We are on the road from Zavareh, bound for Na'in. It is a secondary, lonely road where the boundless desert on either side sets thoughts and fancies roaming, whether one wills it or not. I am thinking about what it was, thirteen years ago, during that brief stop for lunch at the Na'in guest house, that in all these years has led me to recommend a stop there to any friend passing through that route. It surely was not the tastiness of the food, which was of the institutional cafeteria variety; nor the tranquility of the restaurant space, for it was Nowruz and silence and solitude were themselves on holiday. And if it was the arches and vaults and mud-brick in its body and form, well, such things are plentiful in every town on the edge of the desert. The curiosity of rediscovering what had been in that space carries an allure that is, if not greater, certainly no less than the excitement of seeing Na'in's urban fabric and architectural monuments. Two and a half days at the quiet, deserted guest house in Na'in—lounging about—provide ample opportunity to feel its atmosphere and poke into its every corner. Out of the design habit of architectural analysis, we begin analyzing the spaces and their relationships (moving from whole to part): Was there not a more suitable place for the guest house entrance on this corner lot than the depths of a side alley? Is a narrow, dark corridor appropriate for simultaneously serving as the main entrance and the separator of lodging and service spaces? If the lodging chambers had been situated opposite their current position, with their backs to the main street, would the courtyard not have been freed from its current exposed and noise-polluted condition and become a delightful garden for the chambers?... At nightfall, we leave the desert sky of Na'in to its own devices and, free from any analysis, simply enjoy the space of the guest house and the chamber in which we have sprawled: its tall main space, the snug and soothing sleeping alcove half a level above, and the skylight above the bed that looks down below. (And if a child were in this space, the skylight would surely be a source of great delight.) Gradually we notice the details and ornamentation of this building, clearly designed specifically for it: the details at the corners, the framing around doorways and windows, the floor tiles, wainscoting, and shelves whose glaze bears a particular hue, the rhythm and dimensions of the wall niches, and other unpretentious yet exquisite details
whose shared quality is a kind of modesty and distance from exaggeration and ostentation. Little by little, I come to the conclusion that the work of a man who, by his own account, did not want to be "a Plan Organization architect" must be viewed differently—one cannot subject it to criticism by the usual mechanisms and criteria. This place, more than possessing a totality that could be summarized in two or three diagrams and sketches, is a collection of novel and noteworthy points and details. The Na'in guest house has an atmosphere that, even though it sits in the middle of a not-so-small city, remains a retreat where one can rest a moment from the noise and bustle of the world and experience a tranquility that, to find it elsewhere, one would have to venture to places as remote as the depths of the desert. Further research into the views and works of Keyvan Khosravani yields no adequate result—nothing beyond four articles, a few audio files, and three or so {for me, the opinions he has expressed on the occasion of the Centre Pompidou have been more interesting and have piqued my curiosity further}. At last, after two or three exchanges of messages and two telephone conversations, a meeting with him is arranged: "Come to the Church of Saint-Germain; it has fine frescoes, we'll look at them together, four o'clock—I'll be sitting in the last row of benches." And then, since it is our first meeting, he gives a precise description of his distinguishing features and the color of the clothing he will wear. And he asks me: "What will you be wearing?" I am at a loss for a reply. I, who open my suitcase to get dressed and put on whatever happens to be on top and comes to hand first—what should I say to someone who has a firm hand in fashion design? In the end, I hang the burden of my shabbiness on the peg of my camera and say that the best marker for me is the hulking camera whose yellow cover will make it "stand out" (to use the young people's word) in the Gothic space of the church. Viewing the frescoes in the company of someone with training and experience in restoration is an invaluable opportunity: particularly hearing analyses that in all likelihood do not align with the intentions of the creators of these works, and that cannot proceed without discussion of the garments and clothing of the figures in the frescoes. I ask: You seem to have a hand in tailoring as well? And he says: "My dear boy, tailoring is the easy part—there was a time when I also made and sold cheese."
A few hours of wandering through the alleyways of Saint-Germain, around the Beaux-Arts and the galleries in its vicinity, make clear to me that Keyvan Khosravani does not merely have a youthful voice, nor does he merely watch over his appearance and attire like the fashionable young, but is also far more sprightly than is usual for his age. I had previously jotted down questions and topics for our conversation, but I shelve them all at the very start, because if the person you are speaking with is Keyvan Khosravani, you cannot sit stiff and formal behind a desk and discuss a "specific" topic. But in the course of our gallery visits, using each painting, sculpture, or piece of furniture as a pretext, he puts forward his views on Iranian arts and crafts and their comparison with their European counterparts, for he believes that "to understand cultures, one must compare them." He says: "Do you see what taste and sensibility and what refined technique there is in this chair? I regret to say that tastelessness has always been epidemic in Iran. We have a culture of sparks and solo performances; on the one hand we weave carpets, and on the other, in a great many of our works there is no trace of taste, sensibility, or technique. Taste flourishes when it penetrates the depths of society and is not confined to an elite circle. If Europeans are more tasteful than us, it is because since antiquity they have had places like theaters where the general public watched Sophocles. In other words, there was a dialogue and connection between the summits and peaks of culture and art and the mass of people. In Iran, we have had no such space or possibility. When such space does not exist at the level of society, the art of taste and technique will not become widespread nor will they be elevated. Regarding Iranian handicrafts, we are very self-aggrandizing, while in the same continent of Asia, India, China, Thailand, Indonesia, and others are ahead of us. We take pride in a miniature that is not at all popular and is only exotic and interesting to Europeans..."
I am not accustomed to hearing such comparisons and judgments, because they usually come from tongues unfamiliar with Iranian art and foreign to European culture. But here I am dealing with a man who has spent a lifetime traversing this terrain and has broken bones in its service, and one cannot fail to reflect upon his words. I know that in all the varied fields in which he has worked, he has strived to accumulate new experiences and to elevate the level of his colleagues' work through training. Moreover, apart from the works he has produced himself, he has had far-sighted ideas for founding a school that would teach Iranian arts in a systematic manner: not merely through the traditional master-apprentice method, but by teaching the fundamentals of art and the principles of technique. Keyvan Khosravani considers the great weakness of Iranian works to be technical: "Look at the Chaharsuq of the Kashan bazaar—it is a masterpiece of ornamentation, but the edge of its skylight lacks a proper detail, and with every rainfall, water and mud seep onto the decorations. But the Pantheon, even if it had nothing else, is made beautiful by its extremely precise engineering. Or the works of Pier Luigi Nervi, which are beautiful in themselves because of their fine engineering." He says that every art, to endure, must have a foundation—that thing we call artistic authenticity. One must identify that authenticity and, for its continuation, engage in invention and creativity. "In all my work, I have strived to discover and introduce this authenticity and, as much as possible, to teach it." And he adds, in a tone not free of
regret: "But I do not consider myself successful, because in all the fields in which I have worked, I see no progress or evolution." He says: "I believe that in traditional life one can find sound solutions to problems; one must understand it and innovate within that framework—though not just any tradition: good traditions must be preserved and innovation must follow in their wake, while bad traditions must be set aside." I strike a passing chord: Notions like good tradition and bad tradition, preserving tradition and innovation, and such things are highly open to interpretation and construction, aren't they? He says: "No, what interpretation? A good tradition means a tradition that possesses artistic value. The Persian carpet is a good tradition, but the fact that our public toilets have always been too filthy to go near—that is a bad tradition. There is no room for interpretation." He has so much to say that, willingly or not, I become the listener; but in our second meeting, held over coffee, I find my voice and raise the topic: Talk of artistic authenticity and cultural continuity has been heard a great deal in the past two or three decades—in the 1350s (1970s), how much could one speak of such things? "I was unable to do much architectural work in Iran, because nobody believed in simplicity and everyone wanted something flashy and showy. The fever of modernization and aping the West was all-pervasive, and talk of simplicity, local materials, and indigenous craftsmen fell on deaf ears. But I was entrusted with the Na'in guest house in this fashion: they said, since you grumble so much and find fault with everything we do, go and build something yourself." I fall into thought that finding an opportunity to grumble in the presence of grandees and receiving the commission to "go build something yourself" cannot be unrelated to his family lineage. A family that, in his own words, is one of the "one-thousand families," with a father and uncle of whom one was Minister of the Interior and the other Attorney General of the Army. Khosravani himself acknowledges the influence of this connection, with the caveat that: "Although I was never a member of any party or faction, I was also never in agreement with the views and conduct of my family, and my path was entirely separate. In a way, I was the black sheep of the one-thousand families."
We all know that in our sun-covenant land, an architect's access to special projects has always depended on factors beyond architecture, among which family connections to those in power have been one of the most effective. But these connections are a double-edged sword: while they open certain doors, they also expose the individual to all manner of rumors and jealousies, and become a veil over his personal competence and merit. Which way the scale tips depends entirely on the characteristics, preferences, and abilities of the individual. One would expect that the gentle temperament seated across the table from me has suffered more of the disadvantages of this family lineage
than its benefits. The cafe where we sit was once the haunt of Simone de Beauvoir and the setting for some of her works; photographs on the walls also show that Hemingway and Picasso once drank coffee at these very tables. These images, and of course Khosravani's age, steer the conversation toward decades past and a comparison with the present: "We are in an era in which, across the entire world, the decline of 'correct thinking' is visible. I do not understand what these architecture prizes are supposed to mean. An architecture prize should be bestowed over time and by the people upon a work. This very Centre Pompidou, with all its glaring flaws, won a prize and was built. Or this Jean Nouvel, who has brought the museum down to the edge of the Seine—underground—at the Quai Branly, and placed the artworks at risk of humidity and even river flooding." My attempt to raise the argument that architecture can be viewed from various perspectives, or that in any design some factors rise to prominence while others recede, remains unfinished: "Architecture means ordering a human activity of life with the most economical
materials at hand and the best possible engineering." I ask him to clarify what he means by the most economical materials at hand and the best engineering, and whether the qualifier "at hand" does not limit engineering. "No—for working with and applying creativity to materials, there are no boundaries. For example, Iran is a predominantly mountainous country, and stone is available almost everywhere, but because of Khayyamic thinking—seize today and whatever comes tomorrow, so be it—because of nomadic life and constant migration, and of course because of laziness, we did not use stone, or if we did, we used it in primitive ways. Our building materials are poor: we mostly went toward mud-brick and adobe, which is beautiful but lacks performance. Obviously, if you want to use stone the way it was worked in the Parthenon, it will be harder, more expensive, and more time-consuming than mud-brick and
adobe." Keyvan Khosravani has a great deal to say, and this is not surprising from someone who has lived through one of the most transformative periods of Iranian history and has tried his hand in diverse fields: architectural projects, sketches, the plan to save Oudlajan, fabric design, the Numbervan (N1) boutique, designing official garments for the former queen, producing and directing television programs, lighting the Tomb of Hafez (coinciding with the Shiraz Arts Festival)... and of course the stories and behind-the-scenes tales surrounding each of these, any one of which would require hours of conversation. But at the same time, one must know him through his works, because he considers his beliefs too self-evident to require theorizing around them. He is a man of action and does not get ensnared in theoretical debates; in the parlance of traditional wrestlers, he prefers to speak his piece in the ring.
* The paragraphs quoted from him are not direct transcriptions of his speech but rather paraphrased summaries of views expressed over the course of our conversations.
** The title of the article (A Stitch to the Earth) was suggested by Mr. Babak Mofidi. My thanks to him.
Footnote: 1- Article "Another Look at the Georges Pompidou Center," Paris, Keyvan Khosravani, Memar magazine, issue 98, p. 14.