by: Cathy Fan
Banisadr’s studio is located in a quiet neighborhood in Brooklyn, where he lives with his family. “I never had about 70 feet of space to step back from and look at the painting from far away, and make decisions,” the 48-year-old Iran-born artist said, explaining how having more physical space has changed the scale of his canvases. “Since I’ve been working here, the work has changed because I’m able to step back and see the whole composition and the details.”
The best of Artnet News in your inbox.
Ali Banisadr’s studio. Photo: Genevieve Hanson
It’s hard for visitors to take their eyes off the large-scale painting that sits at the center of the space. Banisadr has titled this in-progress work The Fortune Teller. In it, he uses a new geometric composition, temporarily divided by tape. Swirling, powerful movements pull the viewer into an epic story the artist is creating, producing an almost anti-gravitational pull. Compared to his previous works, this sense of motion is more pronounced. Hybrid figures, part human and part creature, seem to have arrived from another world and are echoed by small sculptures in the studio, which seem to have walked out of the paintings themselves—another part of Banisadr’s new experiments. A sharp pyramid appears at the upper center of the canvas, almost like a totem, adding a layer of mystery.
Courtesy of the artist and Perrotin.
All the paintings, including The Fortune Teller, will be shipped to Shanghai for his first gallery show in Asia. His upcoming exhibition, opening during Shanghai Art Week at Perrotin’s outpost in the city on November 6, is a major moment for the artist. Banisadr is excited about his first trip to Shanghai, and afterward, he plans to visit Japan to see the Japanese woodblock prints that have influenced his work over the years.
We caught up with Banisadr in his studio where he talked about the motion in his new work and how memories from his childhood in Iran still influence the way he paints.
The Mirror World, 2024. Courtesy of the artist and Perrotin.
Your painting The Mirror World is a magnificent large work that reveals many intricate details when viewed in person. It feels as though there are paintings within paintings. Can you tell us about this effect? Was it intentional?
This just unfolded spontaneously—I didn’t plan it. While I was painting, I suddenly began to “see” mirrors, and I incorporated that vision into my work. The figures don’t face you directly; instead, you catch a glimpse of their faces only in the reflections. In one scene, a painter holds a mirror, in another a painter is painting the Wheel of Fortune symbol.
I’ve also been contemplating the relationship between my art and technology. We live in an era dominated by the internet and A.I., and this theme often is presented my pieces as an intervention. Many people present curated versions of themselves through social media, but we rarely see their true selves. I recently read a book called The Mirror World, which resonated with these ideas.
As a result, my compositional space have become more complex than in my earlier works. Instead of a straightforward landscape with clear foreground and background, I’m embracing a cubist approach reminiscent of Picasso or De Kooning. I enjoy creating an ambiguous space where viewers might feel disoriented—almost like stepping onto a stage with various realms to explore within the painting.
Ali Banisadr’s studio. Courtesy of the artist.
One thing that naturally caught my attention is the table of open books and visual references in your studio. Does it inform how you begin new works?
I immerse myself in studying artworks I admire, using references on my table as a “research base.” This table evolves depending on the painting I’m working on. I delve into numerous historical paintings, deconstructing them to understand their compositional and formal elements. Whatever insights I gain from this process are integrated into my work. Currently we can see Uccello, Picasso’s Guernica, Goya, Brughel, Velazquez, Hiroshige, and Cezanne, to just name a few…
This is why I focus on one painting at a time—I never know what will emerge next. I don’t start with sketches; my process is initially abstract, performative, and energetic. Gradually, as I engage with the canvas, certain elements begin to resonate with me. There’s a dialogue that unfolds between what I want to express and what the painting itself is revealing. It becomes a negotiation, as the work slowly unveils its story and shares its narrative with me.
The process of painting feels like a self-unveiling journey, which to me sounds similar to how some novelists describe their writing process.
Every day, I enter my studio with thoughts and ideas influenced by current events, my readings, and the artworks I’m grappling with. I come in with a sense of what I want to convey, but I’ve found that the painting has its own voice and desires as well. Gradually, I begin to discern the thread of what it wants to become.
I’m inspired by the writing processes of authors I admire such as Calvino, Eco, Borges, and Dante among others, where a character often dictates the direction of the story. I love the concept of allowing things to unfold organically, letting them find their own path. It’s a dynamic interplay between intention and discovery.
Ali Banisadr’s studio. Photo: Genevieve Hanson
You also seem to intentionally incorporate elements of current events—whether from the news or everyday life—through your research into your figurative work. Would you say these serve as metaphors or contribute to the epic quality of your paintings?
Absolutely. Current events are a constant parallel that I closely monitor. Whenever something captures my attention, I dive into research, almost as if history is reaching out to me. The research aspect of my work is what fuels my creativity. It’s a significant undertaking, but it’s the kind of work I thrive on.
I explore history in a spiral manner, tracing back to ancient times to grasp the metaphors, images, and visual narratives connected to my interests. This process provides me with symbols and visuals that I bring into my artwork. In many ways, they become epic poems—yet to be written. Instead of illustrating an existing story, I offer visuals that invite viewers to craft their own narratives in their minds as they engage with the piece. It’s an unveiling of possibilities, allowing them to create their own story. I’m particularly fascinated by the concept of world-building, whether in artwork, literature, or film.
The Land of Miracles, 2024. Courtesy of the artist and Perrotin.
You’ve constructed an imagined world through an energetic vortex of color and brushstrokes. Could you elaborate on the role that motion and the use of a non-central focal point play in your practice?
Motion has always been integral to my work because I strive to stay true to my memories. When we try to recall things, they exist in a state of flux—part present, part elusive. My memories, whether personal, collective, or ancestral, are always moving. I aim to capture that dynamic essence and guide the viewer’s gaze throughout the painting, using intentional directions and movements.
Philosophically, I’m drawn to the concept of animism, which I see reflected in Persian miniature paintings as well as in Chinese and Japanese art. In these traditions, every element—the rocks, the rivers, the animals, vegetation, the people—holds equal significance. Unlike traditional Western paintings that often center around a hero figure with everything else as mere backdrop, my works resist a singular focal point. Instead, they embrace a more holistic approach, where all components contribute to the overall narrative.
What do you do when you feel stuck or need to start from zero?
Returning to an empty studio after a show is always challenging, no matter how many times I’ve experienced it. It feels like being left alone after a family gathering—the warmth and energy dissipate, leaving a sense of solitude. It typically takes me a year to prepare for a show, filled with conversations, memories, and all the experiences that unfold in the studio during that time.
Yet, starting over can also feel invigorating. It marks a new beginning, a chance to dive into fresh materials and ideas to discover what I want to create next. This process of exploration takes time, but it’s essential for my growth as an artist.
Subterranean Realms 3, 2024. Courtesy of the artist and Perrotin.
How do you start trying to find your next direction?
In my studio, I create a cluster for research and ongoing reading. It’s a place where I dive deeper into my thoughts, take notes, and gather materials that inspire me. As I engage with this process, I feel a growing desire to explore—whether through travel or simply experiencing new things. This exploration fuels my creativity; I need to feel full of ideas before I can express them. I want my work to be authentic and meaningful.
I make visual notes to capture the essence of what I want to explore, think about, or break down. This notebook becomes invaluable for reflecting on my ideas. I also keep a separate notebook for written thoughts, which allows me to flip back through my reflections and see how they’ve evolved. These notes often include compositional ideas that eventually find their way into my paintings, acting as seeds for new concepts.
Ali Banisadr’s Notebook. Photo: Genevieve Hanson
I’m curious—when you think back to your childhood years before the age of 12 in Iran, what is your most vivid or immediate visual memory? And how has that influenced your later paintings?
On one hand, there’s the chaos of my surroundings—the revolution and the war. Growing up in a large family, I was surrounded by conversations filled with different perspectives on these events. I listened intently as people shared their views on why things were happening.
On the other hand, I had my internal world, which is why I began drawing as a child. Every child is inherently an artist, whether through drawing or playing with clay; it’s a part of our nature. Art became my way of grappling with something much larger and more abstract than I could comprehend—especially as a child. Even as an adult, I believe no one truly understands war or its origins.
Visual memory captures both safe moments with my family and stark images of destruction—like a building that stood one day and was half gone the next. My mind instinctively seeks to mend what’s broken, and that impulse has stayed with me. In my paintings, I channel this unconscious process, reflecting the fractures I’ve witnessed. I create shattered fragments that coexist in my work, mirroring how they coexist in my mind.
I envision my paintings as a meeting place where ancient and futuristic elements come together and interact. They materialize through me, enabling this dialogue to unfold. It’s a collapse of time—where linearity dissolves and both future and ancient moments exist simultaneously. In this way, I bend time itself.
