Two runs of austere, monochrome images line the gallery’s walls. One documents the construction of what could be a modern Persepolis. Rebar and concrete tower over the sky, columns spring from the mud below. Silver gelatine permeates all surfaces and commands respect like the false gods to whom this edifice is devoted.
Across the room, dozens of even more formally composed images of Tehran streets. Each bears a mark of a protest, so silent that you might miss it. No people are present in these scenes. This makes them eerie and poignantly defeated.
It’s hard to read these pictures without falling into Ghazali’s sentimental trap. Repetition and framing are photography’s greatest tricks. But the sheer industry of this analogue production proves that something in front of the lens must have been worth keeping. One only hopes that this reality measures up to the shot.
