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“What if we view street activities not as organic, evolving phenomena but as calculated efforts to challenge and subvert the state rules governing street dynamics?” Pamela Karimi asks in Women, Art, Freedom: Artists and Street Politics in Iran, her study of work that has emerged from the protest movement of the same name that began in 2022. This question guides Karimi as she endeavors to understand artistic production in an age of political repression and upheaval across the region and world. An architect and associate professor of art and architectural history at Cornell University, Karimi brings her considerable expertise to bear on the contemporary struggle for women’s freedom in Iran and its formidable creative legacies, introducing along the way the pioneering artists who are responding to the recent uprising in the country.
Using imagery, interviews, avant-garde magazines, and feminist manifestos to situate Iranian artistic production both within Iran and in the diaspora, Karimi concentrates on work that engages with the “politics of the street” in the broadest sense. She considers how this art transforms and engages with public space, with the aim of amplifying “the voices of the artists themselves, to grant them agency, moving away from traditional top-down art historical perspectives.” Published in 2024 by Leuven University Press, Karimi’s study is one of hundreds of titles included in JSTOR’s Path to Open program, an initiative that supports university presses in producing open access materials. Women, Art, Freedom will be fully open access in 2027, but, with the publisher’s permission, we’re sharing the act (chapter) “Reenacting Street Battles” now.
Rebecca Ruth Gould: You’ve published widely on contemporary Iranian art including in Alternative Iran: Contemporary Art and Critical Spatial Practice (2022). What motivated you to write about the Women, Life, Freedom protest movement now?
Pamela Karimi: Alternative Iran was published on the very day Jina Mahsa Amini died. The timing was tragic, yet as I closely followed the unfolding events, I was not surprised that artists, of all groups, took center stage in responding to this tragedy. Alternative Iran tells the story of how subversive art developed in post-revolutionary Iran: emerging first in basements, garages, and private apartments before expanding into abandoned buildings, leftover urban spaces, and eventually, the open streets. It took decades for this art to find its own voice, shaped by the spatial politics that permeate every aspect of life in Iran, up to and including the 2022 uprising.
At that moment, writing another book about Iranian art felt less like an academic endeavor and more like a responsibility. I saw how, on a daily basis, artists were posting hurriedly—taking pictures of ephemeral acts, images, and ideas—works unfolding in real-time, many of which I feared would soon vanish. Based on what I had witnessed during the Green Movement of 2009, I knew that much of this art may not last long on social media, especially under Iran’s intensifying cyber surveillance. Many artists began using aliases (and particularly ones that constantly changed) on Instagram, while others resisted censorship outright. Still, much of this art remained confined to the streets, making its impact felt in fleeting but powerful moments. Observing, documenting, and writing about these artistic interventions soon evolved into an investigation of the individuals behind them, especially those operating anonymously. I was fortunate to interview many of these “anonymous” artists (whether intentionally anonymous or simply unknown to me), thanks to the support of trusted artist friends in and outside Iran who facilitated these connections. For that, I am deeply grateful particularly to Jinoos Taghizadeh and Neda Darzi.
How does your background in architecture influence how you relate to and write about art on the Iranian street?
I’ve always been fascinated by how spatial design can both enable and restrict personal freedoms. Architecture is more than a discipline; it’s an expansive field that engages with its users, interpreters, and the economic and political systems that dictate the flow of energy and ideas.
Here, I want to focus more on space rather than Architecture with a capital “A.” Growing up under the Islamic Republic, I became acutely aware of how space shapes identity: how it divides people along gender lines yet also fosters a dynamic interplay between restriction and resistance. The cat-and-mouse game of spatial politics often led to covert acts of defiance, creating unexpected forms of freedom that would not have been possible within the confines of official regulations. My understanding of this was shaped by experiences in Iran’s underground cultural scene. I spent time in private art studios, surrounded by a generation of artists and architects who had come of age in the late 1980s—people who had lived through a revolution and a devastating war and were searching for ways to assert their agency without resorting to violence. The underground was not just a space of creative expression; it was a force that animated an entire youth culture, offering a means of resistance and reinvention in a tightly controlled society.
You refer to the sections of your book as “acts” rather than “chapters.” Why?
The Woman, Life, Freedom phenomenon is not just an uprising; it has transformed into a sustained movement that continues to take shape. While global headlines and political shifts, particularly after President Trump’s return, may have pushed news from Iran to the sidelines, the resistance persists. Women remain at the forefront, defying the Islamic dress code despite punishments, and in doing so, have altered the very fabric of daily life. Yet, this is not just a women’s struggle; many men, particularly young men, have stood in solidarity, reinforcing that this movement is far from over.
Because of this ongoing nature, I did not want the book to present a series of completed narratives, each a closed chapter. Instead, I framed them as “acts,” like scenes in a play that unfold in real time, continuously evolving.
What do you anticipate will be the legacy of the Women, Life, Freedom movement?
When you look at Iran (its crushing sanctions, economic hardships, and the daily struggles of its people), you can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of sorrow, a longing for radical change to come as soon as possible. But history teaches us that transformation rarely happens overnight. Sometimes, it takes generations for a society to mature and evolve. What gives me hope is the profound way art and culture have shaped Iranian society despite immense limitations.
Iran has cultivated an astonishing intellectual and artistic depth with far fewer resources than many other nations. Today, I see a greater enthusiasm for critical theory and its societal applications among Iranians than in many developed countries. Social media platforms, podcasts, and Clubhouse discussions have become intellectual hubs where people engage with the works of Hannah Arendt, Michel Foucault, Yuval Harari, and Slavoj Žižek and often with more intensity than their counterparts elsewhere. During the peak of the uprising, I closely followed the social media pages of Tehran’s bookstores, which regularly shared their bestsellers. Among them were writings by Arendt, Václav Havel, and Afsaneh Najmabadi, a Harvard professor whose research on women and gender in Iran—especially her work on the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–11—resonated deeply with Iranian readers at that moment.
I was intrigued by the title of a journal you discuss, Notebooks before the Fall (Daftarha-ye Pisha Soghoot / Les Cahiers d’avant la Chute), which suggests that Iranian artists are anticipating the end of the Islamic Republic.
Notebooks Before the Fall is a provocative title, I agree. But it’s important to clarify that it was not solely created by artists. Contributors also came from literature, journalism, and the publishing industry. This Paris-based publication documented images and narratives as the uprising unfolded, offering an essential historical record. Inside Iran, such bold titles are rarely used. Iranian artists and intellectuals tend to rely on subtlety, embedding meaning within layers of metaphor and covert language: a necessity in a place where direct expression often comes at great risk.
In describing the art of Amir Varasteh, you refer to the concept of “gender apartheid” and explain how his art participates in the movement against it. For readers unfamiliar with this concept, please explain what it means?
“Gender apartheid” is often used in place of “gender segregation” when discussing Iran; I believe it’s an apt description. Many artists challenge the boundaries imposed by the regime, each finding their own way to push against these restrictions. Amir Varasteh is one among many who defy these limitations through their work. The color red (symbol of blood) resurfaced in Varasteh’s Civilizing Mission, a striking “art presentation” staged in May 2022, just months before the Woman, Life, Freedom uprising and the death of Jina Mahsa Amini. At the House of Artists (Khaneh Honarmandan), founded during the presidency of Mohammad Khatami, Varasteh washed stained sheets in large basins. As the water diluted the stains, the fabric faded to a soft pink. He then hung the sheets outside, transforming the act of laundering (traditionally a woman’s task) into a public statement. On the surface, the piece confronted gender apartheid in Iran, but its true power lay in its layered critique. While evoking solidarity, it also gestured toward the strategic use of progressive imagery to obscure oppression. According to Varasteh, just as some communities promote gender rights to deflect from their other apartheid policies, the faded pink in Civilizing Mission suggested how resistance itself can be sanitized, its radical urgency diluted.
This is the power of art: taking a concept and exposing its contradictions, turning it into a complex phenomenon rather than a simple slogan. Civilizing Mission was not just an indictment of gender apartheid but also of the ways such struggles can be co-opted, neutralized, or repurposed. By holding both meanings at once, Varasteh’s work cut through easy narratives; he forced his viewers to confront the uneasy space between protest and propaganda. We may not agree with him, yet the depth and complexity of his work remain undeniable.
In Act Four, you introduce contemporary Iranian artworks that appropriate art from previous eras. Can you expand on how Iranian artists have undertaken appropriation, and how it has enriched their work?
Appropriation in art is the deliberate borrowing, altering, and recontextualizing of existing images, symbols, or cultural artifacts to create new meanings. Unlike mere influence or adaptation, which often maintain a respectful connection to the original, appropriation reshapes its source material, sometimes subverting or directly challenging its original intent. In Iran, this technique has been central to protest art, where artists reclaim revolutionary imagery, religious iconography, and even state propaganda to critique contemporary injustices. Iranian artists frequently draw from moments of resistance: the Constitutional Revolution of 1905-11, the 1979 anti-hijab protests, the Green Movement, and global leftist and decolonial struggles to create new meanings that challenge the state’s monopoly over historical narratives. Through techniques like “subversive appropriation,” (I borrow the term from Fereshteh Daftar’s book, Persia Reframed) pastiche, and adaptation, artists weaponize familiar motifs to defy censorship and signal dissent. Artists use appropriation to expose state violence, gender apartheid, and social injustices rather than mask or augment them. Their work demonstrates that revolutionary movements are not ruptures but re-awakenings, continuous struggles that recycle and reinterpret the past in pursuit of a freer future.
Your work amplifies voices from the margins—artists from smaller cities or less privileged backgrounds, such as Badri Valian, Masoumeh Mohtadi, and Hamideh Sobhani, as well as those who support women’s freedom without themselves necessarily rejecting the hijab. Was it difficult to get these artists to speak openly about their experience and art?
Accessing artists outside Tehran is more challenging, but that does not mean they are absent from the art scene. Many are well-connected to the capital’s cultural networks; they actively participate, for instance, in competitions and group exhibitions. Moreover, a significant number of artists now based in Tehran originally moved from smaller cities to study art and chose to stay.
I was able to locate many Kurdish voices in Tehran, which is an important aspect of this volume (recall Jina Mahsa Amini was from Iran’s Kurdistan region). However, what mattered most to me was finding a group that had been largely marginalized by protesters this time: hijabi women and those from traditional households with a strong affinity for the Qur’an and religious teachings. I wanted to understand why they chose to create art in support of the movement. As I engaged with them, my empathy deepened. They revealed a side of the uprising that had been sidelined, one that shows how faith and resistance are not mutually exclusive. There are people in Iran who remain committed to Islam yet reject the regime’s ideological version of it. These narratives also allow me to frame the movement within postcolonial theory, such as the work of Saba Mahmood. As such, I aimed to present a more nuanced understanding of Woman, Life, Freedom, one that moves beyond binary oppositions and recognizes the diverse ways Iranians (religious and secular alike) are reclaiming their agency.
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In Act 8, I argue that the Woman, Life, Freedom movement challenges both patriarchal interpretations of Islam and the dominant Western feminist frameworks that have long shaped discussions of gender and agency. While many Iranian women explicitly reject Islamic feminism, I contend that their struggle is not against Islam itself but against the state’s politicized enforcement of religious law. I explore how acts of defiance, such as burning veils, challenging religious symbols, and using emotion as a tool of resistance, complicate the relationship between faith and feminism in Iran. Rather than seeing these acts as a simple rejection of religion, I suggest that they reflect a deeper interrogation of how power operates through gendered norms. I also argue that the movement’s emotional intensity, dismissed by some as reactionary, is a crucial aspect of its power. Drawing on feminist theorists like Sara Ahmed, I examine how anger, defiance, and grief are not just expressions of protest but strategic forces that shape collective action. At the same time, I ask whether this rage risks alienating potential allies across different feminist and Islamic contexts.
In an interview conducted amid the war in Gaza, Palestinian British novelist Isabella Hammad makes a case for “the political value of slow forms, of art-making,” words that invoke the spirit that infuses your book. How can we as scholars encourage people to leave space for art that’s revolutionary in intent but which may not emerge immediately in response to a conflict?
Thank you for introducing me to Isabella Hammad’s work. I share her belief in the political significance of slow, deliberate art-making, even when its impact feels uncertain. She reminds us that the tempo of crises shifts, and those who work slowly will have their moment of influence. In Iran, as the uprising’s intensity waned, many artists who had seen themselves as activists returned to their craft, producing labor-intensive, reflective works. In my book I have valued both spontaneous artistic responses and slower, more deliberate creations—the latter exemplified by an installation featured on my book’s cover, which moves beyond guerrilla interventions to interrogate the politics of space and women’s visibility.
Set in a public gallery garden, this large-scale work (created by a filmmaker, an actress, an architect, and other artists) memorializes the uprising while navigating state censorship. Approval from the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance, much like the morality police, requires artists to master abstraction, ensuring their work remains powerful yet permissible. In this kinetic installation, actress Pantea Mehdinia’s silent expressions (e.g., grief, horror, defiance) respond to filmmaker Mohammad Parvizi’s off-screen interrogation performances, while architect Mahsa Masoudi’s spatial design reinforces the claustrophobia of surveillance. Enclosed by prison-like scaffolding, viewers experience both empathy and entrapment, transforming the piece into a rehearsal for real-life resistance.
In a socio-political context such as Iran, paths to professionalization—for earning a living as an artist—are likely limited. Do Iranian artists find there is more scope for becoming a professional artist in the diaspora?
Many Iranian artists leave their hometowns in search of opportunities abroad, but this is far from the whole picture. Just as many choose to stay. As one artist told me years ago, the very air he breathes—the essence of his art—exists only in Iran. Others remain out of commitment to their families, while some stay because they genuinely want to help. Two of my friends, established artists and tenured professors, lost their university positions overnight for supporting their students during the uprising. It was devastating to witness, yet they did not despair. Instead, they continued their work in alternative art spaces, where young Iranians seek knowledge and skills beyond what universities offer. These artists are my role models. Their resilience humbles me.
Do you distinguish between professionally and non-professionally produced art? In an age of social media, when artists can distribute their artwork widely through informal networks and need not rely on institutional backing, the question seems inevitable.
Thank you for this question—it’s one that matters deeply to me. Over the years, some have challenged me for giving too much credit to artists, arguing that non-professionals also stage powerful creative interventions in public spaces and that the line between art and activism is inherently blurred. Critics also claim that activism has an authenticity that some artists lack, as their work can ultimately become commodified. I understand these concerns, but I firmly believe in the power of professional artists engaged with real-world issues.
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Take Tanin Torabi, for example, whose work I discuss in Act 5. At the height of the uprising, she merged fiction and reality in a single-shot film, recorded on one of the most heavily surveilled streets in Tehran. It took extraordinary courage to stage such a performance with police everywhere. Some passersby, assuming the crew were protesters, offered them shelter when they sensed danger. This is what an art education brings to activism: it infuses it with sophistication, ambiguity, and a level of camouflage that prevents it from becoming the mirror image of propaganda. It creates something so covert yet powerful that even the authorities struggle to recognize it, yet its impact lingers.
That’s why, in my introduction, I emphasize the significance of Iranian artists’ education—particularly the Bauhaus-influenced curriculum that shaped their approach to body art, sensory experiences, and composition. The imported teachings methods of Johannes Itten and Wassily Kandinsky, for instance, helped Iranian artists transform aesthetic principles into political tools. To me, that’s nothing short of miraculous. It’s the same reason Iranian cinema has long been a thorn in the side of the authorities; its subtle yet subversive language carried the message of resistance beyond Iran’s borders.
Visual art possesses a unique power, an unspoken yet forceful language that transcends legal proclamations, manifestos—even the written word. I want to elevate that for the world to see and learn from because, in an era increasingly leaning toward the right, we don’t just need more activists: we need more artists!
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