My work:
Unexplained Bruising
Whole Rest
© 2027. All Rights Reserved
ISSN: 0-4344-8645-0
Published by Cargo
My work:
Unexplained Bruising
Whole Rest
© 2027. All Rights Reserved
ISSN: 0-4344-8645-0
Published by Cargo
Who Am I
I’m Mahdi — a dad, an artist, and someone who’s learning, day by day, to live with more softness than fear.
My life has been shaped by many things — a childhood marked by fear and silence, an early migration from Iran to the UK at 20, and years of chasing safety, success, and belonging. But none of that defines me as much as what I’ve chosen to do with it.
I used to believe healing was about fixing myself. Now I know it’s about remembering who I am underneath the layers. My art, my parenting, my life’s work — all return to this simple idea: that we are not broken, just buried.
I discovered art late — through a workshop that felt more like coming home than learning something new. Sculpture, colour, play — they’ve become how I breathe. I explore what it means to carry childhood trauma and still move through the world with joy, curiosity, and wonder. It’s serious work, but it’s also full of lightness — the kind my son reminds me of every day.
Me casting my nose!!
Some more casting of body parts !!!
My Studio :-)
My loyal friend (included!)
Unexplained Bruising
Unexplained Bruising was my entry into artist-hood. I created it while working with my art tutor, Sarah Fortais, over several weeks of reflection, making, and unmaking—as I tried to discover what my art, and my story, would be about. I didn’t know where it would emerge from, but when it did, it came with a force. It was exactly what I needed it to be. It unleashed something very powerful in me.
For much of my life, I had lived in a constant state of fear—seeing the world as dangerous, unpredictable. There were moments when I genuinely couldn’t remember the last time I felt joy. That realisation was heartbreaking. In the pursuit of survival, I had forgotten what it meant to be alive—to feel, to play, to experience joy without fear. I realised that joy wasn’t a luxury. It was essential. It was the thread I needed to follow to step out of my childhood trauma and into my real life. And so Unexplained Bruising was born.
Coming up with the name was one of the most beautiful creative processes I’ve ever been through. It speaks to something innocent, even tender—like when I’d come home from playing as a child and notice a bruise on my leg, with no idea where it came from. I had been so absorbed in joy, in movement, in connection, that I didn’t notice the wound until later. That’s what Unexplained Bruising is about—losing yourself in aliveness, and discovering the marks left behind, both visible and invisible.
This work is a return to that state—playful, raw, and vulnerable. But it also recognises that just like bruises, trauma can heal. And that healing isn’t a solitary journey. It’s a collective one. We need a trauma-informed society—one that can hold space for people to heal from childhood wounds. Art, for me, is where that healing begins.
In this series, I will explore different mediums to express the fear and fragmentation that can keep us from our inner child, and from knowing who we are beneath the layers of protection. I want to ask: Who might we be, if not for the fear? What would it feel like to show up in this world as ourselves—without the bruises that shape every thought, move, and decision?
Whole Rest
I don’t know how common my experience is for others who live with trauma—especially childhood trauma. For me, it felt like being frozen in time and space, with no real sense of feeling. A bit like being in ice. A kind of numbness that wasn’t quite pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant either. It was like being out in the open but not really feeling your skin—your senses dulled, your emotions removed.
It’s a state where relating to others becomes difficult, because you're not fully present—emotionally or sensually. You’re there physically, but otherwise in an altered state of being. You try to make sense of the world, but you can’t. It’s like you don’t have the tools—like an animal stripped of its most vital senses. You're in the world, but not really part of it. You're in your world.
Through years of healing, I began to peel back this state of existence. And through art, I found healing—real and experiential. Making things gave me access to a deeper place, where I could create for myself and begin to make sense of the world I couldn’t quite touch or understand before.
In Whole Rest, I sit in that quiet place where the music has stopped—a deep, deafening silence after a long, loud stretch. I am present now, but the reflection turns inward. I look inside. Whole Rest will be a series of works exploring the experience of trauma, how we live with it, and how we heal.
The childlike state of being present is where I find healing. It’s where we rebuild what was lost. We grieve, yes—but we also begin to crave the new and unexpected. The small, uninvited beauties of life that come to find us and surprise us in their aliveness. They’re not here yet—but they’re on their way.
Through making childlike work, I engage with trauma—not to defeat it, but to understand it. Only the pure aliveness of a child’s connection to their environment seems powerful enough to crack through that frozen state. That ice. That disconnection. That longing to feel.
Whole Rest explores trauma, fear, and becoming—through the eyes and hands of a childlike creator.
My son is my greedy inspiration. As I begin this series, his presence, his love, and his joyful engagement with the world has taught me so much. I want to be more like him—when I move through the world and re-learn how to be. He has inspired me to heal, to become a better father for him, and a better person for myself.
Whole Rest will hold all of that—the trauma, the childhood, the healing. I don’t yet know how many different mediums I’ll use to create these worlds, but I’m going to try everything I can to tell this story. A story of breaking through—with lightness, beauty, and the childlike wonder I’ve come to learn from my beautiful son.