Hamid Taherypour is often introduced through enterprise, responsibility, and social contribution, but this conversation begins elsewhere. In recent years, visual art has become a refuge for him, a return to an early passion interrupted by decades of work and public expectation. His sculptural practice is built around volume, light, shadow, and the memory of materials such as bronze, wood, fabric, and papier-mâché. With one of his recent works now on view at Villasufia, Taherypour speaks about art not as a new ambition, but as a private language of humility and inner balance.
Your work is now being shown at Villasufia. How do you feel when this private part of your life enters a public space?
It is a delicate feeling. In the studio, the work belongs to a private struggle. I remember the doubts, the mistakes, the small decisions, the hours when nothing seemed clear. When the piece enters a gallery, it begins another life. It stands in front of people who bring their own memories and emotions.
At Villasufia, I felt the work had enough silence around it. That matters to me. This piece is not trying to shout. It asks for time. It needs the viewer to slow down, move around it, and let the light change.
People have known you for many years through business and public work. Why is art the center of this conversation now?
Because I have spoken enough about business. I respect that part of my life, and I am grateful for what it taught me, but I do not want to live only inside that image. For many years, life was full of decisions, numbers, meetings, and responsibility.
Art gives me another kind of space. It is not a performance of success. It is not another project. It is a place where I can be quiet and honest. I had a deep interest in art when I was young, but life moved quickly in another direction. Returning to it now feels like returning to a room that was waiting inside me.
You often describe art as a refuge. What does that word mean to you?
A refuge is not an escape. It is a place where you can recover enough truth to return to life with more calm. In business, one is expected to answer, decide, and calculate. In the studio, the material does not ask for a quick answer. It asks for attention.
I have a doctorate in economics, and economics teaches discipline, systems, scarcity, and consequence. These are useful lessons. But economics cannot explain everything. It cannot fully explain why a shadow moves you, or why a curve can give you peace. Art begins where some forms of explanation become insufficient.
The piece at Villasufia has a strong sculptural presence, with curves, balance, and a close relationship to light. How would you describe it?
I would describe it carefully, because I do not want to close the viewer’s interpretation. For me, the work is about movement held in stillness. It has weight, but it seems to want to rise. It has balance, but not the kind that feels fixed. There is tension inside it.
I was interested in the way a line can become volume. There is something almost calligraphic in the movement, although it is not calligraphy. A gesture becomes bronze. Something fluid becomes permanent. The shadows are not separate from the work. They are part of its body.
Your practice involves different materials. What attracts you to bronze, wood, fabric, and papier-mâché?
Each material has its own character. Bronze has dignity and history. It carries light beautifully, but it also carries seriousness. Wood feels alive to me. It has grain, scars, and memory. Fabric is closer to the body. It can fold, cover, soften, and reveal. Papier-mâché is humble. I like that. It reminds me that meaning does not always need a noble material.
I try not to force the material too quickly. Good work begins as a conversation. If I impose too much, the piece becomes stiff. If I listen without acting, nothing happens. The balance is in that dialogue.
There is humility in the way you speak about making art. Has art changed your relationship with achievement?
Yes, very much. In many fields, achievement can be measured. People can count results, projects, growth, or impact. Even then, numbers never tell the whole story. In art, the measurement is more fragile.
A work can be technically correct and still not feel alive. Another work can be imperfect and carry something true. This has made me more careful. I do not come to art as someone who has arrived. I come as someone still learning. At this stage of life, to become a student again is not easy, but it is a gift.
© Hamid Taherypour
Do your years in economics and industry enter the work in hidden ways?
I am sure they do, although not directly. Economics trained me to see relationships. Nothing stands alone. In sculpture, that is also true. If you change one curve, the balance changes. If you change the surface, the light changes.
But art also challenges the economic mind. It reminds me that not every value can be priced, and not every return is visible. Sometimes, the most important result is internal.
You are also involved in charitable work. Is there a connection between that side of your life and your art?
For me, both are connected to the desire to move beyond oneself. Charity, when it is sincere, should not be about image. It should come from responsibility and empathy. Art also moves me beyond myself, but in another way. It teaches attention, patience, and tenderness toward things that might otherwise be overlooked. Both art and giving have helped me remain human. They soften different parts of the soul.
What do you hope viewers experience when they stand in front of this sculpture?
I hope they do not feel rushed. I do not need them to see exactly what I see. Some may feel movement, some may see a bird, a wave, a flame, or a letter. Some may see only form, light, and shadow. All of that is fine.
What matters to me is that the work creates a pause. We live very fast now. Sculpture asks for a slower rhythm. You must walk around it. You must allow it to change as your position changes.
Finally, what keeps bringing you back to the studio?
The possibility that something unknown may appear. I begin with an intention, but the best moments happen when the work teaches me something I did not expect. A curve changes. A surface reacts differently. A shadow appears. These moments require humility because you realize you are not fully in control.
For many years, I built things in the external world. Now I am also trying to understand what can be built inwardly. When I am working, I am not a title or a résumé. I am simply a person facing material, light, form, and time. That simplicity is rare. It is also healing. This is why I call art a refuge. It does not remove the weight of life, but it changes how I carry it.
