Gallery 3
Poetry, similar to painting, suggests differential interpretations. Inspired to portray a painting’s interpretation of a poem through brush strokes of women’s hair, writings of Iranian poets such as Rumi, Zakarian, Hafiz and others became the muse behind these paintings.
The body of work shown in this collection, are hand painted and written with acrylic on canvas.
Size: 24 X 36
English translation: Wind with all of your strength, You were not able to shake me, You were not able to expose my pain for all to hear. -Sormeh Saei
Size: 24 X 48 | Sold
English translation: There’s a thousand words being said, Just with the look in your eyes.
-Sormeh Saei
Size: 40 X 40 | Sold
English translation: Don’t let your hair with the wind blow, else to the wind caution I’ll throw. Don’t let foundations elegantly grow, else my foundation will dissolve & go. Choose where you bestow thy grace, else I’ll wallow in disgrace. When you are present in every place, every place my protests will face. Locks of your hair curled like a chain, enslaved to your locks in chain I remain. When with your curls you entertain, your curls will only drive me insane. Strangers do not befriend, else I might be lost in the trend. Let not my rivals on you depend, this makes me sad & will offend. Let your face color & your cheeks blush, your beauty like the rose bud aside brush. Let your stature rise up tall and lush, and the tallest cedars simply crush. Don’t become every rooms candle flame, else my flames of jealousy can’t tame. Don’t treat every person the same, so that you may not forget my name. Don’t become known to all in this town, else I’ll find the ocean & myself drown. Don’t keep me distant with your frown, else I’ll tear to threads my shirt & gown. Have mercy upon me and compassion, else hear the infamy of my passion. Hafiz will embrace your oppression, was freed since enslaved in this fashion.
-Hafiz
Size: 36 X 48
English translation: I Long to cry, where is, mother, where is my cradle?. The same cradle that I don’t remember, the same real and true safety. The same place where the prince of the tales always chose the poor girl. The same city that was just as big as me but much large than this world. Neither was there any fear of shadows nor the horrors of wind. Neither would I get lost and nor a dove. Don’t say I’ve grown up don’t say it for it sounds bitter. Don’t say crying no longer suits me Come and take me and caress me, I wish to be in your peaceful arms. In this autumn where every green breath has been determined. No one knows how hard it is to hang on like a single leaf on a dying branch. I long to cry, where is mother, where is my cradle. Look how easy the blossom of my love dies out in the mind of wind. Where is that holy and healing hand? Tell her to come and take my hand. Where is the holy mother Mary, the pure Mary? Why is she not thinking of this broken soul? In this anguish why isn’t her green skirt my cover? I long to cry, where is, mother, where is my cradle?
-Zoya Zakarian
Size: 36 X 48 | Sold
English translation: Once again my beloved sought me and found, Joyously in the marketplace sought me and found, I hid myself, At my feet that drunken rose arose from the ground, I escaped the house of wine, Sought me and found.
-Rumi