Made from found materials, her assemblages are grotesque configurations, exaggerating rough-trade stereotypes of wig-wearing, melon-chested slappers contortedly stuffed into ill-fitting lingerie in reality, Tehran vice-girls wear hijabs and are identifiable through more covert and subtle signals. Fakhim farcically combines westernized hooker fashion with the codes of Islamic demur, torsos and heads made from cooking implements and adorned with makeshift veils and chastity belts.
Using ordinary objects and items of clothing, Fakhim exaggerates the less than flattering associations of floozy hygiene, her readymade materials driving home the punchlines of rude jokes. Blond wigs shoved down pants produce Sasquatch bikini lines, wayward bits of rope reveal pre-op transsexuals and a carefully placed abacus reads more like a send-up than evidence of financial acumen.
Fakhim ironically stages this menagerie as a source of ridicule, provocatively placing such items as alms baskets and air fresheners to illustrate public scorn and social stigma.
The discomfort of looking at them is displaced by a puerile, intolerant and scapegoat humour, revealing more about public attitudes and ignorance than about prostitutes themselves.
Issues such as female genital mutilation, transgender orientation, homosexuality and cross-dressing are all awkwardly broached through her vulgar approximations of stitched-up crotches and mismatched private bits, confusing the brutal, illicit, forbidden and desirous.
