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1
In an abandoned and forgotten house, in a back room with peeling
plaster in a dark damp basement, at the bottom of a trunk filled
with mementos of times gone by and lives long forgotten, in the
midst of all the knickknacks each holding a sad or happy memory kept
for no reason at all, are the pages of a dusty damp notebook.
Yellowing, gnawed and falling apart at the binding, full of memories
and mementos, old fading photographs and dried flowers each bearing
sigs of an old forgotten flame, these pages are now being turned by
a fervent and caressing hand. A yearning smile, lips turned in
sorrow, it is a moment to remember that lonely tree in a distant
vista carved with a bleeding heart pierced with an arrow – a memento
of a childish teenage romance. A page from an illuminated manuscript
depicting an image of Leili and Majnun, pictures of childhood trips
by the banks of a river under the shade….
2
And now we see this diary on large canvases. The caressing hand of
the our artist has immortalized all those people, her own family or
others’, their group photographs, from New Year picnics or garden
parties at so and so’s garden, or the lithograph from an old
manuscript depicting Leili and Majnun with all its patterns and
motifs. She has a sense of humor, sometimes smiling devilishly and
playfully and sometimes hinting at a modicum of satire. Sometimes
several pages of the diaries are laid next to each other without any
explanation so as to only place next to each other motifs, headings
and distant memories such as the memory of a legendary father and
eternal mother at that moment when they set foot on mother earth
after being driven from heaven.
3
And it is thus that our painter, more than and before anything else
is the narrator of these stories. The narrator of stories and
sorrows. The literary aspect of the paintings of our bard not only
has a link to Persian tales but also to ancient memories and speaks
of stories from the recent past. This connecting line, this link to
her Iranian mentality bestows upon these diaries an Iranian
mentality. Not only the designs and patterns but all the
amalgamations have an Iranian look and feel, not only when the
narrative takes on an ancient manner and opens the way to legends
but also at that moment when the painter opens the door to the trunk
of recent memories, draws them freely and liberally. She is not
restricted by spaces remaining empty or all the narrative’s energy
being put to one side or in one corner. She moves and draws freely
across the canvas, a pattern from here and a taste from there.
4
And color, such bright, warm and alive colors. A palette which
perhaps is the result of looking at memories. Here we do not deal
with nostalgia. This is not the pain of an exile that our bard has
been overcome with. It is the joy and happiness of an encounter with
the past that manifests itself in this pleasant arrangement of
colors. The colors, even though sometimes dull, are not lifeless and
disheartening; they do not tell of age but of a humorous mind and
slyness which is present throughout the canvas.
Mitra Kavian, slyly, humorously, devilishly and playfully, plays
with all the patterns, memories, past, history, paintings and
viewers. And she enjoys it. What can be more attractive than this
joviality?
Omid Rohani
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