess of mine is the consequence of silent patience and the account of progress & loss.
I protested not once while being devout to my cause. What was shaped is a bright flame called love, and this flicker began with every nail struck into my structure and pressed through into my walls.
I have been obscured in the whitewash of time. My frame has the odour of dank, the smell of age. My windows no longer catch the light; my walls are foundation weary.
None wished to reside in me any longer. None believed that I am secluded, enduring the sluggish demise of mankind. They have forsaken and forgotten me. Now, I am abandoned and isolated and only know that the past connections are permanent.
Perhaps my doors will be closed for many a century, my walls will become crooked, but can we leave a house unoccupied forever?
Sohrab Ahmadi
And there are those old, big houses here in Tehran. For many years they are already abandoned, uninhabited and devastated. Surrounded by the everyday bustle of the city, they stand here as silent eyewitnesses and eyewitnesses to a past everyday life that has long passed. These are places full of history and stories. These places of nostalgia have mesmerized me. If you listen carefully, then these old houses can tell a lot, about their everyday life earlier: at that time, when all the rooms were alive, when the inhabitants there led a well glamorous life. How did people live in those houses then? Were you happier? How did the children spend their childhood there?
I have been here continually for years, my relief, etched onto the dignified, enduring walls and windows that are the portals of mercy and forgiveness.
Each recess of mine is the consequence of silent patience and the account of progress & loss.
I protested not once while being devout to my cause. What was shaped is a bright flame called love, and this flicker began with every nail struck into my structure and pressed through into my walls.
I have been obscured in the whitewash of time. My frame has the odour of dank, the smell of age. My windows no longer catch the light; my walls are foundation weary.
None wished to reside in me any longer. None believed that I am secluded, enduring the sluggish demise of mankind. They have forsaken and forgotten me. Now, I am abandoned and isolated and only know that the past connections are permanent.
Perhaps my doors will be closed for many a century, my walls will become crooked, but can we leave a house unoccupied forever?
Sohrab Ahmadi
And there are those old, big houses here in Tehran. For many years they are already abandoned, uninhabited and devastated. Surrounded by the everyday bustle of the city, they stand here as silent eyewitnesses and eyewitnesses to a past everyday life that has long passed. These are places full of history and stories. These places of nostalgia have mesmerized me. If you listen carefully, then these old houses can tell a lot, about their everyday life earlier: at that time, when all the rooms were alive, when the inhabitants there led a well glamorous life. How did people live in those houses then? Were you happier? How did the children spend their childhood there?
I have been here continually for years, my relief, etched onto the dignified, enduring walls and windows that are the portals of mercy and forgiveness.
Each recess of mine is the consequence of silent patience and the account of progress & loss.
I protested not once while being devout to my cause. What was shaped is a bright flame called love, and this flicker began with every nail struck into my structure and pressed through into my walls.
I have been obscured in the whitewash of time. My frame has the odour of dank, the smell of age. My windows no longer catch the light; my walls are foundation weary.
None wished to reside in me any longer. None believed that I am secluded, enduring the sluggish demise of mankind. They have forsaken and forgotten me. Now, I am abandoned and isolated and only know that the past connections are permanent.
Perhaps my doors will be closed for many a century, my walls will become crooked, but can we leave a house unoccupied forever?
Sohrab Ahmadi