biography

My name is Mina Poorkarimi, and I see myself as an explorer of experiences.

I was born on the first day of July 1985 in Tehran, the youngest child in a relatively large family.

I was always more introverted than what the noisy, chaotic world outside seemed to require. I was quiet, and in my childhood photos, there’s always a gentle, almost guarded smile on my face—a smile that speaks of self-protection. As a teenager, instead of exploring the charms of girlhood, forming close friendships, or perhaps playfully engaging with boys, I was drawn to mysticism, theology, and Persian literature. Influenced by my mother’s religious beliefs, I often spent time in mosques and religious gatherings, feeling connected to a spiritual world.

At the same time, during middle school, I would find myself, almost unconsciously joining summer drawing classes held near our home. An A4 sheet, a B6 pencil, and a drawing board became my tools of play and summer amusement.

In my family, I had a deeper emotional bond with my father. But in 1999, in the first month of my first year of high school, this bond was suddenly broken when he passed away from a stroke. I, too, fell apart—shattered into pieces.

In the years that followed, I descended from that spiritual realm and was drawn into the narrow, shadowy labyrinth of my own psyche.

Still in shock from that deep loss—unable even to cry—I had no grasp of subjects like math, biology, or chemistry. One day, when the school took us to a art school to help us choose a path, something pierced through my heart. I felt I had entered a safe and familiar space. The design workspace, the photography lab, and the printmaking classes at the art school shone a bright and sharp light into the darkness of my heart.

I made my choice: I would go to art school and study graphic design—the field I was most familiar with. During classes in drawing, color theory, printmaking, analog photography, and especially the history of Iranian and world art, I found myself immersed in a new and infinite world. Outside those hours, however, my time was filled with anger, sorrow, and a quiet, hidden pain.

My years at art school came to an end, despite the life-saving experiences they offered. In 2002, three years after my father’s death, I faced a crucial decision. After enduring three years of deep, silent depression, I had to choose—between death and life.

Then one day, by chance, my cousin handed me a copy of The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. She had no idea how perfectly timed that gift was. The book reminded me of an old promise, an inner dream. It was as if I could hear the voice of my heart whispering: “Don’t surrender to these buried emotions. You are alive! Be alive. Come alive.”

Although my family offered me care and support, the anger and deep, heavy pain I was carrying made it hard for me to truly feel their presence as relief. During that time, it was art that proved to be the most powerful and unexpected guide.

Through figurative drawing classes with Vahic Hartounian—whose studio was located right across from the University of Art in Tehran—I began my journey of coming back to life. After that, I spent two years studying Jungian self-discovery and mythology, where I became familiar with the power and workings of the unconscious mind.

I was accepted into the Painting major at the University of Art in Tehran. At the same time, I began working professionally in graphic design—the field I had studied in art school.

For two years, I worked at “Badbadak” Art Center with children under the age of six, and I learned so much from their sense of freedom. For three years, I collaborated as an animator on “The Noise”, an animation with my friend Pooya Razi, a painter and filmmaker. The animation was selected for the Oberhausen and Clermont-Ferrand film festivals—an incredibly rich and formative experience for me, both artistically and conceptually.

For three years, yoga helped me reconnect with my body—one I had long been estranged from. Later, discovering Tai Chi gave even greater depth and grace to that reconnection. Though the pandemic brought those classes to an end, their effects remain in both my body and mind.

But the one thing that has helped me most, at the deepest level, in navigating and moving through trauma has been psychoanalysis.

From 2010 to today, it has become a guiding light—allowing me, step by step, to face my most profound emotions without fear, and to translate them into words and conscious awareness. I will never stop seeking myself.

Painting was never my full-time pursuit—but it never left me, either. It gave me the courage to enter the realms of imagination and emotion, and to express what was unfolding in my mind and deeper inner layers.

In 2016, while looking for work in a graphic design studio, I met Amir Moghtada, a graphic designer. That meeting gave birth to Ra Studio—an idea Amir had been nurturing for years, now finally coming to life.

Our four years of collaboration in the studio—with engaging, exciting, and at times demanding and challenging projects—became a rich collection of valuable experiences for me. It was a time of discovering more of our shared potential and growing the studio alongside that discovery.

In February 2020, the outbreak of COVID-19 was officially announced in Iran, and nationwide lockdowns began.

This became another turning point in my life.

Although Tehran had long been the city I lived in and grew with, I could no longer see it as a place for a grounded, long-term life. I felt an overwhelming pull toward nature—a longing to be closer to Mother Earth.

With the rise of remote work, I made another significant decision.

On June 29, one day before my 35th birthday, I set off for the city of Rasht.

A year of living there—wandering through Gilan, getting close to untouched nature and the beloved Hyrcanian forests—opened a fresh and unexpected door in my life.

The changes came fast and were not always easy, but the safety, feminine spirit of Rasht, and the majesty of the Hyrcanian landscape gave me strength, motivation, and a renewed desire to keep going.

I knew Rasht was only a bridge—leading me to the place where I truly belong…

The next step was the village of Balaband, located in the city of Tonekabon (Shahsavar). I had saved just enough money to buy a small piece of land, and through a friend, I was introduced to the village.

The winding road leading there—from the coastal line up to the forest just before the village—and the village itself, all spoke to me in one voice: “My Home.”

I bought a 200-square-meter plot of land beside a stream. Then, with help from the village council, I rented a 70-year-old earthen house that had recently been vacated, and moved in.

After moving away from Tehran, my camera gradually took the place of my paintbrushes. The camera became a way to capture and preserve this new chapter of my life. I began documenting and photographing my surroundings, and through the Alternative Cinema Filmmaking Camp led by Mohammad Shirvani, I discovered a deeply personal approach to self-portraiture.

I learned to see and find myself in front of the camera, in harmony with nature. From that experience, the idea for my first short film was born.

In the early autumn of 2022, when the Mahsa Amini uprising began in Iran, I no longer felt it was right to remain in the village. I returned to Tehran—not to stay distant from the fire, but to feel, witness, and be part of this painful, glorious, bloody, and transformative moment in my country’s history.

The shout of “Woman, Life, Freedom” echoed through the air, and the blood of women, men, and children that was spilled became the foundation of what I believe will be a destiny-altering shift in Iran’s future.

All these tremors and awakenings brought me to the threshold of a door—where I stood in front of my own camera, confronting my fears and recreating myself.

Now, at the start of 2025, another significant moment is unfolding in my life:

The YouTube channel I envisioned during my move from Tehran to northern Iran—camera in hand—is now ready to be launched.

At the same time, I’m preparing to make my second film, and on the land I bought five years ago in Balaband village, I’ll be building a home—made of wood and earth.
I will never stop seeking myself…