In Conversation with Helia Pouyanfar about her project Breathing House:
Connie Walsh: What do you think about the word/idea of displacement? Does your place of origin define who you are- and being displaced from that place- your original home- how do you incorporate that loss with who you are now?
Helia Pouyanfar: One might define displacement as a rupture in time and place that distinctly marks a before, an after, and a here and a there. I think of displacement as an ongoing event—a constant occurrence where the body is deeply and poetically disoriented from all senses of placement in the world. I am not entirely certain if this disorientation can ever orient itself again, but I question whether that should truly be the goal.
At the core of my practice, lies the struggle and irony of holding two truths within the same body. In this regard, I find the concept of displacement quite ironic and contradictory. Displacement can suggest the absence of real physical entanglement to one place, but if I can go further here, I would edify displacement as equally suggesting freedom from the same entanglements one desperately holds on to. This twofold definition of displacement and the conflict of reconciling these desires within one body might be my way of reframing and remedying my disorientation in the world. I am always wary of singular narratives regarding the unique experience of forced exile; nostalgia exists for me alongside the desire to reinvent myself. I seek ways for the body to find comfort in this constant negotiation between connection and disconnection.
I am ultimately defined by where I grew up, yet I am acutely aware that time continues to move forward in my homeland without me. Despite this undeniable sense of loss, I recognize that time moves forward in this land even as I exist within it. Holding on to two temporalities in the same body is the defining characteristic of displacement; be it uncomfortable, or filled with desire and longing, I find it inspiring to navigate.
CW: I like your description of a “nomadic body”- can you talk more about this? Is there a difference between a “nomadic body” and a “permanently transient state of the refugee”?
HP: I think the nomadic body is the identity one forms as a result of existing in a state of permanent transience and disorientation. This transient state is an external force that one does not willingly choose, yet it is something one must ultimately reckon with. The nomadic identity, specifically the nomadic body, emerges from the recognition that all our senses of orientation are now detached from the familiar. It might be important to clarify what I mean by orientation and transition here. To orient one's body is to specifically know where and when one is placed, in relation to whom, and in contrast to what. Transition, on the other hand, implies moving from one place, time, or identity to another. But what happens when the politics of where and when the body arrives does not allow for this transition to conclude and at the same time the politics of where and when the body leaves does not allow for orientation to return? Occupying this space of permanent transition informs the nomadic self, which I believe is inherently a political act a refugee dares to commit in response to the imposed politics of placement.
CW: You speak of belonging- the possible futility of it- and you suggest the role of permission to truly belong- from whom /to oneself? Is it a letting go that allows this- a letting go of what should or could be/what was?
HP: This project is quite personal mainly because I’ve found my parents' unique psychological and philosophical responses to the universal experience of exile to be particularly intriguing. Quite poetically, through this project and through observing and dramatizing each of their responses in the photographs, I’ve come to realize that I embody both of their realities: my mother’s profound desire for reconnection and my father’s instinctive urge to construct are somehow found in me at the same time. In this realization, I recognize that neither her desire nor his impulse can truly actualize satisfyingly, and perhaps it is important to sit with this conflict. Maybe there is a beautiful loving denial I see in both of their responses, and a clarity and freedom I see in my ability to hold the duality of their experience.
CW: I am privy to knowing the people depicted in the photographs for this project- Breathing House- are your family members- is it important for this to be shared or evident? Can you talk about your ideas around family, friends, and neighbors ie “your community” - as a concept- as a connection- as a possible construct of home.
HP: This is my first time working on a project so transparently autobiographical. In the past, I would hesitate to delve into personal experiences, primarily because I didn’t want to contribute to a linear narrative or amplify simplistic beliefs about the philosophical experience of exile. When I learned about my family’s recent development—purchasing a decaying, unwanted house in Los Angeles—I felt inspired to present this project in a way that, despite its specificity, would resonate universally, portraying the sincere attempt to make a home belong to you and you belong to a home. I find the ironic attempt worthy of examination. As you pointed out in your question, belonging depends on many factors: one’s proximity to one’s language and community, one’s ability to deeply relate to others perhaps through blood or friendship, one’s ability to pass on an uncompromising representation of one’s culture—all of which are currently denied to my family. So when and how does belonging occur under such conditions?
Having examined these internal struggles, I want to investigate the external possibilities of belonging. Does owning a plot of land automatically equate to belonging? Can we truly recognize and categorize ourselves as part of this land? Can we remodel and reconstruct the walls of this house in a way that would grant us the same rights to privacy that our neighbors enjoy? And once we step onto the street, can we carry an un-scrutinized sense of self into the public space? These may sound like rhetorical questions, and I’m not necessarily seeking definitive answers. Rather, I hope to emphasize that the specificity of this project addresses a broader public matter.
CW: To me, there exists a held - almost melancholic - moment represented in your images for this project - Breathing House. What does the title reference/mean to you? The imagery seems to lean towards a loss or longing for somewhere else. Figures are gazing out windows - inhabiting empty spaces- sitting in chairs looking beyond into empty yards - often into “portals” to elsewhere. Faces are hidden- there is little human interaction yet the title implies an active state - a metaphorical hearth.
HP: I’m glad that the contradictory feelings of nostalgia and the active process of building are evident in the project. To me, it’s crucial to acknowledge that both can coexist within the same house. When I think about this house and the implications of owning a home in the United States, I can’t help but envision it as a mold that we must twist and turn ourselves into. I aim to blur the lines between the physical structure of the house - its walls and corridors - and the objects that haphazardly occupy its spaces, as well as the bodies attempting to inhabit within these parameters. There’s a conscious effort to present these elements as a cohesive whole, interacting with one another, mimicking each other, and pretending to belong together.
The images of my dad tearing down walls and laying tiles next to my mom humorously trying to crawl into the portal of a washing machine to reach the insides of the house, or my parents and brother planting themselves next to the leaning lamppost in our backyard—mimicking its posture—are all dramatized expressions of this intertwined experience. The body’s twisting and turning to fit is as absurd and funny as it is filled with longing. That’s why I chose the title Breathing House: as a way of fantasizing an intensely real experience. To pretend the house itself is alive, mirroring the inner state of its occupants, wearing its in-betweenness on its walls and on its physicality, a physicality that is constantly in the making.
CW: The home depicted seems to be in a state of transition- acts of building/repair are taking place- while beings are occupying the interiors. Yet the spaces still feel fairly neutral/impersonal. Can you talk about this state of transition- do you feel your family can call this home- or are you interested in the futility of this process, if so then how do you see the documentation of this state?
HP: A through line in my practice is objectifying the mirroring that occurs between the body and its surroundings. I believe we find objects where they are because they intuitively know we need them. This is what I portray in the photographs: the psychology of the house is a reflection of the psychology of its occupants. There are efforts to repair, investigate, excavate, connect, navigate—to make sense of the land and its markings—efforts to negotiate, and ultimately, efforts to make something one’s own.
I am uncertain if that transition will ever fully conclude, or when and how that might happen. And quite frankly, I’m unsure if we are even ready for that moment. But thinking ahead is a luxury afforded to an oriented body. I want to document how this disoriented moment of now is dealt with. I’m curious whether understanding this unique relationship between the nomadic Body and the mirroring Place can point to discovering a remedy for our time.
CW: There is a dining table with chairs, an unoccupied shower stall, a coat rack with a plastic bag and a few shoes- spaces in the house that invite someone or something to occupy them but they remain unoccupied- representations of the body- yet the body is often absent.
HP: Perhaps I am reframing these objects as the body itself. There are moments when the body and these objects become interchangeable—one standing in for the other, one narrating the other’s story through a material language. These objects - despite their stationary nature - translate the body’s dynamism through their materiality, through the way they record markings of time on their surface.
CW: The acquired home with its decay having been unoccupied for 10 years suggests the passage of time - you mention your childhood home in Iran which your family abruptly had to leave- and you reflect on what its current state could be. What aspects are preserved in time and what aspects are lost? Where are the artifacts from the place you left? Are they important in their physical form? Do they exist in memory alone? What is your contact now with people/places in Iran?
HP: I often think about the functions of memory, especially when there is no archive to prompt our recollection. In our abrupt departure, we did not bring our family photo albums with us. Over the years, I’ve managed to collect some photos and videos from the life we left, but they are fragmented pieces from different decades, lacking any meaningful linear connection. As a result, my memories often exist only in my mind, untethered to real physical evidence. In such a condition, one is left with nothing but the capacity to imagine. There is much to explore in how memory functions in the absence of an archive, and how one is forced to develop a deeply aspirational, imaginative, and metaphorical way of understanding the world.
I still speak to my extended family living in Iran, who seem to exist, for me, only in the now. Perhaps due to the lack of an archive and distance, I don’t feel connected enough to understand where I sit within their timeline. I have lost the sense of time passing concerning my Iranian family. I can’t say the same is true for them, but for me, this is another incongruity that intrigues me.
CW: “Your father’s dream” of purchasing a permanent residence for your nomadic family is an act that exemplifies the duality of loss alongside hopes and aspirations. Is the physical state of the home/architecture a metaphor for the psychological interiors of your family members?
HP: At the project’s core, lies my compulsion to turn every event into a story—to make every corner of this house; every tile my dad installs, and every decoration my mom adds, into something bigger than my family or this house. Perhaps the futility of it all is that I am the one refusing to orient myself to my sense of belonging. For me, the physical state of this house serves as a mirror, reflecting the paradoxical desires to preserve and restore while simultaneously establishing a new sense of self in relation to place.