I suffer from shame in my life for many reasons. I am ashamed, and I have tried to overcome this shame, but I have failed extraordinarily. I thought yes, I thought that people who ask for help feel shame. I often turn to the art community for support, but I cannot ask for help forever. 

In this gallery, I imagined familiar faces and strangers. I entered the room hoping to feel ashamed, but I failed. Instead, I felt ashamed that I had not organised myself before the trip and had fallen into a stage of burnout. The trip amplified these feelings performing as an artist and academic in different contexts was the main purpose of my visit. I was there to talk about others while also dealing with my own challenges. The city felt familiar; I had visited before. Yet, familiarity did not ease the pressure of my responsibilities or the burden of my insecurities. I tried to portray shame in this gallery, but I am not sure if shame can truly be captured in an art space. It is well known that shame is painful to write about.

I am scared and terrified because I am afraid I am not interesting enough for the art world or the academic world. In Helsinki, I failed. All I could do was desperately ask for help and do what I do best cry. I tried dancing to feel joy, but I found no satisfaction. On my last day, I saw a group of geese flying north in a perfect V formation. I thought of my own disorganisation, my inability to align myself with others.

Later, I read the feedback from the audience. Tears streamed down my face. The mask, I realised, was not only the shame I carried but also the change in my expression when I am about to cry. At night, the mask becomes the tightness in my chest and the nightmares that haunt me. I think the first time I felt ashamed was when I was about four years old. Someone saw me talking to my invisible friend from a distance and commented on it. That memory came back as I reflected on this moment.

Photos by Aman Askarizad