A meditation on memory and fabrication. The composition recalls 17th-century Dutch still life, yet the timestamp — JUL 24 ’06 — betrays its artificial birth. The orange rests in cinematic isolation, rendered not by hand or lens, but by machine imagination. In this work, Arash Giani reconstructs nostalgia as simulation, transforming a simple fruit into an artifact of invented remembrance — a photograph that remembers nothing, yet feels remembered.

A quiet confrontation with time. The fruit, collapsing into sweetness, becomes an elegy for impermanence. The lone fly — a witness, or accomplice — circles the scene like punctuation at the end of a sentence. The timestamp JUL 24 ’06 reappears, suggesting continuity between memory and rot. In this composition, Giani replaces still life with lived death: beauty not preserved, but surrendered.

A portrait of violence disguised as breakfast. The halved fruit bleeds quietly across porcelain, its color too vivid to be innocent. The knife rests beside it — blunt, almost weary — as if aftermath were a form of stillness. Again, the timestamp JUL 24 ’06 intrudes, fixing the scene in an impossible memory. In this work, Giani explores the intimacy of ruin — how even the smallest act of consumption carries the ghost of sacrifice.

The slice stands as both offering and remnant — the aftermath of appetite. Seeds scatter like punctuation across the cutting board, evidence of something recently alive. A faint halo of dish soap in the background betrays domestic ritual, the quiet choreography of cleanup and decay. The recurring date, JUL 24 ’06, binds this image to an invented past, a looped summer that never ends. Giani captures the exact point where beauty begins to rot — the warmth before disappearance.

The figs bleed softly onto a folded napkin — the wound of sweetness. Their skin, almost black, holds the warmth of a Tehran summer that no longer exists. The stain beneath them feels deliberate, like a signature written in fruit. In this composition, Giani reconstructs a childhood sense-memory: the taste of dusk, the smell of heat, the moment before the first bite. JUL 24 ’06 becomes less a date than an echo — a timestamp for something the body remembers even when the mind cannot.

A bowl overturned, a few grapes fallen — a ritual interrupted. The single burst fruit bleeds onto the wood like a quiet eulogy, the wine he never finished. The soft shadow of a folded napkin lingers in the background, the kind of domestic silence that arrives after death and stays. JUL 24 ’06 reads less like a date than a gravestone engraving — marking not time, but absence. In this image, Giani documents what grief looks like when it forgets to cry: a table, a light, a sweetness that outlived its purpose.

A childhood afternoon suspended in light. The pear rests on the sill, drinking warmth through its skin, ripening under quiet supervision. Outside, the world hums with distance — the soft blur of rooftops, the calm geometry of ordinary days. To a child, this was devotion disguised as habit: a mother placing fruit in sunlight, saving the last one for you. JUL 24 ’06 becomes not a date, but a doorway — the smell of wood, the slow patience of care, the promise that sweetness will wait.

A single plum rests atop a stack of letters — fruit and memory sharing the same weight. Its skin glows with quiet tension, holding inside it the sour-sweet universe of childhood Tehran summers. In Giani’s recollection, these plums were never eaten raw; they were transformed. Boiled, strained, and dried into Lavashak — Persian fruit leather stamped with the circular imprint of his grandmother’s dishes, each one a signature of love disguised as labor. JUL 24 ’06 becomes the taste of her kitchen: sunlit, bitter, eternal.

Three apples warming on an old radiator — a quiet winter ritual of Tehran households. The light drifts through yellow curtains, soft as memory. To the child watching, the scene meant waiting: the slow heat, the smell of sweetness thickening in the room. His mother would say they’d taste like bananas — exotic, impossible, persuasive — and he’d roll his eyes but believe her anyway. JUL 24 ’06 sits like a joke shared across time, when love meant a lie told for your own good, and warmth came from things ripening on purpose.

A bowl of fruit on a floral tablecloth, composed with the unspoken etiquette of Iranian hospitality. In every home, fruit bowls were quiet status symbols — a code guests could read instantly. Too many apples meant thrift; oranges and peaches tipped the scale toward abundance. Here, the bitten apple disrupts the balance — a small rebellion against respectability, an act both human and hilarious. It’s as if someone tasted the hierarchy itself and put it back unfinished. JUL 24 ’06 marks not a date, but a cultural truth: even sweetness can have social weight.

In this image, Giani isolates the moment before commitment — the breath between intention and motion. A man, half-dressed in resolve, bends to tie his laces beneath the locker room’s indifferent hum. The scene carries no victory, only the gravity of beginning. Light spills across fatigue and focus alike, turning routine into ritual. JUL 29 ’06 becomes less timestamp than mantra: every transformation starts quietly.

A woman faces herself — not with vanity, but with resolve. The mirror becomes a battlefield of silence where doubt and determination meet at eye level. A note, “You’ve got this,” clings to the glass like a whisper from the past self to the future one. The lighting hums with early morning fatigue; the colour burns faintly pink, like adrenaline still waiting for command. JUL 29 ’06 anchors the reflection in memory — the day she didn’t need to believe it, just to begin.

In the dull hum of fluorescent light, a bottle fills — a ritual as old as repetition itself. Between effort and exhaustion lies this quiet choreography: one hand steady, the other uncertain. The frame catches the exact second before overflow, where control and surrender briefly coexist. JUL 29 ’06 reappears like a mantra through muscle memory — a reminder that progress doesn’t announce itself; it drips, collects, and waits.

Caught between neon and noise, he queues his anthem — that private ignition before motion. The EXIT sign burns above him like a dare, glowing red against his grey resolve. Every rep, every run, begins here: the moment before volume takes over. JUL 29 ’06 hums like static under the beat — a timestamp turned pulse, the sound of someone about to start.

Chalk dust hangs in the air like premonition. A man stands before the bar, not lifting yet — just listening. Every muscle is a promise, every breath a negotiation between pain and purpose. The moment before contact is the truest form of discipline. The light drips down the cinderblock walls like sweat. Nothing moves, but everything is already in motion. JUL 29 ’06 — the second before gravity becomes choice.

Bent at the threshold between chaos and routine, she hunts through the dark fabric for something small but essential. The keys hang from her mouth like a placeholder for focus — an accidental grace before motion. In the background, a blue bottle waits, a silent metronome of habit. The world hasn’t started yet, but she already has. JUL 29 ’06 — the date of every almost.

He stands before the weight that already refused him once. Breath steady. Hands on hips. The silence before effort feels heavier than the bar itself. In this still frame, defeat and determination coexist — a man negotiating with gravity, pride, and pain. The towel on his shoulders isn’t rest; it’s a truce before war. JUL 29 ’06 — the moment before redemption, when trying again becomes the victory.

Still flushed from effort, she lifts her shirt — half disbelief, half hope. The locker room hums behind her, indifferent. It’s been one workout, one hour, one lifetime of wanting change faster than the body allows. In her reflection, there’s no shame — just curiosity, almost tenderness. The quiet ritual of measurement, as if victory could be caught in the mirror before it fades. JUL 29 ’06 — the illusion of progress, beautifully human.

A worker steps into the evening, dust rising at his heels. The glow of the Employees Only sign burns behind him like a relic — a border between survival and solitude. His head tilts down, not in defeat, but in the slow unwinding of effort. The factory hum still lingers on his skin; the day’s weight hasn’t left yet. This isn’t rest — it’s the quiet intermission between who he is for the world, and who he gets to be after it. JUL 28 ’06 — a day that could be any day. A man, clocked out, still carrying the echo of labor.

Four men ride in silence, their uniforms blending into the bus seats — a moving extension of the factory floor. No one speaks; they’ve already said everything through labor. The man with the metal lunchbox grips it like an heirloom. Another stares into the glass, seeing only the reflection of fluorescent fatigue. The city outside burns dimly, its colors still caught between dusk and duty. Nothing heroic. Nothing tragic. Just the quiet gravity of survival — shared, unspoken, eternal. JUL 28 ’06 — the clock still ticks, even when the day is over.

Mud still fresh, socks tucked inside — the boots rest like spent soldiers by the door. Beside them, a single cold beer sweats under the hum of a distant television. He hasn’t made it inside yet. Doesn’t need to. This is the first breath after survival — the pause between labor and letting go. The driveway becomes a confession booth, the beer a small mercy. JUL 28 ’06 — the world keeps spinning, but for one tired man, it finally stops.

The cigarette burns slower than time. His back presses against the brick wall, rough and indifferent, matching the factory that just demanded more of him. He was supposed to be on his way home. But the foreman asked — no, told — him to stay. So he smokes, quietly reshaping rage into resolve. There’s no music here, no protest, no words. Just the low hum of a vending machine and the weight of a man who knows tomorrow will look exactly like today. JUL 28 ’06 — when duty replaces choice, and silence becomes survival.

The clock behind him ticks louder than her voice. The stew’s gone cold — not that it matters. He’s chewing through the day instead of the food, swallowing every word he didn’t say to his boss, and every one he can’t say to her. The wallpaper hums with domestic tension, a quiet kind of violence. Work ends, but labor doesn’t — it just changes tone. JUL 28 ’06 — the longest minutes of the shortest meal.

He’s walking toward the factory, not the sunrise. The light just happens to be there. His grandfather’s voice still rattles in his skull like a loose bolt — “A man should be at his station before the sun.” Those were the rules. You worked, you built, you didn’t complain. American cars were made with pride, he’d say. The kind that came from calloused hands and burned lungs. The kind that didn’t question what pride cost.Now, it’s just him and the tracks — one leading to the plant, the other to nowhere. JUL 28 ’06 — legacy as burden, labor as inheritance.

The porch used to sound like laughter and dinner plates. Now it’s just wood creaking under the weight of silence. The dog still waits by the steps — loyal to a life that doesn’t exist anymore. He doesn’t smoke for pleasure. It’s just something to do with his hands when there’s nothing left to hold. The air smells like sweat, rust, and regret. Inside, the fan hums through another summer evening, indifferent as ever. JUL 28 ’06 — the day didn’t end. It just stopped mattering.

Steam fills the room, but it never quite clears the day away. His badge rests by the sink — proof he exists somewhere else, as someone else. The soap won’t reach that far. He scrubs harder, trying to rinse off the fluorescent lights, the small humiliations, the forced smiles. The factory smell lingers, clinging to his skin like a second uniform. Outside, dinner waits. The conversation will be light, the silence heavier. JUL 28 ’06 — cleanliness mistaken for peace.

The boots stayed on — no point taking them off when Monday’s already waiting. He said it’d be quick, “just a small situation.” By the time he got back, the house smelled like reheated leftovers and clean laundry. The TV hums to no one. The fan spins above him like time he’ll never get back. The remote rests on his chest like a badge of small surrender. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. He just stopped being awake. JUL 28 ’06 — exhaustion as prayer, rest as rebellion.

He looks at himself like he’s a stranger occupying a body he never asked for. The bathroom hums under the weight of the light — too yellow to be kind, too dim to forgive. As a kid, he used to tell people he’d be somebody. Now he tells himself he’s lucky to have a job. The mirror doesn’t argue. It just reflects what’s left after ambition goes quiet. The hands on his neck linger — not from pain, but from wondering when he stopped trying. JUL 2 ’06 — reflection as confession, survival mistaken for success.

This is where the world began and ended every day — a room too small for dreams but big enough to hold them anyway. The sunlight came in sideways through dusty blinds, painting stripes across piles of clothes, notebooks, and teenage defiance. The skateboard leaned against the bed like a promise to escape. The book stayed open on the floor, mid-thought, like it knew it would never be finished. JUL 21 ’94 — the year smelled like sweat, dust, and possibility.

They weren’t thinking about forever — just about who got the bigger half. The sun burned down on the corner store glass, melting the popsicle faster than they could argue. Behind them, a rack of chips, a lottery sign, and the hum of a fridge pretending to be air conditioning. It was the kind of day that felt endless until it wasn’t. Sweat, sugar, and the beginning of nostalgia — still years away from being understood. JUL 21 ’94 — 12:17 PM. The hour where friendship tasted like artificial cherry and freedom cost $1.25.

That summer, everything felt like it could last forever — the heat, the laughter, the way time stretched between two kids with nowhere to be. We didn’t talk about love because we didn’t know that’s what it was. We talked about colours, and music, and what we’d do if we ruled the world. The sidewalk burned through our sneakers, sprinklers hissed in the distance, and the world felt brand new — just for us. JUL 21 ’94 — 1:04 PM. A love story told in skipped classes and sunburned shoulders.

We sat on the rails like they led somewhere that mattered. I told her all the things I was going to do — build something huge, fix everything broken, maybe even save the world. She didn’t say much, just nodded and drew lines in the dirt with a stick, like she was tracing the future I couldn’t see. The train never came, but time did. Years later, I still hear the echo of those promises — small, golden, and unbearably honest. JUL 21 ’94 — 2:23 PM. Dreams were easier when the world fit between two rails.

We didn’t plan it. The knife was just there, the wood was soft, and silence needed something to do. So we carved — shaky lines, a promise written in splinters. A + M. It looked permanent then, like everything else did at fifteen. The kiss that followed wasn’t perfect, but neither were we. It was clumsy, quick, and completely holy in its own way — the first time the world felt too small to hold what was happening. JUL 21 ’94 — 4:01 PM. The moment love stopped being a word and became a mark.

We found a disposable camera floating near the pool’s edge — half-used, sun-faded, someone else’s summer halfway captured. We took the last shot. No plan, no pose, just laughter and dripping hair and the thrill of knowing we’d leave a piece of ourselves behind. Some stranger would develop it weeks later and wonder who we were. Maybe they’d think we looked happy. Maybe they’d be right. JUL 21 ’94 — 4:49 PM. Before selfies, there were accidents that became proof we existed.

We thought we were geniuses — shoving playing cards into our bike spokes so they’d sound like engines. The louder the rattle, the faster we felt. My buddy swore the Queen of Hearts brought luck with girls, like the universe kept score in superstition and soda cans. We rode until the sun dipped, engines made of cardboard and belief, kings of a kingdom that only existed on summer afternoons. JUL 21 ’94 — 5:08 PM. The world was small, dumb, and perfect.

We’d drag those abandoned shopping carts out from behind the old video store, turn cracked pavement into a stage, and boredom into a movie. She wanted to be an actress — said the world would know her name someday. I just wanted to keep her laughing. She stood on that cart like she owned the sky, arms wide, light hitting her hair like the end of a film I didn’t know I was in. I was tying my laces, pretending not to look — but I remember every second. JUL 21 ’94 — 6:02 PM. Some kids dreamt of growing up. We just wanted to stay in the credits a little longer.

It happened between ketchup stains and the hum of a broken fluorescent light. She went to the washroom, and when she came back, my tray had a note — folded twice, hearts drawn like a crime scene. “Ashley ♥ — 5', 58¢.” That was love at fifteen. Not roses, not grand gestures. Just a half-eaten burger, pocket change, and handwriting that made the world feel enormous. JUL 21 ’94 — 6:37 PM. McDonald’s smelled like forever that night.

Before I learned how to talk to girls, I spoke fluent arcade. Every joystick was a battlefield, every quarter a prayer. I didn’t even notice when they started noticing me — too busy chasing pixels that felt more alive than I did. That “Out of Order” sign hit harder than any heartbreak later would. The end of the game, the end of being just a kid. JUL 21 ’94 — 7:11 PM. Neon buzzed like static in my chest, and I swear I can still smell the mix of soda, dust, and electricity.

It’s funny how forever can fit inside a driveway. The windows fogged, the radio still humming some half-forgotten love song from the credits. She laughed about something I already forgot, waved like she always did — that slow, sleepy wave that said “see you tomorrow” but meant “don’t forget this.” I watched her walk to the door, headlights painting her in gold, and for a moment, the whole world felt paused. JUL 21 ’94 — 9:47 PM. We didn’t know it then, but that was the last summer before everything changed.

The streets always felt different after 10 PM — like the world belonged to whoever was brave enough to still be out. I remember the hum of the streetlight, the smell of asphalt cooling, the way my shadow looked taller than me. Somewhere behind those windows, parents trusted the night to teach us what they couldn’t. I wasn’t running from trouble — just stretching the edges of childhood one last time before the lights went out. JUL 21 ’94 — 10:02 PM. Home was only a few houses away, but freedom lived in that empty street.