Whether it is bread or fuel or voting queue, Iranians consider a queue for something as a sign of its importance, quality, or expediency. It seems as if queues are part and parcel of any procedure or movement. There seems to be a mutual connection to queues; where there is no queue to squeeze ourselves in, we just pass by where we should have hesitated and observed.
Queues are made up of people or made by bureaus. Deductions, subsidies, traffic, dearth, or just enticing others to file in; these are the reasons queues profligate. Sometimes, to make ourselves distinct from the pack, we just walk out of a queue; but even when we forebear and pace on to the fore, we have traded part of our life, energy, and nerve for what we achieved by waiting for our turn. Queues bite away part of our life each time we join them to grab a bite.
The maker of these fabric sculptures tries to depict individuals who spent a lifetime promoting the art and culture of their homeland and, instead of enjoying a retirement, were retired to queues where they would wait out the remainder of their lives in waiting for sundries of a livelihood.