This has always been the story of my life: My world with all of its autumns and springs, people and stars, mountains and months, calendars and apples, yellows and purples, loves and losses, presences and absences, is divided by a maroon line beyond the horizon and the remote unknowns into terrestrial and heavenly lands, a geography far away from the recurring thinking history of these insensitive days of the Earth.
It seems like from behind the galaxies, a hand takes my pen and paint brush, turns them into a poem and flies them right up where it was precedently written in the mysterious universe. This is the story: from the tiniest to the ultimate particles of the world, they are either terrestrial or heavenly. Alas, as the days pass, leaves fall from the heavens and join the earth every single night. Deep in my paintings, I look for an angel, a lost month from autumn descent, watercolor and my childhood, so that I reassure myself that they are divine and do not shatter my dreams. This the nature law. There have to be the most phenomenal romantic miracles after ALL THOSE REGRETS…………………………….and there will be.
Maryam Heidarzadeh
November 2018