See Tehran and Die…

It's a well-established commonplace that a more discriminating image of Iran is something that is badly wanting. Writer and curator Tirdad Zolghadr has written a new novel set in Tehran, and given himself the starring role. It's a novel that overturns conventions. Perhaps too many of them, says Amin Farzanefar

A young cultural snob, Tirdad Zolghadr by name, arrives in Tehran with the objective of reviving the fortunes of the legendary "Promessa" – a cult cocktail bar during the Shah's reign – by turning it into a gallery. The expat Iranian wants the reopening to be something special and surfs the capital's cultural hot-spots, meeting with dissidents, art students and secret agents on the way. He jets to Zurich and to Beirut, mingling with the leading figures of the art world's in-crowd and intelligentsia.

In the background, however, Zolghadr is being observed and sponsored by some patronising and rather shady big players, long-term survivors who've seen more than one regime change. Uncle Tan, Stella and Great Aunt Zsazsa, for example, have never scrupled when it comes to offering a safe haven in their suburban villa to those in need, whether anarchists, revolutionary guards or deconstructivists.

Clichés of the dark mullahtocracy

"Softcore" soon leaves the well-worn paths trodden by most Tehran fiction, which tends to be characterised by instant attributions evaluations or judgements. Side-stepping the current clichés of the dark mullahtocracy or the hedonistic party society, the hero tries to remain free of stereotypes at all costs, to be original and amoral.

Aesthetically, however, the degree of separation between collaboration and resistance becomes blurred, the systems seeming to merge seamlessly with one another, a culture- besotted former hangman seeks confidential proximity to the gallery owner: "Yes, mistakes have been made." When Zolghadr wants an original video for "Promessa" he presses a DVD camera into the hands of some revolutionary guards so that they can record their conservative daily routine.

It is no plot that drives on this sybaritic narrator, who, however, remains utterly incapable of experiencing pleasure, from quickie to cocaine line, even less can it be called an attitude: more than anything it is a compulsion. And so that he misses nothing, he carries around – indispensable accessory of the flaneur – a moleskin notebook, a constant source of quotes, notes and comments. None of this is overly "cerebral"; it is an amusing read, but almost fetishist in its fixation on the art scene, its jargon, and its discourses. Readers who are not up on this and who come to the book with a "wish to find out more about Iran" have definitely come to the wrong place.

Postmodern precipice

It is impossible to tell in "Softcore" where precisely the narrator stops and the author begins. The less so because the three dimensional, real Zolghadr as curator, artist, director and self-confessed snob exhibits a marked resemblance to his literary alter ego. The Persian Swiss background, childhood spent in Africa – it all matches, as do all sorts of anecdotes and acquaintances, remaining recognisable, though fantastically distorted, in their literary manifestation.

Somehow, however, this potentially fascinating kaleidoscopic puzzle is overdone. The narcissistic narrator gets somehow lost in boxing with his own shadow, reflects, recognises this, about his pose as author too, stumbles, and sweeps both himself and the reader over the edge.

All quiet on the eastern front?

"Softcore" has nothing new to tell us about Tehran, but does reveal a great deal about globalised elites, about cartel curators and about an international cultural cabal, completely out of touch with the real world, its members lost in jealous competition with one another, and absorbed in the latest trends and theories. Zolghadr's passage through this Vanity Fair is reminiscent of the sort of postmodern literature that allows for no clear identities and no character development. Playing with its own awareness of the artificiality of its fiction and characters, it takes its games of illusion and reality to excess.

This lack of stability and substance fits in in several ways with the Persian setting. Backdoors, double truths and double meanings are after all part of every totalitarian system, and a specific feature of Shiite mysticism. And a system in which religious foundations are the main beneficiaries of the capitalism they are so fond of damning provides a fertile breeding ground for Zolghadr's double standards. Those who consider themselves too resourceful here can certainly get lost. And this is exactly the fate that befalls the narrator.

Salvation through demise…

While the young curator devotes himself with Proustian particularity and meticulousness to a disparaging description of furnishings, interior, caviar hors d'oeuvre, toe jewellery and beard fashions, he has, it transpires, long since been trapped in the poisonous coils of intrigue. The work of his own patrons…in the end the immature narrator of "Softcore" finds a violent end (one to which he himself must provide a commentary in his notebooks).

With a strange masochism the dual Zolghadr appears to strive towards the disintegration of his obtrusive ego – then interpreted as a unio mystica and martyrdom, but this again would be a venture of vanity. It hardly matters – author, narrator and readers have long since suffocated in the sumptuous folds of a richly ornamented carpet entitled "Softcore". Eternal puberty is finally over, pop is dead and at last there is room once more for a proper piece of story telling.

Amin Farzanefar

Translated from the German by Ron Walker

Qantara.de

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