These are not all a single event; they are things we do not know about, but a scent of them reaches us.
Where is this world? Why is it here? Why us? Why not someone else? Why me? Why now, at two in the morning? Why seven? Why nine? Why a cow? Why a dog? Why an elephant? Why a rhinoceros? Why volume? Why form? Why matter? Where am I? Which planet is my mind grappling with? Which galaxy is my mind preoccupied with? Which part of the plant is my mind entangled with?
In the lucidity of Arezoo's dream, she travels to the depths of the flower's flag and sees my dog within it, and sees my inner forms within it.
Which part of the plant am I? Which green soul of the plant am I involved with? Which one am I?
Where is my soul on my canvas? My soul flows within my canvas, my canvas flows within my frame, and that frame is mounted on the white wall of my mind.
Which sentence am I grappling with? Where is my religion and my creed's work on my canvas?
Are these spinning circles mine? Why do they spin? Are the forms upon them my inner line? Is it the line of my soul? Their rotation is the turning of my own head.
The round frames came to me as a sudden revelation in the morning, and I act upon building them.
Where am I in this circle of painting? Where am I in this circle of life?
My sculptures speak of my paintings, and my paintings speak of my soul, and my soul is mounted on the wall and communicates with its audience.
My cow is lonely, just like me. It has nowhere to go; it cannot go anywhere. It is imprisoned within my frame, and I am imprisoned within the frame of time.
Time is short for me. I will overcome time. My work proceeds by itself, whether time exists or not. For me, time and place do not exist.
I am constantly thinking about everything, small and large, meaningless, meaningful. Bad, good, art. My own work, my soul, my events, my connections.
I am fine. I feel like flying. I feel a desire to break out from within me. I feel the pleasant sense of eternal solitude, and I want to join my cow. I want to understand my inner cow, for it is the splitting of my body—it is my self-recognition of myself. My cow is me, and I am the cow. I graze in the pasture of life, eating the weeds of my thoughts.
Thoughts flutter in the mind and make my mind soar. I have a strange feeling. I feel lightness in my head. My eyes stare at the paper, and my hand stops and moves again. I pour my mind onto the paper. It is a strange, intimate feeling. My legs fall asleep, my brain freezes, but my cow continues to look at me.
The cow is my mind. The cow does not have one layer; the cow has a thousand layers. How much it resembles my soul. The cow is mine.
Milad Zeynali
Spontaneous Text, Unedited
For the First Exhibition
Tehran, Seyhoun Gallery
October 2014