Pahlavi pledged to lead a transition to a 'free and democratic Iran.' He called on President Trump to continue the American-Israeli military operation against Iran, in the hope of displacing a regime he decried for placing a 'sea of blood' between itself and its people.
The Islamic Republic, which killed hundreds of thousands of people in Iraq and Syria, killed and tortured hundreds of thousands of Iranians in the most brutal way after all these years, and which now wants to have nuclear weapons: we, the Iranian people, who have lived with them for half a century, know how ridiculous their claim to be peaceful was.
A compleat Persian Palace--there are many minor variations and lesser imitations--is distinguished by its exaggerated moldings, numberless layers of cornices, elaborate grillework and columns galore. A Persian Palace brazenly combines motifs and wantonly disregards proportion and scale.
An artwork is not created when an artist finishes it. It is created when it's visible to an audience and when it becomes discourse. If there's no ecosystem, nothing works. Central Asia is in the midst of an unprecedented investment in such art infrastructure, including new permanent venues, purpose-built museums, and international biennials.
Ali Sbeity painted vibrant portraits and landscapes of his rural hometown in Southern Lebanon, often sharing his works on his Facebook. He participated in numerous local arts exhibitions and created murals for schools in Beirut.
This targeting success surely owes much to advanced electronic surveillance and deep cyber penetration of Iran's weapons systems and infrastructure. But in this war, as in the 12-day war last year, Israel and the United States are obviously benefiting from intelligence from some Iranians themselves, who are willing to risk their lives to help bring down the Islamic Republic.
After the historical Iranian city of Isfahan was targeted by several major strikes, its governor Mehdi Jamalinejad claimed that serious damage had been inflicted even after blue shields were put on the roofs of culturally important buildings. This is an internationally recognized signal under the 1954 Hague Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict.
Distance does not soften the terror. It only deepens my helplessness. In moments like this, I realize that geography is not measured in miles, but in attachment. War rearranges distance. These days I find myself returning to "The Conference of the Birds," the 12th-century poem by Attar of Nishapur, seeking meaning through ancient wisdom about spiritual journeys and transformation.
Imagine the pressure. You want to compete at your best, but then before even the game starts you have to decide how you're going to stand, how you're going to look and what you're going to do. I just think that's so unfair. The players were confused about what to do. If they salute and sing the national anthem, they are embraced and endeared by the government. If they do that, the fans, the Iranian people hate them.
There is a scene in "Morgenkreis | Morning Circle" (2025), a 16-mm film by Berlin-based Palestinian artist Basma al-Sharif, that unfolds at the threshold of a daycare center. A young boy clings to his father, his fists locked into the fabric of his coat, his arms wrapped tightly around him. The father gently tries to pry himself free while a daycare worker crouches nearby, attempting to distract the child and coax him inside. It is an ordinary moment, one that anyone who has ever been a child - or cared for one - recognizes instantly, as well as the gut-wrenching feeling it provokes.
The US-Israeli war on Iran is exposing deep divisions among Iranians in the diaspora and in Iran. From inside Iran to the diaspora, Iranians are deeply divided about their country's future. With Ayatollah Ali Khamenei gone and Reza Pahlavi, the son of the former shah, waiting in the wings, what do conversations about regime change reveal about the spectrum of what Iranians really think?
the artist's newest body of work responds to an urgent question precipitated by the catastrophic events of the past year: What does one do when the world collapses? The works attempt to make sense of her experience of the fire and its enduring aftermath, while continuing her exploration of the poetics of loss, displacement, and migration. Kahraman views these works as an offering, a libation, to a burning world.
The poem itself is an allegory: a gathering of birds set out on a spiritual quest, each one embodying a particular human flaw or attachment. Passing through seven symbolic valleys, they face trials and moments of revelation, before realising that the divine presence they seek lies within themselves. That sense of pilgrimage carries into the gallery. You are invited to take your own quiet journey through a wide range of avian-themed artworks inspired by the poem, each offering a different response to its ideas.
"The show is about giving the pen back to the writer, giving the paintbrush back to the artist, during this time of genocide," the Ridikkuluz told Hyperallergic in an interview at the gallery. "And when there's been so much censorship, these are artists that might not have been able to do this anywhere else."