Anatomy of an abuse

This photographic series tells a story of trauma but more importantly, of strength, resilience, and redemption.

At the center is a woman, an artist, and a mother. A survivor of abuse, she chose not to share her story through words, but through images. Through photography, she reclaims her narrative turning pain into power, silence into expression.

But her journey is not hers alone.

She is also the mother of a child born with a rare blood disease that affected his brain from birth. Despite these profound challenges, and thanks to her unwavering support, her son has become a remarkable communicator, curious, expressive, and able to contribute meaningfully through small jobs with local companies. Their bond and their mutual courage, is present throughout the series.

This is not just a story of survival. It is a portrait of quiet heroism, of healing through art, and of finding beauty in the aftermath of hardship.

Now in its final stages, the series invites viewers into an intimate, deeply human experience. It does not sensationalize suffering. Rather, it illuminates the path from trauma to transformation—and the strength it takes to walk it.

This is a call to bear witness. A call to believe in healing. A call to see.

My Tehran

When I first landed in Tehran a few years ago, I arrived with more questions than answers. I had absorbed the usual headlines, fragments of a place reduced to clichés: political tension, chaotic traffic, pollution. I had no idea, then, how far from the truth those fragments really were.

I found over the four years I lived there was something profoundly different.

Like any city, Tehran wakes up each morning to familiar rituals, the clinking of teacups, the laughter of children, doors opening and closing as people head to school, to work, to life. The scent of fresh bread rising with the dawn. The murmur of daily motion. It’s a rhythm that belongs not just to Tehran, but to every city in the world.

Yet beyond that surface lies something quieter, deeper, the hidden heart of the city, beating behind closed doors.

We often pass through cities as observers, rarely seeing the lives lived in parallel to our own. What are their struggles? What are their hopes? How do they navigate joy, pain, resilience?

That’s why I created MY TEHRAN, to tell the story of the people behind the headlines. People who welcomed me into their homes and trusted me with their truths.

People who, like all of us, are trying to make a life in the face of uncertainty. Their stories are not shaped by politics or propaganda, but by love, endurance, humour, and quiet strength.Through this lens, Tehran becomes more than a city. It becomes a living, breathing reflection of its people.

This is an almost complete, ongoing project following the lives of ten individuals, five women and five men, from different backgrounds. Their stories are deeply personal, yet universal. Together, they form a collective portrait of a city often misunderstood.

MY TEHRAN is them the friendships, the shared meals, the laughter, the whispered confessions. It’s also my own emotional journey, and the deep bonds that changed me.

Through these photographs, I invite you to step inside their homes, walk their streets, and see Tehran not as it is portrayed but as it is lived.

Musicians

It was late 2019 when the idea first took shape: a concert to celebrate International Women’s Day on March 8, 2020, performed by young Iranian musicians, some playing traditional instruments like the Setar, Tar, and Qanun, others the piano. It would be a tribute not only to their talent, but to their spirit.

To accompany the concert, I envisioned a photography exhibition, intimate portraits of these artists immersed in their music. I wanted to capture not just the sound, but the silence around it: the concentration, the emotion, the invisible moment when a performer disappears into their instrument.

Over the course of several days, we met, some in my home, others in different spaces depending on the instrument. I kept the atmosphere informal, warm, and unstructured. I used natural light, and asked only that they play as if I weren’t there.

And then, something magical happened.

What emerged wasn’t just a series of photographs, but a memory of shared time. There was laughter, singing, long conversations, spontaneous improvisations. The music filled the rooms, but so did something more: connection. A quiet sense of trust and joy.

Then the world shifted.

COVID arrived, the concert and the exhibition were postponed indefinitely. It was a quiet heartbreak. Still, some of the portraits of these extraordinary women found their way into my last exhibition in Iran, held at an international conference just weeks before the global shutdown.

What remains are the images. And the memories.

This project is a tribute to those days. To the music that was played, to the voices that filled the room, to the concert that never happened but still lives on in the photographs and in the bonds we created. Musicians was about more than performance. It was about presence. It was about the beautiful things we make together before the world changes.