Self-portrait as Collective Art Praxis: The Jina Uprising in Iran

by: Kheyzaran Esmaeilzade , November 10, 2025

Atefeh, the woman with whom I ran through the streets during the Jina uprising, shouting together: ‘Woman, Life, Freedom,’ passed away as I wrote this article. One day during the rebellion, Atefeh and I encountered a police motorcycle ablaze in the street. She approached it, retrieved a cigarette from her pocket, and lit it with the flames. Turning to face me, she smiled triumphantly as I observed her. The image of Atefeh has continually inspired me to recognise the images created by countless other women fighting for their rights.

For Atefeh, a woman who lit her cigarette from the flames of the revolution.

Introduction

This article aims to engage with the visual aspects of the Jina [1] (‘Woman, Life, Freedom’/’Zan, Zendegi, Azadi’) uprising in Iran. I will focus on the performative images that women created and in which they presented themselves during the movement. Following the death of Jina (Mahsa) Amini, a young woman arrested and killed by the morality police [2] for her improperly fitted hijab, this uprising stood out not only as a globally resonant protest for women’s rights in Iran, but also because of its distinctive visual component. Here, I discuss the visual narrative of the Jina uprising as an integral part of Iranian women’s long struggle against injustice and discrimination. I employ a bricolage method to gather images and theories to examine the narrative, borrowing this term and methodology from Linda Nochlin. The approach she suggests enables me to connect personal memories, diverse images, historical contexts, and theoretical perspectives. Throughout this article, I illustrate that the images Iranian women produce as a means of protest can be viewed as self-portraits.

Methodology

In an interview conducted by Martina Pachmanová (2006), Linda Nochlin describes her writing style as ‘bricolage.’ She claims that it allows for a more fluid and critical perspective, describing it as a dialectical process in which methodology emerges from the issue being examined. This process is key to exploring history from a perspective that challenges traditional, patriarchal master narratives. As Nochlin mentions, feminist art history should be a critical practice that questions established ideas about art and its histories by examining what is present and what is absent (2006).

In the introduction to Representing Women, the same author characterises her approach to art history as ad hoc (1999). This means she does not adhere to a singular method or grand narrative. While the concept of bricolage is provisional and collage-like, it does not imply a rejection of theory; instead, it emphasises intellectual responsiveness and flexibility in research (D’Souza 2002). Consequently, her methodology for art analysis develops organically from the artwork itself rather than being externally imposed. This dynamic interplay between the artwork and the theoretical framework for analysis constantly evolves. She opts for a writing style akin to poetry rather than prose, concentrating on smaller thought units instead of aiming to create a single, comprehensive narrative (Pachmanová 2006). Linda Nochlin’s approach enables me to examine diverse images and develop a unique methodology for this essay. I aim to explore the intersection of Iranian women’s self-representations during the Jina protests—within their specific socio-political context—and the broader artistic concept of self-portraiture. Bricolage, as a feminist methodology, expands our understanding of art beyond its classical limitations by incorporating women’s historical struggles and broadening the scope of existing ideas and concepts, such as the parameters of what constitutes a self-portrait.

The self-portrait genre emerged in 15th-century Europe alongside the development of lenses and reflective surfaces, including mirrors. Engaging in self-examination through the mirror and painting one’s own image was a predominantly male creative practice that centred on the self and the associated gestures and expressions signifying social positioning (Wood 2017). In contemporary Iran, amidst the fight for women’s rights and the introduction of new tools like mobile cameras and the Internet, women have persistently demonstrated a vivid form of gestural self-expression, especially notable during the Jina uprising.

By creating a collage-like formulation of women’s self-presentation images and linking them to the historical struggle against the compulsory hijab in Iran, I will reinterpret these images through art-theoretical lenses, including Jacques Rancière’s aesthetic regime, (1999, 2004 & 2009) Boris Groys’ work on the installation concept (2008), Miriam Schapiro’s idea of femmage (Broude 1980), and Ariella Azoulay’s civil contract of photography (2008).

Historical Background

The Islamic government’s conflict with Iranian women over the hijab began with the removal of unveiled women from official workplaces. Soon after the 1979 Islamic Revolution, Ayatollah Khomeini stated that women could continue their jobs in offices if they wore a hijab:

Muslim women must go out with the Islamic hijab … Women still work in offices with the previous status. Women must change their status … I have been told that in our ministries, women are naked, and this is against Islamic Law. Women can participate in social work, but they must wear the Islamic hijab. (Kayhan 1979 cited in Namdari 2008a)

Following this declaration, women without hijabs began to feel insecure in public spaces, and such anxieties became even more pronounced as the power of revolutionary Muslims increased. In July 1980, an official order forbade female employees from working in offices without the veil. Despite widespread protests, thousands of women lost their jobs for refusing to comply. Following these dismissals, those who refused to wear the hijab were also barred from public premises and the streets (Namdari 2008a; Ahmadi Khorasani 2011).

Before 1983, there were no clear directives on how to wear the hijab. Nevertheless, it was assumed that women should cover their hair and bodies. For instance, Mousavi Ardebili, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, remarked that

Islamic dress must be observed, and everyone knows how much it is. The hair of the head should be covered, the places of adornment of the body should be covered, the clothes should be long, thin, and not revealing the body, not tight, and even in terms of colour, it was said that it should be a simple colour (Kayhan 1979 cited in Namdari 2008b).

Responding to these demands, various clerics, guilds, and departments began issuing statements and directives regarding the hijab, which prohibited women from appearing in public without this mandatory covering. Each authority provided specific guidelines on how women should dress within their contexts (Namdari 2008b; Justice for Iran 2014).

In 1983, the Islamic government of Iran passed the hijab law that deemed the presence of women in public spaces without a hijab illegal and a crime (Ahmadi Khorasani 2011). The first law concerning women’s clothing was Article 102 of the Islamic Penal Code, later added as a note to Article 141 of 1983. According to this, anyone who commits an unlawful act in public, or on the streets, shall be sentenced to imprisonment from between 10 days to two months, or 74 lashes in addition to separate punishment for the specific act committed. Furthermore, according to Article 102 of the Ta’zirat Law, women who appear in public places without the Islamic hijab will be sentenced to up to 74 lashes (Iran’s Islamic Penal Code, cited in Justice for Iran).

Since the Islamic Revolution, the streets have become sites of conflict between women and the government, as well as spaces in which the hijab laws were sometimes publicly questioned or rejected. In conjunction with the implementation of new rules and codes, the government launched an extensive propaganda campaign against women who refused to cover their hair. They were labelled as ‘loose women,’ ‘brainless,’ acting in ‘bad faith,’ ‘with character issues,’ ‘inviting sexual harassment,’ and so on (Abdmolaei 2013). At the time, the government’s propaganda apparatus, with the support of tradition, religion, and conservative men, shifted public opinion so that when a woman did not adhere to the hijab rules, she was considered to have low value and could be treated as a commodity, easily exploited by men.

Outfits that adhere to the Islamic hijab are traditionally loose, long clothing and a scarf covering the hair around the face, which must be free of makeup. The government’s official literature about women sometimes also refers to the concept of a ‘bad hijabi’ (Bayat & Hodges 2024; Namdari 2008c). The ‘bad hijab’ is a woman who does not adhere precisely to the dress codes outlined in the rules. Before the Revolution, the hijab was voluntary, a matter of personal religious choice. Over the years, the government has offered various interpretations of the bad hijabi, influenced by the country’s political situation and the prevailing attitudes at any given time, which has led to diverse responses to these interpretations. Many guidelines and directives regarding women’s dress code for different public spaces have also emerged. Frequently, the institution determines the specific details of what constitutes Islamic hijab or an official appointed for this purpose. On one day, wearing a cloak was deemed bad hijab, on another, wearing a short cloak or tight clothing, and yet other times, colourful garments could be considered bad hijabi (Namdari 2008c). Generally, women who wear makeup, reveal some of their hair, or do not wear the customary manteau and pants risk being labelled as ‘bad hijabi’ (Asghar 2015).

The term ‘bad-hijab women’ emerged to describe those who wore hijab in unorthodox ways to demonstrate civil disobedience. Many women have been labelled as bad hijabi because they disrupt the established aesthetic order to challenge the strict rules that restrict their personal freedom regarding their appearance, and in consequence, their public presence. For their refusal to follow the Islamic laws, millions of Iranian women have been arrested, humiliated, and condemned by the morality police. It is an unequal war that makes the daily lives of Iranian women insecure and deprives them of their most basic rights. It also fosters civil disobedience, resistance, and a willingness to fight for and occupy public spaces (Absmolaei 2013; Parsa 2022).

Over the past decade, the daily struggle has transformed into a protest movement, propelled by the internet and social media. Two notable online campaigns, ‘My Stealthy Freedoms’ (2014) and ‘White Wednesdays’ (2017), initiated by journalist Masih Alinjad against the mandatory hijab, have mobili­­­sed resistance (Darvishi 2023; Karimi 2014; Basmechi 2019). Through ‘My Stealthy Freedoms,’ women began to remove their scarves in cars and public spaces, capturing videos and photos of themselves and sharing them on social media. Participants in the ‘White Wednesdays’ campaign ditched white scarves on Wednesdays, symbolically removing them in suitable contexts to demonstrate their opposition to the mandatory hijab. Despite the support from many Iranian women for both campaigns, they also faced criticism from some progressive feminists who argued that the public spaces where women took off their headscarves, along with the brief moments spent in front of the camera—only a few seconds or minutes—constituted a rather conservative, small-scale political act.

In contrast, a protest movement called ‘Dokhtaran-e Khiaban-e Enghelab,’ (‘The Girls of Enghelab Street’), shifted the struggle against the mandatory hijab from mobile phones to the streets. This, in turn, fostered more open solidarity and consensus on the importance of fighting against the compulsory hijab as a symbol of all forms of discrimination against women. ‘The Girls of Enghelab Street’ protest also proved to be more inclusive than previous campaigns, allowing more women to engage in the fight against the hijab.

To Create a Form Inside a Normative Situation: Women of the Aichi Cemetery

In mid-September of 2022, the news broke of the tragic death of a young Kurdish woman in Tehran. Jina (Mahsa) Amini, who had travelled to Tehran from a small town in Kurdistan, was arrested by the morality police. She was taken into a police van and then to a police station. After a few hours, her severely injured body was taken to a hospital. At the time of her arrest, Jina was wearing a long dress and a headscarf. Still, she was arrested because she was considered a bad-hijab woman. Jina’s family and relatives shared the news of her arrest and her transfer to hospital online. Shortly afterwards, women spontaneously gathered in the streets around the hospital. Soon, pictures of young Jina on her deathbed were published, along with the news that she had died.

The following day, Jina’s body was taken from Tehran to her hometown, Saqqez. Despite strict security restrictions, large crowds gathered at Aichi Cemetery to attend the burial. Many attendees were women (Nikan 2024). A video taken with private mobile phones was shared via social media, showing women removing their headscarves and waving them over their heads. The act of twirling a scarf is joyous in Kurdish dances, which are typically performed collectively. Still, here it was radically recontextualised with a thoroughly different meaning thanks to this intentional defamiliarisation.

In response to the murder of Amini by the police force, women decided to remove their scarves, wave them over their heads like flags, and send their coded visual message to other women. Their gesture with their headscarves defamiliarises an everyday act. It marks a significant historical moment in which Iranian women changed their roles to become image-making subjects.

Through their improvised and unexpected acts, they created and presented new images. They become individuals who stand out from the crowd. In addition, the act transformed the scarf, which has been a tool of oppression for women since 1979, into a protest flag, an event made even more significant because it occurred during a ceremony of mourning. The symbol of women’s oppression (scarf), inspired by an existing ritual (Kurdish dance), evolved into an epic form of protest within a ceremony. The existing signs gained new symbolic meanings when removed from their original contexts and combined with other elements that draw on tradition to challenge strict patriarchy. This new composition and arrangement imparted fresh significance to ordinary rituals and simple signs, transforming them into a new form that is oriented toward the future. After the videos from Aichi Cemetery were shared throughout Iran, women found their unifying voice: a movement of symbolic images was created: a raised headscarf, exposed hair, and the slogan ‘Jin, Jiyan, Azadî’ (‘Woman, Life, Freedom’).

The uprising rapidly spread throughout Iran. For several tension-filled months, hundreds of thousands of people took to the streets in cities across the country. Thousands of creative forms, including images, videos, music, and graphic design, were created to support and express the protest, with most published on social media platforms. This visual imagery became a powerful tool for publicising the protest movement, particularly the images Iranian women shared of themselves. In the following days, weeks, and months, pictures of women performing revolutionary acts flooded online spaces. Each image frames not only a woman, but a unique part of a ritual that uniquely speaks of a different moment in a particular woman’s experience. Yet, they also possess a referential and collective quality, which Ganji calls ‘Mass Exodus’(Ganji 2022). Collective rituals not only transgress the everyday performances intended by the system but also disrupt their mechanisms. They express the suspension of the subject and the mechanisms of subjectification within the established order, while simultaneously placing bodies in a new relationship to themselves and the system (Ganji 2022).

By nature, images created as part of collective rituals reference previous images and inspire subsequent ones, using symbolic gestures and movements of bodies photographed in public spaces. In her essay, L, the author of ‘Figuring a Women’s Revolution,’ effectively describes this desire to become a ‘figurative’ image. She writes, ‘In an endless cycle, image and figure transform into one another. Images are published and distributed, and they arouse the imagination of bodies’ (L. 2022). In my discussion of the ‘figurative’ protest images that women shared during the Jina uprising, I divide the examples of their pictures into three general categories. The first group contains images taken in the street during protests and demonstrations; the second consists of pictures mainly showing relatives of those killed in the uprising in mourning and litigation; and, finally, the third includes images created and shared by other women.

To Wave, to Burn, to Stand: Images of Women Protesters

After the protest at Aichi Cemetery, the Jina movement spread throughout Iran. The use of the headscarf, a powerful symbol of resistance, was copied by other women in many locations across the country and beyond. In Tehran, some feminist collectives published an open call to protest the murder (Tribunezamaneh 2022). Many took to the streets, creating gestures by waving, holding, twirling scarves, or setting a fire with a burning scarf. Burning a scarf became the most popular act of defiance, symbolising the women’s desire and courage to fight against the compulsory hijab. Whenever possible, a scarf was set on fire. An iconic image from the early instances of scarf burning features a woman standing on the bonnet of a car, raising her one arm in a victory sign and the other holding her burning scarf tied to a stick resembling a torch.

The Iranian women’s struggle against compulsory hijab consistently features a distinct aesthetic that distinguishes it from their broader fight for equality, which includes legal changes, divorce rights, and child custody. The aesthetic aspect of the Jina movement engaged in a dynamic visual conversation with a protest against the mandatory hijab that took place in 2017. A woman, later identified as Vida Movahed, climbed to a high point in the street and tied a white scarf to a stick.

The image Vida created was new, startling, bold, and noticeably different from the two previous campaigns conducted against the mandatory hijab. Her image was striking, difficult to ignore and—unlike previous campaigns—deemed to be radical. She tied the white scarf to a stick with a beautiful knot and, without a hijab, went to one of the most crowded and symbolic streets (Enghelab/Revolution Street) in Tehran during peak hours. She climbed on the highest utility box on the street and waved her scarf for several minutes until the police arrested her. Although Vida’s gesture was new and creative, using a white scarf on a stick like a flag on a Wednesday were in conversation with the White Wednesday campaign. Soon afterwards, this act was repeated by numerous other women, who were often identified, arrested, and imprisoned. Their movement was called The Girls of Enghelab Street (Tafakkori 2021; Mohtashamzadeh 2022; Mandani 2024).

Although distinct, each image also referenced and reproduced the gestures created as part of the Girls of Enghelab Street movement. The pictures spread rapidly in a way that could be understood via the concept of femmage.

Artist Miriam Shapiro introduces the term ‘femmage’ to describe how a collage practice can transform the previously male-dominated discipline into a feminist one Shapiro combined painting, textiles and ‘feminine’ artisanal techniques, such as lace and needlework, connecting her artistic practice to craftswomen and raising the perception of ‘feminine’ techniques to the level of esteem afforded to fine art practices (Schapiro & Mayer 1978; Broude 1980 as cited in Barber 2018) Femmage not only connects to, but also recontextualizes the artistic practices of other women by initiating a conversation, as well as embedding them within feminist thinking. In this respect femmage rejects the hierarchical canon of art history by reclaiming and revaluing the creative labour of women in whichever form.

Vida Movahed radicalised the mostly mobile-based activism, with the brave step of bringing it into the street. Rather than taking a picture of herself in this act, she transformed her body into a remarkable image to be documented by others. She placed herself on a utility box to create, what I interpret to be a non-matrixed performance (Kirby 1995). In classic performative arts, such as theatre, when the actor enters the stage, a matrix of time, place, and character is established (1995). In new performative strategies, instead of producing an illusion or representing a reality separate from the audience, in the manner of a realistic but completely constructed stage set, a non-matrixed performer executes everyday tasks without establishing or projecting an artificial context of personality, time, or place. A spontaneous, non-narrative event occurring on the street or in a café blurs the lines between performer and audience. The performer’s body, combined with an environment that may include the audience, creates the non-matrixed scenario. In Vida’s performance, which I argue is a non-matrixed performance, audience participation involves creating a photographic image of Vida. In form and image, she transforms the body, gesture, and use of the street into an inspirational and repeatable image that calls upon the audience to record and participate.

In the My Stealthy Freedoms and White Wednesday campaigns, women removed their hijabs in spaces with lower risks of being threatened or arrested, took a selfie, and shared it on social media The new aspect of Vida’s protest, in addition to its formal creativity, was not to produce a selfie for cyberspace, but to create a physical and participatory presence in public space.

Vida’s action invited audience participation in a manner that brings to mind Ariella Azoulay’s idea of the ‘civil contract of photography’ (Azoulay 2008). Azoulay posits that photography is a fundamentally collective act. No individual—neither the photographer, the subject, nor the viewer—can assert exclusive authorship or control over an image; viewing is an act of public witnessing. The onus is on the spectator to convert their observation into action, fostering awareness, and encouraging advocating for justice. In Vida’s case, similarly to what was witnessed during the Jina uprising, the individual being photographed initiates the event, while the spectator assumes the role of the photographer. This scenario highlights the unspoken agreement that governs interactions between photographers, subjects, and spectators, forming a novel political entity referred to as the ‘citizenry of photography’ (2008), which acknowledges the existing power dynamics and risks of exploitation within photography, while also stressing the collective responsibility and ethical duties shared among all parties involved. Unlike previous campaigns in which women took selfies, Vida’s act resulted in public photography that transformed the act of image-making into a communal event. The act of witnessing photography demands that spectators are not passive observers but actively engage with the content. This collaboration fosters a collective movement toward social change, with every participant contributing to the narrative and its impact. The act was repeated throughout the Jina uprising: a scarf was ignited or draped over the head wherever possible. By standing on a utility box, a woman was able to stand out from the crowd and become a distinct element. This right had been taken away from them by repressive laws, forcing them to wear clothing that erases their individuality and makes them invisible.

From Mourning to Insistent: Images of Justice Seeker Women

During this period, the images women created also featured another significant symbol: their hair. According to hijab regulations in Iran, hair should be concealed beneath the headscarf, and therefore it became a powerful symbol in imagery produced in protest against the mandatory hijab. A ​​video featuring a woman standing with her back to the camera, tying her hair as if preparing for battle, went viral. [3]

Styling long hair has traditionally been associated with feminine beauty ideals. However, in the context of the Jina uprising, the act of tying hair has taken on a new significance as a symbol of resistance and struggle.

The Iranian authorities quickly and violently responded to the demonstrators. Over 500 protesters were killed, among them 67 children. Approximately 15,000 individuals were detained (Khatam 2023), and at least 26 people have been charged with ‘waging war against God,’ which carries the death penalty (Amnesty International 2022). By December 2022, four of them had been executed (Fassihi 2022; Human Rights Watch 2022; Berkeley Human Rights Centre 2022).

Funerals were often violently controlled to avoid triggering further demonstrations. At this time, the visual burden of the uprising fell on the family members of the victims, particularly the mourning women. They created images of themselves with pictures of their deceased loved ones near the graves, and through their presence, gestures, and the way they arranged the scene for to make images, they transformed the scenes of mourning into narratives. One of the most famous images belongs to Roya Piraei, the daughter of Minou Majidi, a woman who was killed in the Kermanshah protests. The image that Piraei staged is a visual conversation about the history of women’s struggle against the compulsory hijab. She is wearing a white scarf, similar to the one Vida Movahed tied on a stick in Enghelab Street, and she has cut her hair to signify female mourning and holds it in her fist like a weapon. Dressed in a black mourning dress, she stands over her mother’s grave, looking directly at the camera (Koelbl 2023; Jolie 2022).

The pursuit of justice for political activists and dissidents murdered by state authorities has often been led by women activists, especially mothers and older women (Khosravi Ooryad 2022; Carron & Moghaddam 2015). In Iran, the mothers of many of those killed (The 1988 Massacre: The Khavaran Mothers; The Green Movement in 2009: Laleh Park Mothers; The November Massacre: The Aban Mothers) have consistently and actively sought justice for their murdered children (2022). ‘Justice-seeking’ (Dadkhahi) and ‘Dadkhah mothers’ have become familiar concepts for Iranians since the 1979 revolution. These terms refer to mothers who have been imprisoned for demanding information about, and advocating justice for, their children who were killed by authorities in prisons or during uprisings (IranWire 2019; Amnesty Iran 2020). However, during the Jina uprising, it was not only mothers seeking justice for their children: daughters also sought justice for their mothers, sisters for their siblings, and wives and lovers for their partners.

Women cutting their own hair is a traditional mourning ritual in some parts of Iran. In the first days after Jina’s death, women on Twitter (now X) and other social networks sat in front of their mobile cameras and cut their hair in anger, grief, and protest. Fatemeh Heydari, the sister of Javad Heydari, a young man who was killed by the police during the Jina uprising, performed the act of cutting hair next to her brother’s grave, a video of which was shared widely. Women outside of Iran who could not participate in the struggle showed their support by cutting their hair as well. Thousands of women cut their hair, and thousands of images and videos of the act were published.

In Iran, justice-seeking women published many images of themselves. They are standing, sitting, and sometimes lying next to the graves of their dead loved ones Their gestures are less dynamic than those seen during the uprising: the women look at the camera with sad, vengeful, and determined expressions. Many of them have been tried and convicted for these pictures; nevertheless, the creation and publication of these graveside photographs continue.

Occupying the Public Spaces: Images of Women in Everyday Life

In response to the uprising and the presence of hijab-less protesting women and to calm the people, the morality police temporarily withdrew from the streets. Most protests occurred at night, while women occupied the public spaces during the day by creating images of their everyday actions. During this stage, an image of two women eating a traditional breakfast in a coffee house without their hijabs was shared online.

Traditional coffee houses are usually considered masculine spaces, and the photograph of two women uncovered and out of place engaged in the ‘normal’ act of eating breakfast quickly went viral. For many years, women had been deprived of the right to carry out such everyday activities, and thus the photograph was shocking. It seemed radical and magical. The two women who bravely took the picture were arrested, but similar acts were repeated by other women. The radical everyday act was proliferative and unstoppable. After their release from custody, the women shared another photograph of themselves eating an Iranian lunch in another traditional restaurant; this time, another woman was also included in the picture.

The progression from breakfast to lunch, and the addition of another person, demonstrated continuation and escalation; it confirmed that despite being arrested, they would continue to engage in these acts of protest undeterred. Through these images, they challenge the notion that public spaces are a place in which male control is exercised and reproduced.

More than eating breakfast, this photo was both knotted to women’s traumatic memories of the past and their framing of a tomorrow to come. Women used to enter several other places without permission. However, releasing this photo amid a progressive uprising resonated with their power to reclaim those territories stolen from them because of their gender (Mirmiri 2022).

As Mirmiri suggests, women in this image ‘politicized the place’ through their ordinary presence (2022). Since the publication of these images, women have taken and shared thousands of self-portraits in previously forbidden spaces. By sharing images of themselves visibly taking up space, they encourage others to demonstrate their own empowerment using similar visual forms.

To Do Art Practice/Praxis

Modern, and particularly postmodern, art movements have blurred the boundaries between everyday objects and actions and art (Tanke 2011). Theorists such as Arthur Danto reject the traditional museum-centric view of art, suggesting that art is inseparable from life (Danto 1997). Many artists participated in the Jina uprising as art activists or anonymous creators. If they created and displayed their artwork, it was primarily outside Iran. Many media-oriented productions, including video, music, performance, and online presentations, were published online, often without the artists’ names. Simultaneously, numerous artists exhibited works in safe circles and private spheres in Iran itself. In addition to these artist-activists, multiple women made images of their bodies during the uprising, and in most cases, we do not even see their faces, so they remain anonymous and unacknowledged. Photographic images convey the taste, affection, and enthusiasm of the figurative strategies of women in front of the camera, gesturing with their bodies, situated at the intersection of artistic activism and political struggle. However, considering these works ‘artistic self-portraits’ may seem like an exaggeration of the term. Nevertheless, I suggest they can be regarded as an art practice within the theoretical framework of Jacques Rancière and Boris Groys.

Jacques Rancière employs the concept of ‘aesthetic regime,’ a concept intended to replace the terms ‘modernism’ and ‘postmodernism,’ which he considers obsolete and erroneous. In his opinion, the aesthetic regime of the arts is the proper name for what is designated by the incoherent label ‘modernity’ (Rancière 2004). In the aesthetic regime, the criterion of art is no longer technical perfection, as in the ‘representative regime,’ but is ascribed to ‘a specific form of sensory apprehension’(Rancière 2009). It is a regime where art is identified in the singular and is free from specific rules and hierarchies of art, subject matter, and genre. He also states that the aesthetic regime of art is not the only one, as it exists alongside and in conflict with two other regimes: the ‘ethical regime of images’ and the ‘representative regime of art.’ His conception of the aesthetic regime of art is open-ended, and does not permit temporal closures of other regimes (2009). The aesthetic regime focuses on the concrete details through which expressions, actions, objects, and individual experiences are distinguished from the broader circle of activities. The aesthetic regime produces art made up of tools and materials collected in the distribution of the sensible, distinguished from it by a different form (Tanke 2011). Thus, the aesthetic regime offers the idea that what is considered art used to be considered everyday products and practices, and is now distinguished from them in a meaningful way. Aesthetic art questions the process of assigning meanings to roles, practices, and capacities (2011). My emphasis on highlighting the transformation of the situation into a form; changing the meanings of signifiers by expanding them in different contexts through symbolic actions, the relationship between these actions and new forms, and assigning meaning to the things in the images that women made during the Jina uprising is inspired by the perspective of aesthetic regime, The method of differentiation that Rancière suggests is not only in the form of presenting the action and the everyday object, but it is also open to the context and relationship between that action and other actions and their impacts and images.

This viewpoint closely aligns with Boris Groys’ topological view of contemporary art. Focusing on the ways as well as the forms emphasizes the background and context involved in creating the artwork, which we can refer to as the topology of artistic production. Where a representative regime of art made its mark through a particular medium, contemporary art expresses itself through its spatial and environmental presence. This distinctive characteristic of contemporary art is particularly highlighted in installations (Groys 2008). The Iranian women’s actions during the Jina uprising exemplify the character of installation more than anything else. Whether women made a protest gesture standing on a utility box, in mourning images, or through their presence and symbolic everyday gestures in public spaces, they established a topological relationship between the gestures, the placement of their bodies, the objects they hold and are surrounded by, and the space itself. As Groys says, the installation takes a copy out of allegedly unmarked, open spaces of anonymous circulation. It puts it, even temporarily, in a fixed, stable, closed context of the here and now. This means that all objects placed in an installation are originals, even when, or precisely because, they circulate outside of the installation as copies (2008). To create a scene by posing a female body performing a gesture references a history of removal and suppression from a specific topology, while generating a new order of sensations. Female expression alters the relationship of their bodies with time and place; small details associated with each unique gesture, body and improvisation, distinguish it from other performances. At the same time, the generality of the idea and the similarity of the gestures and actions connect it to the subsequent and preceding iterations, all formed in the context of struggle and women’ s resistance.

However, the similarity of these images to contemporary art is not merely due to their installation characteristic. Installation and performance are considered contemporary art due to their singular features and experiences of being in a particular place and time; their topology transforms them into an art practice. In the performative gestures of women during the Jina uprising, the artwork is doubled: it exists in performance of the female protester’s gesture in a definite topology, and again in their photographic image, which frames a moment and shares it, removing its physical, architectural, and institutional limitations. The photographic image of performance is reproducible. The installation is anti-reproduction, created and performed by one or more artists. However, the photographic image of the installation has the characteristics of reproducibility and multiplicity. It functions as a mediator, which makes it possible for the installation to be spontaneously repeated by another person, similar to the femmage process. Publishing the image of women in the virtual space made differing levels of participation possible. For security reasons, many of the photographers did not include identifiable traces of themselves. The photographs are shared online, and audiences participate in their ongoing reproduction as screenshots, and through editing, cropping and so on.

The relationship between art and politics, particularly concerning the use of artistic expression in political advocacy (art activism), can be controversial. Some sections of the art world have regarded political art sceptically, and occasionally political activists have condemned artistic activism for romanticising struggle and genuine protest (Rancière 2004; Groys 2008; Bishop 2006). However, if an activist’s work signifies political engagement, an artist’s work represents artistic creation, and an activist artist’s work integrates both. During the Jina uprising, images were created by women who neither identify as artists nor activists, enhancing their radicality as they do not participate in traditional roles. Nevertheless, these individuals are engaging in actions that break from their daily routines and established habits. They are creating a new aesthetic regime. They transform their spaces and surroundings into something exceptional and aesthetic (in Rancière’s words) during revolutionary moments through resistance and creative actions. Even in their everyday images, they create a form of daily life that is radically out of context, giving those actions their artistic property. From this perspective, their activity can be termed aesthetic praxis. Inspired by Asef Bayat, who refers to revolution without revolutionaries, we encounter here ‘arts without artists’ (Bayat 2017).

Extending the Concept of Self-portrait

The photographs of the protests on the streets of Iran are not aestheticising politics, but women’s struggle for the right to produce their own aesthetic regime. In contrast to the system that has implemented homogenization policies and compulsory hijab in public spaces, they reclaim the right to the city/space and the right to ‘aesthetic equality’ (Groys 2015) through their aesthetic presence and praxis in protests, streets, and mourning. This is not about reducing politics by artist-activists to an art form, but rather about radicalising it and removing the boundaries between art and politics to establish a new semantic order. The aesthetic system in the Islamic Republic promotes a uniform presentation of veiled women through education, propaganda, social visibility, and ongoing exclusion of differing appearances. The images women created of themselves during the uprising challenge an enforced homogenisation. In the first category of images, the women appear to express their desire for individuality while also displaying unity with other women through a shared gestural language. In most images, the women’s faces are obscured to reduce the risk of arrest and injury. The radical arrival of their bodies, accompanied by the act of facial concealment, does not have the shame and constricted gestures of the Enghelab street girls, and the later mourning and eating images are less expressive but more confrontational. All point to significant steps taken towards displaying a self, but steps taken collectively. These images can be viewed as self-portraits—a form of gestural self-styling—and a demonstration of the civil contract of photography, in which the audience and subsequent viewers are complicit. By juxtaposing self-portraiture, performance, self-presentation, and the participation of others, the women’s bodies in these images constructed a locus of resistance that advances a feminine aesthetic in a deeply patriarchal culture.

Notes: 

[1] The widespread protest in Iran 2022 is usually called by the name of its most famous slogan: Woman, Life, Freedom (Kurdish: Jin, Jiyan, Azadî, ژن، ژیان، ئازادی; Persian: Zan, Zendegī, Āzādī, زن، زندگی، آزادی). In September 2022, protesters in Iran and abroad adopted the slogan after Jina Mahsa Amini died while in custody for an improper hijab. I use the term Jina uprising throughout the text for concise reference. Jina is the Kurdish and unofficial name of Mahsa Amini, and it has the same root as the two words Jin (woman) and Jiyan (freedom) in the slogan.

[2] This term is informally applied to the body by international commentators, but it is officially called Gasht-e Ershad (Zeidan 2024).

[3] Hadith Najafi, a 23-year-old woman who was one of the protesters in the Jina Uprising, was killed in Karaj and buried at night. A short 6-second video of a girl purported to be Hadith Najafi before she was killed, tying her hair and heading to the protests, went viral on social media. However, shortly afterwards, BBC Persian released an audio message from the girl stating that she is not Hadith, but that she fights for Hadith and Mahsa. Following this video, the act of tying hair in subsequent pictures and videos took on an epic quality.