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Kasra Goodarznezhad 

KEY WORDS

events, work, nice, installation, people, change, artist, shit, punk, feel, happening, space, project, live, describe, classical guitar, Iran, hope, started

Kasra Goodarznezhad draws on experiences of discontent in both Tehran and Toronto to depict moments of release. His work offers the potential for either hope or profound disappointment, and the audience is often left unsure of which they are meant to feel.

His artistic production attempts to narrativize moments in time. As a curator, he prefers art and artists that offer the potential for release.

As an organizer, he manifests new ways to undermine the hegemony of oppressive structures. Some efforts persist while others release violently allowing energies to be leveraged elsewhere.

A note for readers:

Ceremony is experimenting with creating tools of engagement for our long-form conversations. The series of short documentaries included throughout Kasra’s conversation were made in collaboration with Adrian Layne (Book Club Toronto) for a community screening and workshop event.

If you’d like to make your own meaning from the conversation below, the corresponding reflection workbook (designed in collaboration with Hilary Arellano) can be found & downloaded here. 

This conversation took place in September 2024.

Yeah, okay, let's see. We met through your Nuit Blanche setup at Artscape in 2022. I saw it on social media, thought it was really cool, so I reached out to you. Then we had a Zoom call, I think, in your old apartment, right?

Yeah. Yeah, you reached out, we met on Zoom, yeah, yeah.

And then I went and met you at that Artscape building. I remember; I think I described Ceremony to you a bit.

Yeah in the main space of Artscape, I remember now.

I remember walking back to the GO train, actually, and specifically walking under the bridge by Union. I remember having this conversation with you because, yeah, we were just saying how refreshing it was, or how relieving it was to reach out and not want to connect to advance our careers or whatever.

Yeah, fuck that.

“I think that's what most of my work is about as well, like the looping resistance, or how fighting things become a routine kind of thing. It might look exciting from outside, but for people, it's just another day, still alive, you know?”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

Yeah, connecting for the sake of connecting, I guess. I didn't really know what I was asking you at that time. We were just open to getting to know one another and what we were working on.

Yeah, no, that was cool. And it's always nice to tell people what you're doing. Sometimes you forget when it's so busy. Yeah, you're just like, what am I even doing? And after people reach out, you're just like, I guess I'm doing something.

Do you want to say anything about that Artscape show?

Yeah, that was part of a residency at Artscape. The show was an installation that came out of that residency. It was part of Nuit Blanche. There were like 12 of us, I think. I was working with my friend Koohyar, I worked with him a lot on sound and music, and we have a band together. We were working on the show since April, and then at the end of September, I think, mid-September, or at the beginning of September, all the shit happened in Iran, Mahsa Amini dying and stuff like that. And all the shit started popping off, and it was even more relatable then. So we changed a bunch of samples. Originally we had recorded of all these, like young people going from their apartment to the rooftop to protest. Kind of like how resistance becomes a loop. You just wake up every day, you're like, I gotta go protest, or something like that. It becomes a mundane, routine thing, but also has moments of shit popping off.

So, yeah, we recorded that, because that shit happens all the time in Iran, and then when all this stuff happened in September, we changed some samples, and we recorded some samples from the videos that were coming out. The installation took us 16 hours to install, but we showed it for 12 hours, and then it took us another day to take it down.

Did you reinstall that work anywhere else?

No, I might show it in Poland mid November, but I'm not sure if they want this work or another.

Do you feel a different relationship to that show now? Almost two years later?

No, I feel like something clicked at that point. So many people were coming and seeing it, so many random people that I haven't seen in a long time either. That was a point in my career that I was like, Oh, I guess most of my work is kind of cinematic, it follows a plot kind of thing. It has a story, and I like narration and all that. I think it marked the point that things changed in like, the cinema part of my installation work became more serious. I realized how I think is kind of like that, too. It's like, even if it's not narrative, it's just a point in time or story. In both of my music projects, I do vocals, too. So I guess it makes sense, like writing lyrics and stuff like that.

Do you see your projects relating to each other in any particular way?

Yeah, I think all of them are connected somehow, even the ones that I work with other people, there's always threads that you can see, at least, I hope. I think all of them, at least as I think about it, all of them kind of depict a point in time somewhere, whether it's real or whether it's happened, or it's going to happen, or if it's history, or something like that. It's always like a snapshot of a time. Like the rooftop thing, it was just seven minutes of people. It was supposed to be a looping installation, seven minutes, 45 seconds of sunset to sunrise, and then it snaps back to sunset, a point in time. Lyrics to my songs are a point in time, like for my punk band, it's maybe protesting somewhere, or maybe it's, I don't know, dancing somewhere.

Yeah, that makes sense to hear your work described like that. Who or what do you bring forward with you in your life and work?

“I just like the storytelling. I'm putting people in positions and letting them decide, and make up their own minds. Same as how I do events, we’re putting people into positions to make up their own minds about what's happening there.”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

What I was thinking when I first saw the question was that I can't pinpoint one particular person or thing or anything like that. Even in my own practice, it's just always hard, you know? Like when people ask you, oh, yeah, who's your biggest influence or something like that, I always have a hard time answering it. But I think mostly it's people who don't, who haven't, how do you say it… like who haven't made it, probably, who are missed. Every time you think about this stuff, people who've died, people who, like, overdosed, people who, who you're like, oh shit, they would have realized their potential. Like, what would have happened if they didn't die when they were, like, 27 or like 30 or something like that? They did so much shit when they were in their 20s. What if they were alive right now? Like, that kind of shit, mainly. That's what I'm the most fascinated by kind of thing. I think that's what most of my work is about as well, like the looping resistance, or how fighting things become a routine kind of thing. It might look exciting from outside, but for people, it's just another day, still alive, you know?

Yeah, I feel like with certain things, in activism, too, there's a romanticized version of that work, and then there's embedding it into your everyday life. Why so you think it's important to capture those moments of everyday life, or points in time in your work? Why do you feel pulled to preserve those moments?

I think most of it, like 99% of it is all fiction, although it's like it's relatable to what's happening or what's happened in my life, or what's happening in general around us, or whatever. Most of it is fictionalized. I like storytelling and the way people, when they walk into installation, you're putting them in a position, and you're putting them in that story. And I don't like telling people how to think. I don't like writing artist statements that much. An artist statement, I mean, it's part of the logistics, or whatever you have to do for your installation or exhibition, but my artist statements are mainly stating what the installation is. So I don't come up with concepts or I don't talk about the concepts or anything like that. It's more an observational kind of thing. I just like the storytelling. I'm putting people in those positions and letting them decide, and make up their minds. Same as how I do events, or when I throw parties, or when we do things at the space, it's all different people doing different things and putting people into positions to make up their own minds about what's happening there.

I'm curious do you remember the first story, or first experience you had of being told a story, or how you came to know storytelling?

When I was an early teenager, someone gave me The Catcher in the Rye. I think that was the first one. That was my first interaction with a story, or like reading a book. I was a sad boy when I was a teenager. I probably still am. I was reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez books like The 100 Years of Solitude or something like that, yeah, I kept going back and forth between the pages. I understood probably like 20% of that book. But those were my first encounters with storytelling or something like that. And I really liked it because it was very melancholic.

Someone was just talking about that book, The 100 Years of Solitude, and just how well it describes ancestral timelines.

“...when people ask, ‘oh, yeah, who's your biggest influence?’ or something like that, I always have a hard time answering. But I think mostly it's people who haven't, how do you say it… who haven't made it, probably, who are missed.”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

Yeah, it's a weird book, too. Like it just jumps between things and you're like, what's happening? Yeah, I had to read it so many times over and over.

Yeah, the conversation I was having with my friend about that book relates to what you were saying earlier, too, about losing people at an early age. When you think about families, and how in a family tree those stories feel interchangeable at times, like ancestral or generational trauma. I feel like there's a really, like, strange tether between people. When you lose someone close to you, like in your family, it can almost feel like it could have been you in a different timeline. There's like, a closeness there, yeah, it's dark, but also a connection, maybe, yeah.

Oh, that makes sense. And yeah, we get used to it eventually. Humans adapt, which is, which is insane on its own, too. Yeah.

Yeah. On that note, how do you feel about calling yourself an artist? Have you always thought of yourself that way?

Yeah, I don't know. It's hard to say that you're an artist, but I feel like, yeah, based on the definitions, I would be considered an artist, like doing installations, music. I always wanted to be an artist, I studied graphic design in Iran for a couple of years, and then I came here, and I applied for OCAD for Integrated Media, and I got in. And I've been doing art since I was a teenager, I started doing photography for theatre shows when I was, like 16 or something like that. And then did live visuals for bands and stuff like that. When I came here, I did visuals again. I did video, did some filming, got into lighting design for live shows, and then switched to installation. And I've been doing installation for like four or five years now. I feel like doing events is kind of an art form as well, just like how to curate. I don't like curators that much, *laughs* I guess I am kind of a curator, but I don't like to call myself a curator. I see it as an art form, choosing different acts, choosing how the flow of the event is, how people, when they come in, which way they go, or like, how do lights guide them throughout the space. Smoke machines. I love smoke machines. Lots of smoke. Yeah, strobe lights. I don't even know if that answered the question.

*laughs*

No you did, it’s good. When you were 16 and started doing photography for theatre stuff, were you surrounded by artists, growing up? Are your parents or any of your family artists?

“And there's a lot of punks out there, I don't think it's like, if you're doing punk music, you're a punk, or, if you're wearing a leather jacket, you're a punk or something. I think it’s anyone who's doing their own thing and doesn't care about what they've been told that means.”  

–Kasra Goodarznezhad

No, my dad did calligraphy when I was a kid, so I always liked doing Persian calligraphy. I did that for a bit, and then my cousin was in theatre, so he invited me to come and take photos of them backstage and performing and all that. So that's how it started. I was taking, like, guitar, classical guitar lessons when I was in elementary school. I was always into music, too. Yeah, my parents liked arts, but they weren't artists, yeah.

But they were never discouraging of you going into graphic design or anything.

No, at the beginning, they were just like, maybe think about something that would pay your bills or something like that. But then when they saw that I was making money when I was 16 in Iran, doing this kind of shit, like touring and going to different places with like musicians and stuff like that, they were like, oh yeah, that's fine, do your thing.

When did you make the switch from classical guitar to the music that you play now?

I don't know. I still like classical music, but I haven't played classic guitar in a long time. Yeah, but I my music journey has changed a lot throughout time. When I was younger, I got into opera for a bit.

Singing?

“We went and jammed. And then after that, they were like, you should do it in Farsi. I was like, I haven't heard any Farsi punk band. It was hard to come up with influences, too, like how do you even write Farsi punk lyrics?”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

*laughs*

Just listening. And then I had a folk band, like indie music, sad boy, shit. And then I had an experimental noise band with like three other people in Iran. I've always had the punk way of approaching all this stuff. So when I came here, I met someone at school, Liam, and he was in a punk band, and he invited me in to do vocals in their bands. That was, like, one year after I got here. Yeah. We went and jammed. And then after that, they were like, you should do it in Farsi. I was like, I haven't heard any Farsi punk band. It was hard to come up with influences, too, like how do you even write Farsi punk lyrics? But I started listening to random English punk, and that started the punk music journey. I still have the punk band, Siyahkal, and then two years ago, with Koohyar, that I was saying earlier, we started an electronic music duo, and that's mainly, I don't know, noise, techno, kind of thing. Yeah, Sorb, that's the one. But, yeah, it all carries the same punk way of approaching music.

How would you describe a punk approach?

I don't know. It's hard to describe. I feel like, to me, whoever's doing their own thing and doesn't care about, like, what the genre is, or if they fit into that genre, like that way of living, they're punk. And there's a lot of punks out there, I don't think it's like, if you're doing punk music, you're a punk, or, if you're wearing a leather jacket, you're a punk or something. I think anyone who's doing their own thing and doesn't care about what they've been told that means.

Yeah, there's like, a sort of intuitiveness, I feel like, too that you're describing, of like, how you have explored your interests as well and I feel like when people worry about 'what does that say about me?' It's like, you don't really have to overthink it in that way. If you want to explore something, you should.

“I have just been focusing on UKAI. Throwing these events, I consider it an art form.”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

Yeah, exactly, yeah. And it's the same as doing events here in Toronto as well, like when you talk to other promoters. Every time we do any shows, someone gets back to me and they're like, oh, you know all these other things are happening that night too. I'm just thinking, I don't care. Yeah, if it's something that we want to do, like, it's Toronto, there's always going to be other things. If you want to think about, will we fit in? or, like, which gang is going to come and see our our stuff?, we're never going to do anything. So I think, yeah, I'm just a fan of doing our own thing. 

Yeah. That response from promoters or whoever is really interesting too, because as if there aren’t enough people in this city that we could have multiple events happening at the same time?

Yeah, yeah. Well, that opens up a whole other avenue of chatting. The promoters always want to be like, yeah, my event is better, instead of helping each other or lifting each other up. But I guess that's in every avenue, yeah.

Okay, so I was gonna ask how you feel about the overlap and you having UKAI, and maybe balancing, like, those logistics with your own art practice?

Balance has left the chat. Balance has exited the chat for a long time.

*laughs*

Juggling maybe? Is that the word?

Yeah, I don't know. I haven't really had the chance to work on my own art practice that much recently. Like music, we jam and stuff like that here and there, but I haven't really had the chance to work on my own art. I have just been focusing on UKAI. Throwing these events, it is kind of, as I was saying, I consider it an art form.

Has your relationship to putting events together changed? When you describe it as an art form, you're reminding me of the conversation I had with my friend, Duane. Yeah, it felt poetic the way he described events. It's like, bringing people into the same space, which UKAI and you do, the relationships that are formed in that space are in and of themselves, art forms.

Yeah I mean, it's very cool to see so many people that have met here. I guess that's the case for many people who do events. Collaborations happen naturally when you connect different people together. You see people doing stuff together or starting projects together through residencies, workshops or public events, parties or stuff like that. There are so many people and so many collaborations that have branched off it. So that's the that's the nice part, yeah.

Yeah. I'm thinking how Bianca and I are close and have grown in our practice together from the residency we did with UKAI, which is cool, and it's only been a year.

Yeah those are the cool parts. Yeah, that's awesome.

Yeah, with that, I'm going to go into the ancestor question. When you think about what you'll leave behind for archeologists of the future, or what kind of ancestor you hope to be, what comes to mind?

“All of these collaborations that come out of the stuff that we do, I think those are the rewarding parts. Like, those are what will be left behind. People, when they look back, they'll be like, Oh, shit, we met here?”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

I don't know. In terms of ancestry. Sometimes I'm like, if I live past 40, that's a miracle, with the way I'm living. But I think -

Do you mean just, like, schedule wise, like how much you're doing?

40 years old is enough, I feel like. I don't want to live past 40.

*laughs*

But, yeah. No, I don't necessarily think about it, but as someone a part of a group that provides the context for people to meet and like, have fun and kind of release and be themselves and all that, I feel like it would be nice to keep it going, and also for people later to be like, oh yeah, this was a cool space. Jerry says something cool. I forget how he says it, but it's like, we want to be a way that if we go away, or if we disappear, people would be like, oh shit, they were cool, or something like that. Like, I don't want to be insignificant. You know what I mean? Like, I don't want to just disappear into the abyss. I want to have done something. All of these collaborations that come out of the stuff that we do, I think those are the rewarding parts. Like, those are what will be left behind. People, when they look back, they'll be like, Oh, shit, we met here? Or like we met at this event that Kasra did, or like we got connected through Kasra, shit like that, yeah.

I feel like UKAI has a clear vision of what we want to be and how we want to be perceived, or what we want to what we want people to say about us when we're not in a room like we have, we have that vision. It's not necessarily like we talk about it, but I feel like we're on the same page about it. Me, Jerry and Luisa. We also have our festival, which is at the end of October this year, and that's when all our ideas come together, and all the three of us sit down and talk, and then, yeah, that's the one project that we probably like to think about the most.

Could you say a bit more about what you hope people are saying about UKAI when you're not in the, or your shared vision of the gossip about UKAI?

The tea? *laughs* I feel like the fact that we’re just doing our thing. We've never jumped on a social media train of like, I don't know sharing, about sharing things or anything like that. We just mainly do it through actions or through our events. How we do our work manifests that way. At least for me, I feel like I want people to be like, oh yeah, they're just doing their thing. They're doing cool shit.

Yeah, that makes sense. I have one other question. What are you hoping to carve out in the city that's not already here?

“...what I care about mostly, is taking care of the people that are there at that time, wherever it is, and connecting and making those connections, or helping people connect to each other. I feel like that's what I like to be doing, instead of just treating it as a competition. I don't care what other people are doing, if I like their work, I will connect with them and do shit together, or, help them realize their ideas. We've given this space to so many people to do experimental stuff in, and for free, and that's what I like to do.”

– Kasra Goodarznezhad

I feel like for me, I don't get nostalgic about cities or like, I used to when I was younger, like when I came here, I was very nostalgic about Iran, especially because I can't go back to Iran anymore because of the political things and all that. I used to get very nostalgic about that, my hometown, or like my friends or family. And same thing about Toronto, but now I can go live somewhere else any day. Obviously, there's like, the friendships that I've made here and shit, but what I care about mostly is taking care of the people that are there at that time, wherever it is, and connecting and making those connections, or helping people connect to each other. I feel like that's what I like to be doing, instead of just treating it as a competition. I don't care what other people are doing, if I like their work, I will connect with them and do shit together, or, like, help them realize their ideas. Like, we've given this space to so many people to do experimental stuff in, and for free, and that's what I like to do. Yeah.

Nice. Okay, this will be, I think the last question, is there any song, quote, book, or something on repeat in your mind right now?

It's very hard. I looked at that question, but the first thing that popped into my mind was - have you seen La Haine? Yeah, it was that film.

Yeah, I love that film. What about it made it come to mind for you?

I don't know, there's just these dudes living in a fucked up place and doing their own thing. And I don't know, it's hard to be free these days. With all the shit that's happening. So I sometimes feel like it's nice to just be fucked up and free. That's the point of our festival, too, like the carnival, to just let go and be free and be yourself without thinking about anything, which is, I guess, all the festivals that you go to, it's like, four days of drugs, dancing or whatever. Yeah, what if every day was a festival?

That's a wrap.

Oh shit.

*laughs*

I think that really resonates with what you said earlier about leading by action and not overthinking things for the purposes of social media or whatever. And yeah, there's a freedom that comes with being present that feels really rare to tap into. You can do that when it's like 2am and you're here, you don't really have to be anywhere else, yeah, because what's happening at 3am or 4am? You know? There's kind of special moments in the middle of the night sometimes, or, yeah, wherever you can find them.

Yeah, exactly. And it's been hard. Like, we don't really make money off our events. We lose money most of the times. But it slowly picks up. Like people will notice when you're doing your own thing, they'll come and support.

And like you said, you make people feel good in the space, and that doesn't just happen, like you said, it's ... dare I use the word curated.

Curated vibes.

Yeah, yeah. 

*KT turns to Adrian*

Should we get Kasra to set up some lights? Is it synth time?

KASRA GOODARZNEZHAD

Kasra Goodarznezhad draws on experiences of discontent in both Tehran and Toronto to depict moments of release. His work offers the potential for either hope or profound disappointment, and the audience is often left unsure of which they are meant to feel.

His artistic production attempts to narrativize moments in time. As a curator, he prefers art and artists that offer the potential for release.

As an organizer, he manifests new ways to undermine the hegemony of oppressive structures. Some efforts persist while others release violently allowing energies to be leveraged elsewhere.