ANTiPODE Art Gallery Statement
ANTiPODE exists to use the immigrant experience to create an “art bridge” between Seattle and other cities. We are interested in cities because, unlike countries, cities are tangible. We can hate them, love them, live in them, leave them—and as immigrants, they can live together inside us. ANTiPODE also exists to use the immigrant experience to transform unfamiliar spaces in Seattle into “art homes,” where artists can present their work and connect with each other and their audiences. Starting in September 2025, ANTiPODE Art Gallery (AAG) serves as ANTiPODE’s primary art home and bridge for the next five years. In AAG,
we are committed to presenting the work of immigrant artists. We recognize the responsibility of engaging with such sensitive material and are mindful of the fine line between raising awareness and empathy, and the risk of objectifying or commercializing pain. By centering the artistic aspects and allowing the art to speak for itself, we aim to create space for authentic, unfiltered conversations around the immigrant experience, while avoiding one-sided victim narratives. To connect immigrant and local artist communities, we also present the work of local artists alongside immigrant voices.
we aim to accommodate various art forms and ensure that the presentation of works meets artists’ standards. To this end, we designed the gallery to include dedicated features for displaying drawings, paintings, posters, poetry, video art, short films, sound installations, sculpture, and other experimental forms. With these features and our commitment to working closely with artists, we are fully prepared to adapt to the needs of both the artist and the curator.
we hope to celebrate the process as much as the final outcome. We want to record the journey of taming eruptions of thoughts and emphasize the stage on which the multi-directional chaos transforms into an artwork. To achieve this dream AAG must function as a shared collaborative space. With our studio-space tailored for collaboration and hosting space designed for artist talks, open discussions, and workshops, we are ready to serve as a space where artists are comfortable to work, present, and feel at home.
we hold a special place for artworks that evoke drawing and poetry. Drawing captures the immediacy of emotion in a way few other mediums can. It is elegantly simple, and because of this simplicity, it can capture the essence–like a distillery that transforms complex ideas into potent forms. Poetry carries only what is necessary, and because of this lightness, it travels effortlessly through time. Stripped of all that is extra and free of any agenda, there is no push in poetry, only gentle pulls. For these reasons, and because of personal love, we choose these approachable creative vehicles as unbiased, humble frames for presenting delicate narratives and recording every stage of the creative process.
On Cities And Bridges
Let’s talk about cities. Yes, cities, and not countries. Because unlike countries, cities are not just dead myths whose agents end our romantic relationships, waste our lives with mandatory military service, reject our visas, ban us from dancing at our friends’ weddings, or keep us from holding our parents’ hands after chemo sessions.
Unlike countries, cities are real; they have meanings and personalities. We can hate them, love them, live them, leave them—and they can live together inside us, jetlagged immigrants. We, like children of divorce, force cities to transform their differences into commonalities; we keep living the double life, with all its advantages and traumas, and become bridges that house their long-distance relationships.
Bridges represent connection. Arendt is right: “Meaning emerges through interaction with others, through words and deeds.” Meaning is made on bridges. Unlike walls, they are full of stories, delicate stories of journey and process, as well as of origin and destination.
Telling the story of a bridge is no simple task. You can’t just drop a bomb and walk away. You have to be compelling enough to hold the audience’s attention, and that's not easy in this age of distraction. You can’t be too entertaining, though, or you risk becoming inauthentic clowns. They might not notice here, but your friends back home will. You have to be honest, but not too honest, or the audience here gets angry. Western anger is a dangerous thing. You need to stir just enough guilt to create awareness and action, but not so much that they start to see you as a victim. Because we’re not victims. To be a bridge between homes takes strength. And to choose the right frame, the right form, to tell its story—that takes art.
After a month in this cloudy city I realized “nice” means sunny. In juxtaposition, it’s “nice” in Tehran when it rains, or after it has just rained. A year in Seattle passed and I finally built a bridge: No matter where you are, a day is nice when you see the mountains–stratovolcanoes to be exact. Now to see Damavand in Tehran, you need a good amount of rain, enough to improve the air quality from “very unhealthy” to “unhealthy for the sensitive groups”; conversely, to see Tahoma (Rainier) in Seattle you need a good amount of sun, enough to kill the light pollution of all those therapy lamps. A decade in Seattle and I am a bridge ...
On Transforming Unfamiliar Spaces into Homes
Home is where we can simply be. It’s where connection runs so deep that the mind quiets and the body begins to feel. But what happens when we move? How do we turn a new place into a home?
When we move, when we break free of all constraints, lose connections with everything that reminds us of home—things we later feel nostalgic for—it feels light at first, right? But then, when the unboxing begins and the luggage remains open for days, when freedom morphs into a burden and solitude into loneliness, when it becomes evident that the walls no longer speak to us and the streets don't remember us, we feel homesick in our guts. We learn to go numb to survive. And then, when we finally get to sit and have tea, we realize that feeling at home is a fundamental need. Like clean air.
Let’s think of a small move first. You know, like from one apartment full of memories to another full of potential. To make the new apartment home we start filling its rooms with objects. Now even if we purchase the best bed, the room is not going to feel like home with only one bed. It’ll feel half-assed, right? We need a curated collection of objects that makes sense as a whole. But even that’s not enough for generating the meaning of home. I mean, a hotel room, no matter how full and luxurious, never quite feels like home, don’t you agree? For this "whole" to become home it takes time. It must hold our past, carry our scent, resonate with our familiar sounds, and reflect who we are.
To feel at home in a new apartment, we need to listen to its walls for a while and let them change us first, then reclaim our identity and project it back onto its walls; and we need to do this gradually, and not loudly, and from the heart–like it’s a form of art. And only then walls begin to speak to us.
Now let’s apply the same framing to a bigger move, like from one city full of connection to another built on individual freedom. To feel at home in a new city as immigrants, we learn to carefully listen to its streets, and to those who lived there before us. To be adopted, we adapt. We let our new environment shape us. We listen for a long time. Then, slowly, we start to speak. We reclaim our identity and project it back onto the public space. And we know that, for things to work, we must do this gradually, not loudly, and from the heart, like it’s a form of art.
And only then the streets begin to speak to us again and only then our bodies begin to feel.
On Delicate Journeys & Processes
If home is where the mind quiets and the body feels, then away from home is where hyper-observation begins and overthinking takes over.
Through invisible emotional gates or by choice, we often fall into periods of hyper-observation, where we find ourselves holding heavy magnifying glasses that intensify every moment. These intense periods may eventually give birth to self-knowledge or unique artworks but first, they bring friction and chaos: friction from stopping to examine every little detail, and chaos from looking into a mirror with a magnifying glass. They are not always heavy, but when they feel overwhelming—and they almost always do at some point—it’s common for us to search for an escape. Many might follow the first exit sign and choose the fastest route, but those who know how to harness energy from friction and chaos take a longer path with better scenery. A path that begins in the hyper-observational mode and runs through the joyful periods of creativity.
An intense creative incubation period often carries the risk of burnout. The static friction—between a snail carrying a magnifying glass and a society that worships efficiency and short-term gains—generates significant heat. But for those who let the process run its course, the observation brings fresh, raw ingredients and the friction offers a fire. When the cooking begins, creative movements become visible and the outcome starts to take shape, though in reality, the process began much earlier.
The process of creating with a heavy magnifying glass in hand is art itself. One must learn to tame eruptions of thoughts and transform their multi-directional, chaotic flow into a controlled stream of ideas. One must be patient and carefully choose what to focus on. To look in a mirror through a magnifying glass, for example, may lead to self-knowledge if you survive, but it can also kill you with confusion and self-doubt. And one must keep moving and remember that they are moving even when all productivity metrics say otherwise.
When we stop to examine every little detail, when we stray from the straight road, we gather new information, but the efficiency-obsessed culture calls us unproductive. Like a sensitive double pendulum, we oscillate and detect a new path every time, but because we are not following the straight line, our motion is not counted as progress. It's easy to lose sight of progress when all conventional, low-resolution speedometers label our movement as "stagnation."
There is a clear need for new productivity metrics—metrics capable of capturing the subtle and chaotic motions that occur during incubation periods. Scales that can weigh the process when creation is happening without symptoms measurable by current efficiency standards. Indicators that value timelessness over short-term gain and reveal how a culture fixated on immediate results can destroy potential.
We need productivity measures that go beyond origins and destinations and document what happens on the bridge.
On Drawing & Poetry
Drawing and poetry are our favorite forms of expression. We love them deeply, though, like any true love, we’re not quite sure why. Maybe it’s the way they look. Or the way they’re always there, like reliable friends, helping us make sense of our thoughts when no one else can—not even ourselves. Maybe it’s because they transcend logic and touch our emotions, or because they protect our delicate feelings from the erosion of time. Here, as co-founders of ANTiPODE, we each try to describe our love for drawing and poetry to justify why we selfishly choose them to frame the delicate stories we like to tell.
What I think about when I think about drawing by Saina Heshmati: Drawing has always been the backbone of my artistic practice, the core element and the basis of everything. I cannot overstate its foundational role. Whether I am working on a new piece or exploring new concepts, drawing remains the constant that guides my creative process and shapes the outcome. Like Dumas, I believe that “drawing is more than just a preparatory step for other forms of art; it is a profound and expressive medium on its own.”
Drawing captures the immediacy of thought and emotion in a way that few other mediums can. This immediacy is what makes drawing so special to me, allowing me to share my experiences and perspectives in an unfiltered way. It protects the rawness of my imagination from being filtered, even by my own mind.
Drawing is an intimate process, a direct and honest line from my mind to the paper, communicating the personal and the immediate. Vincent van Gogh beautifully summarizes the personal connection I feel with drawing: “Drawing is closer to writing than it is to painting. It’s like when you write a letter to someone you are close with, you use drawing.” This intimacy is what makes drawing a powerful tool for personal expression.
To create art that lasts in the mind of the audience and through time, I need to boil down my ideas to their core and present them in their most direct and powerful form. Drawing is effectively simple, and because of its simplicity, it serves as a distillery. It captures the essence and presents thoughts and emotions in potent forms which allows me to connect with my audience.
Because of its immediacy, intimacy, simplicity, and potency, drawing is my favorite tool for delving into my psyche and exploring the core of my experience. I hope each of my drawings is an unfiltered narrative, an honest glimpse into my inner world, and a humble invitation for others to connect with their own emotions and experiences. Through this shared exploration of the personal, drawing becomes my medium for creating empathy and fostering understanding of the universal human experience.
I adore drawing, but my love for it isn’t immune to doubt. Sometimes I feel like I can’t fully express myself through drawing, and in those moments, I wish I were better with words. When I share this feeling with my writer friends, they usually disagree.
In June 2024, when Chelsea Bolan, Amir, and I visited the Frederick Holmes Gallery in Pioneer Square to see drawings by Dalí and Bellmer, Chelsea said she could feel a multitude of words within the images, even though no actual words were present. I’m certain I heard a hint of jealousy in her voice. Later that day, over a glass of wine, both Amir and Chelsea confessed they wished they could express themselves through other mediums—Chelsea through drawing, and Amir through anything but words. I remember them saying things like: "Words can be burdensome. The partnership between words and logical structure can limit the imagination," and, "It’s too easy to doubt words, and yourself for using them, unless they flow into a poem that paints the image of an emotion." When I got home that night, I did a small experiment: I opened up my old diary and sketchbooks. Half-tipsy, I concluded that my sketchbooks held my emotions and thoughts more vividly than the diary ever had.
What I think about when I think about poetry by Amir Amini: As a scientist, systematic thinking is the default mode of my productivity-addicted mind. Restless with unresolved problems, it constantly seeks to make sense of everything. To make progress, it imposes result-oriented logic on everything around me: identify the gap, define the problem, set objectives, review prior work, describe the method, share results, celebrate for a minute, then move on to the next problem. Like a combine harvester fueled by its need to solve, this approach often works. But when it comes to capturing the delicacy of my chaotic, eruptive emotions, it does more harm than good.
I'm not a good poet. There's so much for me to learn to become one, and probably more to unlearn, but I know enough to know that poetry saves me from the negative side effects of my organized mind, and allows me to capture my emotional eruptions, which are my best material for creating something lasting, something people freely choose to connect with.
There is no push in it. It only gently pulls. Unlike me, there's no teaching in it. The part of me that wants to teach isn’t invited. To enter the poetic realm, I must become a child, feel, and stop thinking about right and wrong. Poetry doesn't care about being right. It has no agenda in advance. And because of this aimlessness, it transcends the world of ego and sits beside other forms of shared language, alongside music perhaps.
Poetry has no shame in saying no to my unnecessary words. It carries only what's necessary, and because of this lightness, it travels effortlessly through time, carrying my emotions with it. Only emotions, stripped of all that is extra. It cuts straight to the point, wasting no time. It hates wasting time, and this quality gives it an unlimited capacity. You can distill an entire book into a small collection of poems. Believe me I've tried.
I don't know how poetry works, but it always does. An incomplete poem is always there for me to hold on to. Whether I’m lost in overthinking, facing the disappointments of the external world, or dancing in the sunshine with friends, it's always there for me to feel, connect, and communicate. And when it’s complete, it means something is done. A complete poem means I’ve successfully connected with my core. It means I opened a window directly to the personal and let in some light. It means I felt something change, lived through the transition, and accepted the outcome.
Conclusion: At ANTiPODE, we want to discuss delicate stories and processes. To present the art that arises from such a process, one must stay loyal to its delicacy. Not all frames can handle this responsibility—some may seem too loud, others too intrusive, and some overly burdensome. The ideal form and frame for presenting delicate stories should feel pure and approachable, offering minimal disruption; it should barely exist. With these gentle constraints in mind, we choose drawing and poetry as unbiased, humble frames for presenting delicate narratives and for recording every stage of the creative process.