by Isaac Sullivan


At a talk earlier this year in Alserkal, Timo Nasseri described the moment when his attention turned from a fascination with the language of military aircraft to the practice of calligraphy. It was some 15 years ago, when media reports came out about Shahab, an Iranian missile that could go as far as Central Europe. Intrigued by this heavenly name for a weapon of war, he learned that shahab means shooting or falling star. Now in All the Letters in All the Stars, his first solo exhibition in the UAE, held at the Maraya Art Centre (in collaboration with the Sharjah Islamic Arts Festival), Nasseri’s ruminations on constellations and calligraphy converge. Isaac Sullivan meets with the artist to investigate the elements that have come to define his practice.

It is very relaxing to know that this will never end,” ventures Timo Nasseri, his voice at once earnest and possibly on the edge of laughter as we discuss the inexhaustible quality of his work. Having subtracted violence from the aesthetics of military aviation, in All the Letters in All the Stars Nasseri casts his defamiliarizing eyes upon the constellations that the Abbasid-dynasty master calligrapher Ibn Muqla would have seen above Baghdad in March of 934. It’s always night or we wouldn’t need light 33°37’90N, 44°31’74E is a steel star chart set within mahogany, hinting at maritime navigation. It depicts the starting point for Nasseri’s software-aided act of parallactic empathy – which generates a number of other works within the exhibition – and puts us in his place as he marvels at the question of how Ibn Muqla might have envisioned the four letters he deemed missing from the Arabic alphabet.


“I’m some kind of an outsider,” explains Nasseri, a Berlin-based German-Iranian artist. “I don’t read or write Arabic. So I see the language in a more abstract way, and often wonder: Why does a letter look the way it looks? Where is the idea for the shape coming from? And when it came to Ibn Muqla trying to invent these four missing letters, how would he come up with the forms? This is where my fantasy started.” In asking how one might write what one cannot read, Nasseri begins by surmising that the source of Ibn Muqla’s proposed alphabetic reformation was the night sky.

All the Letters in All the Stars – whose title references Jorge Luis Borges’s 1941 short story, The Library of Babel – reveals the material traces of this marvelling, which Nasseri expresses through the exacting calculation and meditative repetition visible in his Mind map drawings. In addition to the evidence of his reckoning, we encounter its culmination as Unknown Letters I–IV, four walnut and steel sculptures circumscribed in the manner of astrolabes, roughly human in height.

It is through his interest in calligraphy that Nasseri first encountered the story of Ibn Muqla, and he relates the sculptural construction of Unknown Letters to the calligraphic. “When I first looked at Arabic letters, I thought – they’re so deep; there is something that’s 3D. This is based on the fact that the script was originally written with a feather – you have lines going thicker and thinner. I was trying to capture that already with older sculptures like Nour (Light) and Fadjir (Dawn).”

We meet at Maraya Art Centre, in the vicinity of Sharjah’s gelato stands and imported baobab trees, and puzzle over the question of why the Abbasid authorities regarded Ibn Muqla’s proffering of four new letters as a desecration of the Arabic language. “I imagine he wanted to complete the alphabet because – if there is a sound, it should be written down,” speculates Nasseri. “I think he was just trying to complete something.”

“There had already been a major reformation,” he continues, “and that was the invention of the diamond-shaped dot (nuqta) in the Arabic script.” In spite of this, Ibn Muqla was subjected to harsh interrogation; his refusal to disclose the content of his research led to the amputation of his writing hand, then the removal of his tongue and his subsequent death in prison. His four new letters were never recovered.

If his source was in fact the night sky, perhaps we can better understand Ibn Muqla’s fate through the historian Mircea Eliade’s research on earlier regional cosmogonies: “According to Mesopotamian beliefs, the Tigris has its model in the star Anunit and the Euphrates in the star of the Swallow… all the Babylonian cities had their archetypes in the constellations: Sipper in Cancer, Ninevah in Ursa Major, Assur in Arcturus, etc.” So, an alphabetic reformation made by gazing at the stars not only re-envisions the language of scripture, but also implicitly transforms the territory beneath our feet.


Elsewhere in the gallery, we find another extrapolation of Ibn Muqla’s March 934 perspective in Nasseri’s 2017 series He saw all the letters, a rectangular array of 54 star maps drawn in ink on white paper, their airy intricacy suggesting an immanent, materially determined texture as much as a carefully observed distance. “The software shows you things you wouldn’t see,” he explains. “When you look up to the sky, you cannot point out more than 3,000 individual stars; they are too small. If it were possible to see them all – if you could look through everything – you’d see all of the stars, and they are everywhere. When it comes to the constellations there cannot be any right or wrong.”

In his meditation on the horizon, philosopher Renaud Barbaras likewise characterises recognition and omniscience as mutually exclusive, observing that “the essence of appearance relies on the givenness in person of the impossibility to be given exhaustively.” Nasseri further articulates this paradox by pointing to The Library of Babel, in which Borges allegorizes the universe as a library containing within its books every possible combination of a finite number of letters.

“It’s all in there, everything is written,” Nasseri explains. “You can have the whole language, an infinite library in the stars. It’s a question of your position and understanding. If you cannot read something, it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t mean something, as Borges taught us. Everything is possible in an infinite universe.”

Like Borges’s library, quantum physics also confronts us with the vexing quality of an unimaginably vast finitude: an ever-more-precise measurement of position entails an ever-less-precise measurement of velocity, and vice versa. Therefore, the number of permutations of matter in the universe is, in principle, finite.

As Borges puts it, “the certainty that everything has already been written annuls us, or renders us phantasmal.” Indeed, in an infinite universe comprised of finite material configurations, if we go far enough, Ibn Muqla keeps his hand; if we go far enough, he keeps his tongue, having shared with his interrogators the full extent of his research.


In addition to the star maps and Unknown Letters, curator Laura Metzler includes work that Nasseri created as early as 2009. In doing so, she foregrounds his fascination with the notational; though it ranges across the visual languages of astronomy, mathematics and

architecture, all of the work in the exhibition performs translations between the 2D and 3D. Incidentally, this through-line parallels the early shift in the artist’s practice away from photography and toward sculpture.

As Nasseri puts it, “Notation is always getting rid of at least one dimension; notation is trying to find a language again, as with mathematics and music.” Accordingly, the exhibition includes five pieces from the One and One series, his plans for muqarnas (the honeycomb-like vault ornamentations unique to Islamic architecture) drawn meticulously in white ink on black paper. Here, in a Brechtian flourish, the calculations used to generate the work’s densely ornate, luminous geometries appear embedded within them. The inspiration for One and One arose in 1999, when Nasseri returned to Iran for the first time since he was four, and was intrigued by the muqarnas he saw in mosques and madrasahs. “I tried to understand


how it is constructed, why it is constructed – how it works on a mathematical level, on a spiritual level.” In pursuing such curiosities, Nasseri proceeds with an exacting hand whose most generative successes include its errors: “What kind of mistakes happen – in a good way – when you translate from 2D to 3D? A mistake is always a chance to create something new.”

The artist seems to derive wonder not only from error, but also from his difficulty in grasping the concept of infinity, perhaps because, like the appearance of constellations, it indexes a human life-world. “In school I had failed massively at understanding infinity. There is no end. This is something so hard to imagine.” Going on to elucidate the distinction between potential and actual approaches to infinity (the former entailing the ever-larger, and the latter the endless-as-such), Nasseri reasserts the significance of the body, and identifies his notational work as contemplative.

“For me, the hand is always there. Sometimes when I build things and want to reach a degree of perfection, I have to use computers to get closer to the result I want. But like the infinite, I never reach it. I continue because it is a practice, a meditation. I have to switch between consciousness and trying to be totally unconscious; in the transition from two-dimensional to three-dimensional, I have to turn myself off.” This cultivation of self-effacement, alongside his insistence upon the primacy of the hand’s imperfect physicality, registers in Nasseri’s impulse to give sculptural form to text – and, as we shall see, is performed as a conflation of mathematics and fantasy.


“When I look at my works I would say, I’m moving away from being accurate,” reflects Nasseri. “For example, One and One was about the real mathematics behind the construction of muqarnas. I wanted a looser approach to the language of mathematics, like – in making up things – in fantasy,” he continues. “I was always fascinated by storytelling, starting from a point, from stories based on facts, then taking it somewhere else and losing myself in it.” Altogether, Nasseri’s search for astronomical legibility, and his sculptural approach to text, performs the dream of a salience across these registers – of notational imagery that can read iconically, and of symbolic forms that bear material traces of what they point to.

This fantastical, performative quality of the artistic production raises an interesting question. How are we to envision the shape of a story in which the protagonist does not seem to want anything, other than to understand in ever-greater detail the methods by which others reach toward understanding? Here there is no fantasy that some epiphany, or the right action executed once, will free us from the endless labour required to maintain a body in time and space. Instead of a linear or heroic journey, we are confronted with a cyclical vision in which geological time looms large and human action barely registers within unfathomable distances. Nevertheless, the fantastical status of the artist’s potentially endless translations, intoxicatingly detailed as they are, affords us the opportunity to embody such shared hallucinations.

Conversely, when we again suspend our belief in fantasy, the work’s performativity foregrounds the notational as such, shifting our attention away from knowing – and toward the process by which we seek to know. Here, we recognise the artist reaching toward answers as a gesture, not as a form of aspiration, thus bringing our attention to the affective intensities of the wish to know, communicate and understand.


Arguably, the exhibition’s most photogenic work is the installation Florenz-Bagdad, an arrangement of geometrically cut mirror fragments that resist coherent depiction within the two dimensions of a smartphone’s screen, and whose shimmering quality is a function of our movement through it. “I prefer to dream that burnished surfaces are a figuration and promise of the infinite,” writes Borges’s narrator – and in this case, at very least, the search for a cohesive sense of one’s body within the space could go on forever. “It’s based on the same mathematical principles as the triangles from the muqarnas drawings but it’s a fragmentation of the space,” explains Nasseri. “You have to put yourself in perspective, or at least you try to, but kind of miss out. It’s like you’re looking through the walls, which is really weird because it’s looking and not looking at the same time.”

Florenz-Bagdad – named in reference to Hans Belting’s book on Renaissance art and Arab science – achieves this effect by reorienting muqarnas (exemplary of Middle Eastern geometric abstraction) in a more typically European, anthropocentric fashion. “What I did is put the muqarnas, which are usually on the ceiling, in perspective, opposite to the viewer in the wall,” he continues. In this way, through geometric abstraction the work uses perspective – typically a means of rationalizing, structuring and delimiting space – in order to fragment it, as mirrors reflect mirrors.

One is thereby rendered unable to resolve a subject or object: here, the action toward recognition (of a coherently situated viewer and plausibly receding space) short circuits. As our eyes fail to fall upon an object, the action of cognition circles back to confront us, and we win the chance to enter into an endless regress in which the one who sees rests, eyes open. One sees oneself, and keeps looking past oneself. This immersive correlation to Nasseri’s elsewhere-notational abstractions of endlessness renders a kind of shared failure – bringing together diverse pairs of eyes by synthesizing vastly different logics for envisioning space – and may be the greatest among the exhibition’s many generosities.

All the Letters in All the Stars continues at the Maraya Art Centre until 5 April.