‘I must continue until I die’: inside the fight to bring Iran’s thriving art scene to the world

When the call came early one morning, Tehran resident Elham Issari knew it must be urgent. The voice on the line was offering something precious. “Miss Elham,” he said excitedly, “I have a single tube of white paint! It’s overpriced and I know it’s overpriced but, if you want it, you have to buy it right now because there’s this other guy in this other city who wants it and you have to tell me within the next five minutes.”

The tube of white paint would have cost Issari 5m tomans (about $36), she recalls. “I was like, I don’t think so, because that’s overpriced, and the next thing you know is it’s 4am and I’m on YouTube watching how to make lead white in your backyard without getting lead poisoning.”

It is a revealing slice of life in Iran these days. Since the US and Israel launched joint airstrikes and combat operations on 28 February, and turned the screws on Iran’s economy, thousands of visual artists have been plunged into economic and professional limbo.

The sudden onset of war shuttered commercial galleries in central Tehran, cancelled scheduled solo exhibitions, severed shipping channels and destroyed the fragile domestic market that allows creators to pay rent and sustain studio practices.

But it was out of this systemic breakdown that Continuum: Artist Relief for Iran was born. The initiative connects contemporary artists living and working inside Iran with international audiences, collectors and institutions through a dedicated platform at iranartistrelief.org.

The project owes its existence to Dario Duran, a Canadian-Iranian curator and founder of Duran Art Projects. Born in Shiraz, but raised in Canada, Duran holds degrees in photography, art history and curatorial studies. Six years ago, driven by nostalgia and a desire to connect with his heritage, he moved to Iran, where he fell in love with the dynamism of the domestic art scene.

When war broke out, Duran found himself caught directly in its crosshairs. “I was displaced,” the 38-year-old explains from Shiraz in Iran. “My mom and dad were visiting from Canada and we had to flee Shiraz because Shiraz was being hit pretty hard every day. It was becoming unbearable. We went by ground to the north of the country, where it was relatively quiet.”

In the north, Duran encountered dozens of other displaced cultural workers who had fled bombed urban centers such as Tehran and Isfahan. He linked up there with Mariam Rasti, co-founder of Duran Art Projects, who had also fled the capital.

“We were in constant communication with the artists,” Duran recalls. “One thing we saw over and over again was that, like never before, the artists were losing hope. Cancelled exhibitions, galleries closing, not being able to find materials, artists being displaced – every single person was going through the exact same uncertainty of what happens tomorrow.”

Iran’s contemporary art world operates inside a structural bubble, isolated from international banking networks. Typically, an artist works for one or two years to prepare a body of work, relying on a single gallery showcase to generate enough sales to survive for the next two years. When conflict brought that domestic cycle to a dead halt, creators faced immediate ruin.

Duran says: “We realised that at this moment, exhibition making, curation, archiving – these things do not matter. What matters, more than anything else, is simply sales. These artists were not able to pay their rent.

“One artist put up his paintbrushes and paint tubes for sale on Divar [a classifieds site] just to carry on. Another artist told me: ‘I’m going to go work in a coffee shop for the time being because I have no idea if this art thing is going to work out for me’.”

Determined to make a difference, Duran bought a couple of gigabytes of internet access so he could get on WhatsApp. From his laptop in the north, he drafted an open letter to international collectors, museum directors and gallerists across the diaspora, laying bare the plight of creators inside Iran.

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Gallerists and curators in London, New York, Paris, Dubai, Toronto and Mumbai wrote back, eager to assist. What had originally been planned as a modest PDF catalogue featuring a dozen imperilled acquaintances rapidly transformed into a nationwide initiative.

Over five months of feverish development, Duran, Rasti and a coalition of domestic galleries built Continuum. The digital platform brings together more than 500 original artworks by over 200 contemporary artists living and working inside Iran.

Eleven commercial galleries across Iran agreed to voluntarily waive 100% of their sales commissions. Duran Art Projects charges no platform fees. As a result, 100% of every completed artwork sale goes directly to the artist. To make acquisitions realistic for global buyers during an economic downturn, prices were capped across three accessible tiers: up to $500; $500–$2,500; $2,500–$5,000.

While the online front end of Continuum offers a catalogue of striking abstract canvases, delicate line drawings and minimalist photography, the back-end operation is a masterclass in guerrilla logistics. Delivering physical artworks out of a country under heavy military bombardment and stringent international sanctions requires ingenuity bordering on subversion.

“The logistics of it – we thought about this ad nauseam,” Duran says with a weary laugh. “Currently, this matter is changing on an hourly basis. The sanctions obviously have been very disruptive.”

Initially, Continuum relied on two domestic courier services capable of flying artwork packages from Tehran to shipment hubs in Dubai and Istanbul, where international carriers could take over. But as geopolitical tensions soared, regional airspace closed and commercial flight paths dissolved.

Duran explains: “The flight connections through the UAE were cancelled so the couriers told us that UAE is off the table. But the second UAE comes off the table, they figure out another way. There is a man who had a courier company that was forced to shut down. In order to keep his business going, he is now using the ground borders, moving overland from Iran into Armenia. He goes by the land border, carries the artworks into Armenia and ships them out from there with full insurance.”

To manage expectations, Continuum informs international buyers that delivery may take three to six months. Yet collectors worldwide, ranging from private patrons in North America to major European institutions, have shown extraordinary patience.

For Duran, the real tragedy of the current crisis lies in the indiscriminate cruelty of international economic sanctions, which target ordinary citizens while doing nothing to alter political outcomes. “These sanctions are not putting much pressure on the government,” he observes. “It’s mostly punishing everybody that’s trying to live a life here. Everyone’s complaining but we’re trying to find solutions.”

Among the artists trying to make a way out of no way is Mehrdad Jafari, 43, who grew up in the northern province of Mazandaran, where his relatives worked as sculptors and painters. Speaking from Tehran through a Farsi interpreter, he says: “Growing up, I always had the dream that one day I would be in Tehran and have an art studio in this city, to create work and fully realise my potential.

“My entire life has been dedicated, and continues to be dedicated, to my work. In fact, my existence is connected to my work. I have no other way of being. I must continue until I die.”

As the father of a three-year-old child, Jafari’s experience of the war is filtered through the anxieties of parenthood. His artwork, which centres on the complex emotional tapestry of human relationships and community interactions, has had to adapt to severe material deprivations.

“Because of the effect of sanctions, we’ve had to be a lot more imaginative in order to decide what materials we use,” Jafari explains. “Materials are quite difficult to find right now. But what I’ve had to do, and what others are doing, is replace this lack of materials with imagination. We use alternative materials to carry on.”

Jafari views this enforced improvisation as a double-edged sword. “In one way we use our imaginations more, creating a more creative space and ways of thinking. But on the other hand, of course, we would love to be part of the global system and have access to the things everybody else has access to. That’s just not available to us right now.”

For Jafari, Continuum’s launch during a time of active military conflict carries symbolic resonance. “It’s an extraordinary moment. It’s a bridge for us to connect with an international audience. For me personally, it brings a sense of calm – that we are not forgotten. Because of Continuum, I am more invigorated than ever to work. It gives us hope that life can carry on.”

From the outset, Duran and Rasti insisted that the initiative would not function as an exhibition about war, nor would it force artists to turn their pain into visual entertainment for foreign viewers.

Duran argues: “Iranian contemporary art doesn’t look like any one thing. Iran is not a style, and the Iranian identity is not a medium. An artist living in Shiraz shouldn’t have to make work that visually announces ‘Iran’ before an international audience is willing to take it seriously. We wanted the work to be encountered first as art, not as evidence about a country.”

While some participating artists choose to directly address conflict, Continuum refused to make political commentary or suffering a requirement for inclusion.

“There is a difference between giving artists visibility during a crisis and asking artists to make the crisis visible,” Duran adds. “I definitely didn’t want crisis to become the reason their work deserves attention. Context should deepen our understanding of an artwork; it shouldn’t imprison the artwork.”

The breadth of work included on the platform bears out this philosophy. Across 500 pieces, viewers encounter delicate geometric abstraction, haunting figurative portraiture, avant-garde photography, experimental printmaking and sculpture.

The financial relief generated by Continuum is already providing vital support to Iran’s artistic ecosystem. In a country where currency devaluation has eroded savings, a single $500 artwork sale can provide significant income towards studio rent or much-needed pigments.

Issari, 38, reflects: “It creates a chain. If an artist is not so worried about their income, maybe they can continue teaching. If they can continue to teach, kids can continue to learn. The whole chain does not stop and we don’t fall into this pit of absolute hopelessness.”

Issari could not bring herself to work during the first weeks of heavy bombardment in Tehran. “I was here for the whole show. Hearing explosions five times, six times per day, every day – having to gather the cats and run to your safe place and count to 10. Then, as soon as it’s over, pick up the phone, check if your father is alive, if your mother’s alive, if your loved ones are OK. On repeat. It does a number on you.”

The trauma was physical as much as psychological. “I didn’t touch a brush,” she recalls. “Actually, I did once, and my hands were shaking so badly that I literally just put it down. I was like, ‘I am not going to do this right now.’ And that’s OK, because I’m just not there.”

While Issari, who studied art in London, is hopeful her paintings on Continuum will find homes in international collections, the initiative’s primary gift is emotional validation. “Even if you don’t sell, it’s that feeling of being seen,” she says with quiet determination. “For me, it’s tremendous. It’s easy to feel like you’re a pariah and you’re invisible. Just the fact that you’re being seen means a lot.”

She adds: “I always have faith in the fact that art will survive, regardless of everything and anything. Artists are the best. If problem-solving were an Olympic sport, we would win a gold medal every time. We will find a way.”