My love of Paisley

I look at nature and try to simplify it to its most intimate form, something that tells me about its essence.  I admire the primitive form of paisley and its free shape.  No fuss; an eye candy that is stripped down to its bare essentials, the basics that really matter.

I first painted the paisley in 1988 and have, since then, fallen in love with its mystical beauty.  In the depth of its simplicity, the modular repetition of its design motifs manifests itself just like the expression of mathematical arrays of all things around us, all things beautiful.  In fact, this charm, along with my fascination with mathematics, began my formal commitment to art.   I am quite fond of the romantic form of paisley and its elements, the drama and the flow of the leaves, flowers, shoots and the vine. The synchronized shapes and designs that immediately lead the eye to the discovery of an intricate yet harmonious revelation….

They resemble the winding busy cobblestone streets in the old town of Abyaneh, packed with the quiet beauty of the red clay buildings that glitter as the night sky drapes over and the aroma of Ghormeh-Sabzi and fresh Sangak bread fills the air.  You walk through the narrow and sloped lanes, surrounded by the flow of simple antiquity.  All is Familiar, no surprises, yet always a breathtaking view past every turn.

 

Paisley suitcase. ....
One of my early memories is that of my mom showing me the janamaz that she had embroidered as part of her dowry, like they did in her time. 


Her way of unfolding all the layers so tenderly, gave it an exquisite importance.  Made of delicate pink satin with silk yellow cross-stitch, it was our "good" janamaz.  Every guest was delighted to pray on it as my mom would spread it out, just as tenderly, for them.

I always believed Elaheh, my older sister would end up getting it as all my mom’s "good" stuff were put aside for her future.  The list included the "good" glasses with golden rims, the red polka dot pitcher and the dishes with yellow sunflowers.

As it turned out, Ella gave the janamaz to me; we both knew how I had felt about it.

   
Sharareh Azghadi Khorasani

Now, in preparation for her wedding, my grandmother, Khanjoon had embroidered
a red boghcheh with colourful designs. Years later, Khanjoon would open her boghcheh with her kind wrinkled hands to prepare for her day-long bath event.  I remember that I would crouch down by her dark brown walnut chest.  My eyes fixed on the red boghcheh with its silk garlands, flowers, and paisley gardens.  They were little goodies for my hungry eight-year old eyes. 

Later-on, I made myself a promise that Elaheh should at least have the boghcheh - I had the real treasure.

When Hamid, my brother was not planting firecrackers in my grandmother's Oshno cigarettes, he  was busy looking for his slingshot in his old suitcase.  The one with brown leather on the outside, with pieces of metal crimped on all corners and held in place with metal pins that looked like thumbtacks.  The inside was lined with colourful silk paisley fabric. 

I was always secretly hoping that he would take his time while looking for his lost treasures.  It gave me time to lose myself in the mesmerizing gardens of his paisley suitcase while he was searching.

   
Elaheh Azghadi

Why weren’t my two other sisters, Zohreh and Sharareh making their presence known when it came to my mom’s janamaz and my grandma’s boghcheh?  Well, they were the tomboys - too preoccupied playing around in our garden in the scorching hot mid summer afternoons and teasing the rest of us with the messages they brought to us from the jeannie and the aliens.  They were, of course, conveniently written in the jeannie and the alien scripts on warm torn grapevine leaves! There never was any doubt on their authenticity in my mind. 

Elaheh and Hamid would chuckle; they were old enough!
My heart still warms up with pleasure every time I examine the janamaz, looking at the little sachets that my mom had made as my dad’s sixteen-year old fiancé.  The most precious to me, is the sachet made from the remnants of her wedding dress.

Just a few years ago, Elaheh gave me the boghcheh as well. "That’s OK" she said, "You appreciate it more".

Mind you, she had long given the plates, the glasses and the pitcher to Sharareh.

Now Elaheh was something else!

                                                               

 
Zohreh Azghadi Khorasani

sarah Sedaghat
Paisley waves. .....
I see the thirst-quenching Bagh-e-eram fountains making rippled patterns in the artistically tiled pools in varying intense blue colours, wishfully thinking of the possible eventful festivities for the gold fish down beneath.

It takes me back.

I hear my dad telling me the story of Jonah and the whale. I always pictured the whale, holding Jonah in its mouth and diving in the sea with its tail curling up just like those of the mermaids in cartoons; like the curled tips of paisleys.
I see myself as a child, leaving the hustle and bustle of the bazaar.
People walk past me with their purchases in preparation for our New Year, the Norooz. I am walking with a plastic bag of gold fish tightly held in my hands. Curiously looking through to see if the fish have survived the motions and trying to move as slowly and orderly as possible to minimize the formation of the waves in the bag.

Gholam Ali Azghadi Khorasani

My mom stopping ahead of me so I could catch up. She is carrying the Hyacinth and patiently waiting for me with a smile. "You can walk fast, it won’t harm them" she says. .......

Paisley Cyprus. .....
I see the patterned and margined gardens of Tomb of Hafez, filled with lush flowers and affectionately cared for by the too-young-to-retire seventy-year old grounds keeper. Catching his breath in the shade under the lush trees, above which, proudly stand the tall Cyprus trees.

Their tips are curled in.

They resemble paisleys.
                                                                         
I go further back…. My dad, combining his family vacation with a business trip (again) is dragging us for sightseeing all over Shiraz and Esfehan. Always smiling and inviting us to sit on hot Persepolis stones or line us up perfectly to take our pictures.                             

Making growling sounds of displeasure then, just as I squeal of joy as I Photoshop those same pictures and back them up, multiple times to ensure their digital preservation.

Thank God for my dad’s love of photography.

Thank God for Photoshop!
                                                                                

                                                    

                                                                                               
                                                                           

Masoumeh Azghadi Khorasani

Monavar Zenouzi