[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"gql:data:MONBxYgYEhGUyk6f2DwO_Kk0nVufpNZxVFSOnBQAUmQ":3,"gql:data:P1L-3F4yLFT8Sm-6QpbQIoqRmZ3TevlXAnhvTQmaZho":57,"gql:data:EGDeWxAcR2mAAENExERqds53Qo6Ajd1ILGU7UFzxwyM":64,"gql:data:tyCI5HNt1HZczdKwWSz9r1bpaSHHrboaGtCGGtlkHBc":70,"gql:data:yxtepiAIgU6wIBqK3wYdgLRWg-QNgf2zDL8SSTsBMXA":142,"gql:data:qmJY4-503CHlJg4_ZSHARjkzFPaXzbxV7BFMovCRKYg":151,"gql:data:QsOnbH2dgow4QpGx1zxlqf1_PV6cOloUac2IJL4ayKA":157,"gql:data:HT7XK9L7FevXFqeorguiilMT3M34fS21-YSozsBn3eg":323},{"globalSet":4},{"id":5,"handle":6,"heading":7,"image":8,"contacts":17,"address":28,"networks":35,"richSubtitle":52,"richText":54,"links":56},"2","identity","Ibraaz",[9],{"id":10,"path":11,"alt":12,"title":13,"width":14,"height":15,"mimeType":16},"47","building.png",null,"Building",1536,1024,"image/png",[18,23],{"title":19,"contactLink":20},"General",{"value":21,"defaultLabel":22},"mailto:enquiries@ibraaz.org","enquiries@ibraaz.org",{"title":24,"contactLink":25},"Press",{"value":26,"defaultLabel":27},"mailto:press@ibraaz.org","press@ibraaz.org",[29],{"title":30,"countryCode":31,"addressLine1":32,"addressLine2":12,"addressLine3":12,"locality":33,"postalCode":34},"Location","GB","93 Mortimer Street","London","W1W 7SS",[36,40,44,48],{"title":37,"path":38},"Instagram",{"url":39},"https://www.instagram.com/ibraazlondon/",{"title":41,"path":42},"Facebook",{"url":43},"https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=61583823886627",{"title":45,"path":46},"YouTube",{"url":47},"https://www.youtube.com/@ibraazlondon",{"title":49,"path":50},"Bluesky",{"url":51},"https://bsky.app/profile/ibraaz.bsky.social",{"html":53},"\u003Cp>Opening hours\u003C/p>",{"html":55},"\u003Cp>Wed - Sun: 11am - 6pm\u003C/p>",[],{"globalSet":58},{"id":59,"handle":60,"heading":61,"richText":62},"37","forms","Culture is a work in progress. Stay updated.",{"html":63},"\u003Cp>By subscribing to our newsletter you are agreeing to receiving updates and communications from Ibraaz.\u003C/p>",{"entries":65},[66],{"uri":67,"title":68,"typeHandle":69},"ibraaz-publishing/read/photographic-memory-ii","Photographic Memory II","longForm",{"globalSet":71},{"id":72,"handle":73,"linksGroups":74},"128","navigation",[75,81,112,118,124,130,136],{"title":76,"entry":77,"links":80},"What’s On",[78],{"uri":79},"whats-on",[],{"title":82,"entry":83,"links":86},"Publishing",[84],{"uri":85},"ibraaz-publishing",[87,92,97,102,107],{"title":88,"entry":89},"Writing Gaza",[90],{"uri":91},"ibraaz-publishing/writing-gaza",{"title":93,"entry":94},"Mission Statement",[95],{"uri":96},"ibraaz-publishing/mission-statement",{"title":98,"entry":99},"Read",[100],{"uri":101},"ibraaz-publishing/read",{"title":103,"entry":104},"Watch",[105],{"uri":106},"ibraaz-publishing/watch",{"title":108,"entry":109},"Listen",[110],{"uri":111},"ibraaz-publishing/listen",{"title":113,"entry":114,"links":117},"Visit Us",[115],{"uri":116},"visit-us",[],{"title":119,"entry":120,"links":123},"About Us",[121],{"uri":122},"about-us",[],{"title":125,"entry":126,"links":129},"Oula: Café-in-Residence",[127],{"uri":128},"oula-cafe",[],{"title":131,"entry":132,"links":135},"Maktaba: Bookshop-in-Residence",[133],{"uri":134},"maktaba-bookshop-in-residence",[],{"title":137,"entry":138,"links":141},"Contact Us",[139],{"uri":140},"contact-us",[],{"globalSet":143},{"id":144,"handle":145,"activated":146,"heading":147,"richText":148,"text":150},"16767","notification",false,"Visitor Information",{"html":149},"\u003Cp>Please note that our Majlis is currently closed and will reopen with our next exhibition in early July. The rest of the building is open so please do visit!\u003C/p>\u003Cp>\u003Cbr /> \u003C/p>","Got it",{"globalSet":152},{"id":153,"handle":154,"heading":12,"richText":155},"11","gdpr",{"html":156},"\u003Cp>We use cookies to give you the best experience. By clicking 'Accept' you consent to the use of all cookies. \u003Ca href=\"/privacy-policy\">Privacy Policy\u003C/a>.\u003C/p>",{"entry":158},{"id":159,"uri":67,"title":68,"slug":160,"postDate":161,"typeHandle":69,"sectionHandle":162,"meta":163,"readCategories":166,"writeCategories":170,"missionCategories":171,"figure":172,"pdf":173,"authorInfo":174,"richTitle":179,"richSubtitle":12,"richDescription":181,"richExcerpt":12,"image":183,"externalLinks":191,"entrySections":192,"related":258},"24849","photographic-memory-ii","2026-06-01T15:49:00+01:00","read",[164],{"title":68,"description":12,"image":165},[],[167],{"title":168,"slug":169},"Essay","essay",[],[],[],[],[175],{"authorName":176,"authorBio":177},"Jalal Toufic",{"html":178},"\u003Cp>\u003Cstrong>Jalal Toufic\u003C/strong> is a thinker and a mortal to death. Born in 1962 in Beirut or Baghdad, he died before dying in 1989 in Evanston, Illinois. He has made over 20 conceptual films and videos, from short works to ‘inhumanely’ long ones. Volume 1 of the three-volume \u003Ci>The Collected Writings (1991–2024) of a Mortal to Death: Jalal Toufic\u003C/i> was published by No Place Press in 2025.\u003C/p>",{"html":180},"\u003Cp>Photographic Memory II\u003C/p>",{"html":182},"\u003Cp>Writer and artist Jalal Toufic explores Hrair Sarkissian’s oeuvre, reflecting on the artist’s recurrent engagement with death, disappearance, and archival memory.\u003C/p>",[184],{"id":185,"path":186,"alt":12,"title":187,"width":188,"height":189,"mimeType":190},"24880","Jalal-Toufic-Essay/05_Execution-Squares_2008_72dpi_86.jpg","05 Execution Squares 2008 72dpi 86",1383,1080,"image/jpeg",[],[193,197,205,214,217,226,229,238,241,250,253],{"typeHandle":194,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":195},"content",{"html":196},"\u003Cp>I wrote in my book \u003Ci>The Unreviewed Writings of a Peerless Thinker, 2020–2022\u003C/i>: \u003C/p>\u003Cp style=\"margin-left:36pt;\">A filmmaker’s or writer’s work can be said to compose an oeuvre not simply when there is a recurrence of certain themes, events (for example, rain or snow falling inside an interior space in Tarkovsky’s films), singular movements (for example, levitation in Tarkovsky’s films), and sustained exploration of certain cinematic or literary elements (for example, the close-up in Bergman’s films) but when it is also the case that if one of his or her films or books has a proper name for a title, then this book or film includes the themes of his or her oeuvre foregrounded in those titles of his or her books or films that are not proper names. Someone who considers that Dostoyevsky’s writings compose an oeuvre is to expect to find in the novel \u003Ci>Brothers Karamazov\u003C/i> notes from the underground, an idiot, a gentle creature, a double, devils or the damned, crime and punishment, etc. … When an author’s books or a filmmaker’s films compose an oeuvre, it is apposite, indeed sometimes revelatory, to switch his or her book or film titles that are not proper names among each other – not randomly, but judiciously.\u003Cspan class=\"fn-marker\">1\u003C/span>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Whether Hrair Sarkissian’s practice elicits admiration, reservation, or indifference, it is clear he has an oeuvre.\u003Cspan class=\"fn-marker\">2\u003C/span>\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":198,"image":199,"caption":201,"width":203,"ratio":204},"figure",[200],{"id":185,"path":186,"alt":12,"title":187,"width":188,"height":189,"mimeType":190},{"html":202},"\u003Cp>Hrair Sarkissian, \u003Ci>Execution Squares\u003C/i> (2008). Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>","wide","landscape",{"typeHandle":198,"image":206,"caption":212,"width":203,"ratio":204},[207],{"id":208,"path":209,"alt":12,"title":210,"width":211,"height":189,"mimeType":190},"24883","Jalal-Toufic-Essay/Last-Seen-2018-2100001.jpg","Last Seen 2018 2100001",1350,{"html":213},"\u003Cp>Hrair Sarkissian, \u003Ci>Last Seen\u003C/i> (2018–21). Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":194,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":215},{"html":216},"\u003Cp>From this perspective, the photographs that are part of Sarkissian’s \u003Ci>Execution Squares \u003C/i>– which depicts three Syrian cities’ public squares where executions usually take place photographed at dawn, presenting tranquil spaces emptied of bodies – might more aptly be titled \u003Ci>Last Seen\u003C/i>, the title of his series in which he photographs mostly interiors where people who later disappeared during war or civil unrest were last seen by their families, since the reported site of kidnapping is most often a public space: a street, a checkpoint, a café, the entrance to a building, a taxi stand, a road between two districts.\u003Cspan class=\"fn-marker\">3\u003C/span>One of the most notorious sites of the Lebanese Civil War was the Barbara Checkpoint, which was established by the Kataeb (Phalange) militia on the Beirut–Tripoli highway on 22 April 1979, following the massacre of 13 of its supporters near the village of Amchit. By the late 1980s, the checkpoint had come under the control of the Lebanese Forces. The site was divided into two adjacent stations: a tax checkpoint, where militiamen collected money from those passing through, and a security checkpoint section, where travelers were stopped, interrogated, and sometimes detained. Many of those taken aside there were never seen again. It was also at this checkpoint that, on 4 July 1982, according to Lebanese media reports, four Iranian diplomats were abducted – in other words, last seen.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":198,"image":218,"caption":224,"width":203,"ratio":204},[219],{"id":220,"path":221,"alt":12,"title":222,"width":223,"height":189,"mimeType":190},"24881","Jalal-Toufic-Essay/13_istroy_2011_72dpi_185-rotated.jpg","13 istroy 2011 72dpi 185 rotated",1368,{"html":225},"\u003Cp>Hrair Sarkissian, \u003Ci>istory\u003C/i> (2011). Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":194,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":227},{"html":228},"\u003Cp>The title \u003Ci>Last Seen\u003C/i> would also fit Sarkissian’s project titled \u003Ci>istory\u003C/i> (2011), a series of sixteen photographs documenting the ‘history’ sections of various semi-private and public libraries and archives in Istanbul. Sarkissian’s own history, as a Syrian Armenian, is entangled with these books and files. He was permitted to work in the rooms housing the archives yet was not allowed to pick up or open any of the material. If the site of a kidnapping marks the place where a body was last seen, the moment when an archive becomes restricted marks the last moment when a document was, in principle, last seen and read. In one case, what vanishes is a person; in the other, what vanishes is access to historical documents. Thus, the displacement of the title \u003Ci>Last Seen\u003C/i> from one of Sarkissian’s projects to the projects officially titled \u003Ci>Execution Squares\u003C/i> and \u003Ci>istory\u003C/i> is neither arbitrary nor whimsical but confirms that these three works belong to an oeuvre.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":198,"image":230,"caption":236,"width":203,"ratio":204},[231],{"id":232,"path":233,"alt":12,"title":234,"width":235,"height":189,"mimeType":190},"24882","Jalal-Toufic-Essay/16_Background_2013_72dpi_226.jpg","16 Background 2013 72dpi 226",1363,{"html":237},"\u003Cp>Hrair Sarkissian, \u003Ci>Background\u003C/i> (2013). Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":194,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":239},{"html":240},"\u003Cp>In one of the photographs of studio backdrops of Sarkissian’s \u003Ci>Background\u003C/i> – a 2013 series, shot without human subjects, in which he documents photography studio backdrops and settings in six cities in the Middle East, thereby preserving a record of a disappearing convention of studio portrait photography in the region – some books, notably those on the floor in the foreground and those placed on the central shelving structure, seem materially present, while the densely stacked books behind them appear to belong to the photographic image that forms part of the backdrop. This impression is supported by two distinct border effects. Near the bottom of the backdrop, a horizontal band of rectangular, brick-like forms projects slightly beyond the surface formed by the stacked books behind it, so that this lower band reads not as a mere line but as a shallow relief. Above, one seems to glimpse a narrow-illuminated edge or border running horizontally over the mass of books. This upper strip can be viewed as the limit of the backdrop, where the photographic surface or panel catches light differently from the darker studio environment surrounding it. It is apposite to displace the theme of Sarkissian’s \u003Ci>Execution Squares\u003C/i> onto this studio backdrop in \u003Ci>Background\u003C/i>, for then the very crime for which the condemned is executed – publishing and distributing books critical of the government – becomes the backdrop against which he or she is put to death. The books are seized, displayed in the interrogation room as proof of guilt, then catalogued as evidence and stacked. In such a scenario, the crime is no longer peripheral to the scene of execution; it becomes the dominant visual field. The execution takes place in a room lined with the very materials deemed subversive; crime and punishment occupy the same frame. When a human figure stands before a studio backdrop showing stacks of books, the resultant photograph makes the represented background seem fully three-dimensional, and thus makes the books appear readable. The books seem to promise reading, and yet most of them cannot be read because they are, in fact, a flat décor, an image; they signify knowledge – in the imagined scenario above, subversive knowledge – without granting access to it. In \u003Ci>istory\u003C/i>, by contrast, the books and other documents are materially real – not photographic props but archival holdings – yet they, too, cannot be read: the guest is permitted to photograph the shelves but not to open the books. In both cases, the book is visible yet unavailable. What differs is the mode of unavailability: medium-related in one instance, institutional in the other. Thus, two distinct regimes of unreadability emerge: the backdrop produces an illusion of access; the archive, the reality of restriction. But the effect converges: the viewer confronts stacks of books that cannot be opened and read.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":198,"image":242,"caption":248,"width":203,"ratio":204},[243],{"id":244,"path":245,"alt":12,"title":246,"width":189,"height":247,"mimeType":190},"24879","Jalal-Toufic-Essay/18_-Afsluitdijk_012.jpg","18 Afsluitdijk 012",864,{"html":249},"\u003Cp>Hrair Sarkissian, \u003Ci>Last Scene\u003C/i> (2016). Courtesy of the artist.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":194,"richTitle":12,"richSubtitle":12,"richText":251},{"html":252},"\u003Cp>‘Because we don’t know [when death will arrive], we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really … How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless’ (Paul Bowles, \u003Ci>The Sheltering Sky\u003C/i>). When giving a prognosis to patients reckoned terminally ill, their respective doctors had spoken with measured reserve, indicating not a date but a starkly narrowing temporal horizon, so that the perceptive addressee would have sensed that while the future persisted grammatically in sentences such as ‘I am too tired to talk to Anna now; I will call her in half an hour’, it thenceforth survived only in the attenuated form of a death sentence, if not of a hypothesis. When asked, as in Sarkissian’s \u003Ci>Last Scene\u003C/i>, to choose the places they wished to see one last time before dying (for his project Sarkissian photographed the locations chosen by terminally ill patients at the same date and time as the final visit in the previous year), one chose a dune at the edge of the sea; a second, a churchyard in winter light; a third, a museum gallery housing Rembrandt’s \u003Ci>The Night Watch\u003C/i>; a fourth, his father’s carpenter’s workshop, its walls crowded with wooden tools and with the slow accumulation of work done over decades (how felicitous: the sea exemplifies natural repetition, the museum cultural repetition, the churchyard ritual repetition, and the father’s carpenter’s shop artisanal repetition). One chose a scene of a first instance: the first encounter with a lover. One chose a scene of a last encounter: the last time one was with a beloved who later disappeared, was kidnapped, or was executed. The first is chosen because it retrospectively acquires the weight of origin; the second because it becomes, often without our knowing it at the time, the final point of contact before absence. At the time, the first encounter does not yet know itself as first; it is merely one meeting among others, a moment that could easily dissolve into the anonymity of ordinary time. Likewise, the last encounter does not announce itself as such but occurs without ceremony, often with the casual gestures of repetition: a familiar goodbye, the expectation of another meeting soon to come (Chris Marker, \u003Ci>La Jetée\u003C/i>, 1962: ‘Nothing distinguishes memories from other moments; it is only later that they claim remembrance, by their scars’). The first encounter is extracted from the flow of experience and endowed with inevitability, as if the future relationship had already been latent within it. In the case of the last encounter, a word that seemed incidental becomes, in retrospect, the final word spoken; a glance becomes the last exchange and thus acquires an unbearable density. Memory thus selects, frames, and intensifies: what was once simply part of the ongoing texture of life becomes a scene – almost (classically) painterly in its composition. Between these two scenes – one recognised only afterwards as a beginning, the other only afterward as an ending – life unfolds in a succession of other encounters whose singularity is rarely perceived when they occur … or subsequently.\u003Cspan class=\"fn-marker\">4\u003C/span>\u003C/p>\u003Cp>The journey to the selected places was not experienced as the last journey to them. At the quaint train station café, the woman who had selected the shoreline she had once visited with the man who later became her husband, drank coffee from the paper cup in the same absent way she had drunk all her previous coffees from paper cups, whether there or elsewhere. During the train ride, she mechanically offered her ticket to the conductor, who clipped it with the same habitual motion he must have performed thousands of times. These habitual gestures belonged to the category of what repeats ‘countlessly’, of that towards which one’s attitude is ‘who’s counting?’ Having reached the dune, she stared at the sea: its waves ebbed and flowed with the constancy characteristic of many natural phenomena. After a time, she turned away and muttered: ‘I shouldn’t forget that I’ll be seeing Anna tomorrow morning for breakfast.’ Based on the doctor’s prognosis, it was almost certain that this would be the last time she would see this beach, but she presumed that the breakfast with her daughter Anna before her trip to the beach would not be the last. In her case, the anticipated end did not occur within the ever-narrowing yet still indeterminate interval set by the doctor’s prognosis – the diagnosis proved faulty. Months later she returned to the same shoreline, not because she wished to repeat the final visit to the sea, the ‘last scene’, but for another reason entirely: her daughter needed photographs of dunes for a school project. She had traveled to experience a memorable scene one last time, yet the trip yielded the opposite result: the scene designated as final proved repeatable, while the taken-for-granted, barely noticed figures, gestures, and places – the train conductor, his habitual ticket-clipping gesture, the café – that had seemed destined to repeat had already concluded their series of repetitions: the conductor who clipped her ticket on the earlier journey had retired, and the café where she had bought coffee had been purchased by a chain restaurant and remodeled. True lastness turned out to lie precisely where repetition had seemed most assured.\u003C/p>\u003Cp> \u003C/p>\u003Cp>* The title evokes my text ‘Photographic Memory’, in \u003Ci>The Collected Writings (1991–2024) of a Mortal to Death: Jalal Toufic\u003C/i>, vol. 1, No Place Press, 2025.\u003C/p>",{"typeHandle":254,"title":255,"richText":256},"footnotes","Notes",{"html":257},"\u003Cp>Toufic, \u003Ci>Collected Writings (1991–2024) of a Mortal to Death\u003C/i>, 434.\u003C/p>\u003Cp>Now that he has an oeuvre, I would hope, for Sarkissian’s sake, that he undergoes an event that produces a caesura in his work (in my case, the caesura-producing event at the level of a possible link between one book and the others was dying before dying physically between my first book, \u003Ci>Distracted\u003C/i>, and my second, posthumous book, \u003Ci>[Vampires]: An Uneasy Essay on the Undead in Film\u003C/i> [whereas previously the caesura had occurred at the level, and in the form, of the blank separating one aphorism from another]), making it impossible to view his future work as composing with his earlier work an oeuvre, and that he forges a style, what, following Proust’s formulation often cited by Gilles Deleuze, would be ‘a foreign [photographic] “language” within the [photographic] “language”’ (brackets and quotation marks mine; the quotation marks reflect Deleuze’s rejection of the notion that cinema – and, by extension, photography – is literally a language in the linguistic sense, for example, that ‘cinemes would be very like phonemes, and the shot would be like a moneme’ [Gilles Deleuze, \u003Ci>Cinema 1: The Movement-Image\u003C/i>, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam, University of Minnesota Press, 1986, 12)].\u003C/p>\u003Cp>‘Paradoxically, one may die before physically dying precisely while being spared physical death. That’s what we have in the case of the protagonist of Blanchot’s \u003Ci>The Instant of My Death\u003C/i>, who was facing a firing squad when he was saved from physical death by comrades from the maquis in 1944 – and possibly also in the case of Dostoyevsky, who was condemned to death before a firing squad, heard the order to the soldiers, “Ready! Aim!” but was then spared physical death at the “last moment.” Exceptionally, a reprieve that arrives just in time for the condemned to be spared physical death reaches him too late for the other kind of death, so that while exoterically the condemned man appears to have been spared, from another perspective he wasn’t’ (Jalal Toufic, \u003Ci>Postscripts, \u003C/i>Roma Publications, 2020, 68–69). Was there, in Syria or elsewhere, a public execution that was, from this perspective, wasted, because it had already brought about in the condemned man, while he awaited his imminent execution, the event of dying before dying physically, only for him to be physically executed an instant later? In such a case, \u003Ci>The Instant of My Death\u003C/i> would be a doubly exact title, since the ‘two deaths’ – physical death and the condition of finding ‘oneself’ lost ‘in’ the labyrinthine realm of death – would have occurred with so little interval between them that they would have seemed to fall within a single instant rather than two successive ones. He would hardly have had time to recognise that he was now dead through wondering, based on the impossibilities he was witnessing, ‘Am I dead?’ or deducing, ‘I must be dead’, and consequently that he was presently dead while still physically alive, and to then recognise that he was already, prior to this ordeal, dead while alive physically – the latter recognition is one of the principal benefits of dying before dying. Had he been a filmmaker or writer, or had he lived to become one, we would possibly have been deprived of whatever might have come from that recognition, directly or indirectly, explicitly or more subtly; had he been and remained only a reader, he would at least have become better equipped to appreciate, or feel an affinity with, my concept of mortality. \u003C/p>\u003Cp>‘One day, he ceased going to bookstores; one day, he no longer had sex with his wife; one day, he stopped writing; and one day, he recognised that life does not have one end, physical death, but rather multiple ends. Thenceforth he became weirdly sensitive to ends, recognising at the same time as it happened that this would be the last time he would be doing something, for example, seeing a film in a movie theater, unlike the vast majority of others if not all others, who would suddenly realize that it’s been months, years even, since they’d last gone to watch a film in a movie theater or did some other activity! He also noted, though not to the same degree, when others stopped doing some activity, and how they nonetheless treated it as still part of their actual life! This is another sort of clutter: activities one will never do again but that one continues to treat as belonging not solely to one’s memories but possibly also to one’s actual life. Declutter by knowing when a certain activity is no longer part of your actual life (although it may still be part of your memories)’ (Toufic, \u003Ci>The Collected Writings\u003C/i>,\u003Ci> \u003C/i>vol. 1, 427).\u003C/p>",[259],{"title":260,"relatedEntries":261},"Related",[262,284,304],{"typeHandle":263,"events":264},"calendarEvents",[265],{"title":266,"slug":267,"startDate":268,"endDate":269,"datesText":270,"image":272,"categories":279,"heading":283},"Stolen Past","stolen-past-hrair-sarkissian","2026-03-25T00:00:00+00:00","2026-05-24T23:59:59+00:00",{"html":271},"\u003Cp>25 Mar – 24 May\u003C/p>",[273],{"id":274,"path":275,"alt":12,"title":276,"width":277,"height":278,"mimeType":190},"20143","stolen-past/142NAK02908-要再調整.jpg","142 NAK02908 要再調整",1920,1281,[280],{"title":281,"slug":282},"Exhibition","exhibitions","Hrair Sarkissian",{"typeHandle":285,"entries":286},"channelsEntries",[287],{"title":288,"uri":289,"image":290,"readCategories":297,"writeCategories":299,"missionCategories":300,"authorInfo":301},"Hrair Sarkissian’s Atlas of Restored Images","ibraaz-publishing/read/hrair-sarkissians-atlas-of-restored-images",[291],{"id":292,"path":293,"alt":12,"title":294,"width":295,"height":296,"mimeType":190},"24164","Taous-Dahmani/Hrair-Sarkissian_Stolen-Past_Ibraaz-courtesy-of-the-artist-and-Ibraaz-photo-Ollie-Hammick_7_cropped.jpg","Hrair Sarkissian Stolen Past Ibraaz courtesy of the artist and Ibraaz photo Ollie Hammick 7 cropped",5595,6578,[298],{"title":168,"slug":169},[],[],[302],{"authorName":303},"Taous Dahmani",{"typeHandle":285,"entries":305},[306],{"title":307,"uri":308,"image":309,"categories":316,"authorInfo":320},"Living Memory: A Conversation with Hrair Sarkissian","ibraaz-publishing/listen/living-memory-a-conversation-with-hrair-sarkissian",[310],{"id":311,"path":312,"alt":12,"title":313,"width":314,"height":315,"mimeType":190},"24441","Living-Memory-Hrair-Sarkissian-Podcast/OH_1124d-21.jpg","OH 1124d 21",1588,1410,[317],{"title":318,"slug":319},"Podcast","podcast",[321],{"authorName":322},"Hrair Sarkissian & Odessa Warren",{"categories":324},[325,328,332,336,340,344,348,352],{"id":326,"slug":282,"title":281,"groupHandle":327},"4488","events",{"id":329,"slug":330,"title":331,"groupHandle":327},"4490","talks","Talk",{"id":333,"slug":334,"title":335,"groupHandle":327},"15579","music","Music",{"id":337,"slug":338,"title":339,"groupHandle":327},"4489","performance","Performance",{"id":341,"slug":342,"title":343,"groupHandle":327},"4492","film","Film",{"id":345,"slug":346,"title":347,"groupHandle":327},"6390","library-in-residence","Library-in-Residence",{"id":349,"slug":350,"title":351,"groupHandle":327},"18154","special-projects","Special Project",{"id":353,"slug":354,"title":355,"groupHandle":327},"18170","workshops","Workshop"]