ALIA - Beauty Within - DRAFT 10062022

DEDICATION

Names can go here

My enjoyment of life began with my eyes. Even as a small child, and later on as young man curiosity possessed me.

The visible and invisible were my world, my fairy tale. In my fif teen year, after graduating from high school, my life seemed to be going nowhere but the magic continued to linger. Then a thought downed on me that I could work for my mother, A painter . I dis covered the world and ground we walk in is always fresh . The sun rise, the sunset, the moon, the shadows, the Natural light, Artificial light, the trees and creatures, the clouds above constantly dissolv ing into new formation - each gift of nature possessing its own radiant energy, bound together by cosmic harmony.

Each animate and inanimate part of the whole exists in a tight net work, interdependent and timeless.

It is within this concept that my photographs suggest them selves to me. A minute insect, a mountain range, a human body - all share equal significance.

Over the years I studied of colors in painting made me aware of subtlest effort produce by light which I would then integrate into my photography . I looked at specific painters, or photographers, or films, mostly black and white.

Pantings, films and photographs Ive grown up with have influ enced in my way of seeing things the early renaissance such as Da Vinci, Rembrandt, and other masters Henry Fuseli, Goya ’s, Peter Paul Rubens, Photographers such as Julia Margaret Cameron, Al fred Stieglitz,” from the era of pictorialism “ Paul Strand, Andre’ Kerte’sz, Henri Cartier Bersson, Frantisck Drtikol, Edward Weston, Horst, Richard Alvedon, and Helmut Newton .

Light is my inspiration, my paint and brush .It is as vital as the sub jects . Profoundly significant, it caresses the essential superlative

curves and lines. Light I acknowledge as the energy upon which all life on this mother earth depends.

The human body represents to me the same universal innocence, timelessness and purity of all seed pods, suggesting the mother as well as the child, the parental as well as the descendant, conceived according to nature’s longing.

In photographing the nude, it is my aim to transform the complex ities of the figure into harmonies of simplified form, illuminating the innate life force and spirit as well as the underlying remarkable bone structure.

The endless variety of nature’s designs and shapes moves me.

For me, the creation of a photograph is experienced as heightened emotional response, most akin to art and music, each image the culmination of a compelling impulse I cannot ignore nor deny . whether working with human figure or portraits I am deeply aware of my spiritual surrounding.

Alia Mohsenin.

Los Angeles, CA 2022

INTRODUCTION

My enjoyment of life began with my eyes .Even as a small child, and later on as young man curiosity possessed me.

The visible and invisible were my world, my fairy tale. In my fifteen year, after graduating from high school, my life seemed to be going nowhere but the magic continued to linger. Then a thought downed on me that I could work for my mother, A painter . I discovered the world and ground we walk in is always fresh . The sunrise, the sunset, the moon, the shadows, the Natural light, Artificial light, the trees and creatures, the clouds above constantly dissolving into new formation - each gift of nature possessing its own radiant energy, bound together by cosmic harmony.

Each animate and inanimate part of the whole exists in a tight network, interdependent and timeless.

It is within this concept that my photographs suggest them selves to me. A minute insect, a mountain range, a human body - all share equal significance.

Over the years I studied of colors in painting made me aware of subtlest effort produce by light which I would then integrate into my photography . I looked at specific painters, or photographers, or films, mostly black and white.

Pantings, films and photographs Ive grown up with have influenced in my way of seeing things the early renaissance such as Da Vinci, Rembrandt, and other masters Henry Fuseli, Goya ’s, Peter Paul Rubens, Photographers such as Julia Margaret Cameron, Alfred Stieglitz,” from the era of pictorialism “ Paul Strand, Andre’ Kerte’sz, Henri Cartier Bersson, Frantisck Drtikol, Edward Weston, Horst, Richard Alvedon, and Helmut Newton.

Light is my inspiration, my paint and brush .It is as vital as the subjects . Profoundly significant, it caresses the essential superlative curves and lines. Light I acknowledge as the energy upon which all life on this mother earth depends.

The human body represents to me the same universal innocence, timelessness and purity of all seed pods, suggesting the mother as well as the child, the parental as well as the descendant, conceived according to nature’s longing.

In photographing the nude, it is my aim to transform the complexities of the figure into harmonies of simplified form, illuminating the innate life force and spirit as well as the underlying remarkable bone structure.

The endless variety of nature’s designs and shapes moves me.

For me, the creation of a photograph is experienced as heightened emotional response, most akin to art and music, each image the culmination of a compelling impulse I cannot ignore nor deny . whether working with human figure or portraits I am deeply aware of my spiritual surrounding.

Alia Mohsenin.

Los Angeles, CA 2022

INTRODUCTION

SKETCHES

A PIECE OF WOOD

IT WAS A LATE NOVEMBER AFTERNOON. A rainstorm had left the town dark with clouds, and the contrast from the far horizon was clean and sharp. A small house, miniature against the oak trees, looked picture perfect, waiting to be painted by an artist.

A young boy and his grandfather were together by chance, the boy orphaned by an avalanche the winter before. The old man was thin and rough and deeply wrinkled. His large, strong hands bore scars from many years of cutting wood. He was as old as a dry lake, but his eyes, like his smile, spoke to the goodness of his soul.

The young boy was cheerful, but shy. He had big eyes like saucers, the color of the sea. Baby cheeks and dark, well-groomed hair. The contrast between the boy and his grandfather was striking, it made me often want to photograph them together.

“One day,” said the old man to me, “when my grandson is old enough to decide for himself. Until then, please be kind to us.” It was clear he would always be there for his grandson, and one day soon it would be the boy’s turn to watch over his only grandfather.

I watched the old man walking back into town to pick up his grandson from school. The landscape had frozen so that it seemed as if the bare trees and the bushes and the ground and the grass had all been varnished with ice.

It was afternoon, and it had been afternoon for a long time. A breeze had started to blow, and you could feel the air and smell the rain. Finally, the taxi arrived. The driver piled my baggage in the back of the car.

We drove toward the hills and over the hills; over a bridge and down into a forest full of pines. For a while the road went on, with tall trees along both sides, until the view became much wider and

we could see the mountains in the distance, covered with snow. There was the river to the south, sparkling in the sun, majestic and undefeated. Far away, you could see the broken skyline of the city, the old brown church at the top of a hill. I asked the driver to stop so I could take a photograph.

We passed the church as we came into town. We drove past the fields and the country houses and into the square with its shops and cafés. Down a narrow cobbled street was the hotel where I’d be staying. It was a fine hotel. I remember most it was extraordinarily clean. The people at the desk were very cheerful.

My room was small. There was a desk, and a single bed right next to the windows. I set my bags down and opened the windows wide to let the air in. I took my time unpacking. After a while, I decided to take a walk through the town.

I wasn’t sure where I was going, so I walked toward the hill to take a good look at the old brown church. It was peaceful. It would have been a great photograph, but the light was leaving. Looking across the street, I saw someone waving to me from a distance. It was the old man with his grandson. That evening, as the sun was setting and floating on endless waves of clouds, and the mountains glowed pink in the background, I felt this enormous loneliness. It was hard to discard it. I never had realized it until now.

I woke up. The wind was blowing against the curtains, and the room was dark and cold. I got up, shut the windows, and went back to sleep.

In the morning, there were high white clouds over the mountains. Looking out the window in the bright light of day, I noticed the wooden awning below had cracked and split from the weather.

SPLIT

I picked up my camera and photographed the damages. I’m obsessed by details.

It was very cold outside. I blew my breath into my hand to see how cold it was as I walked across the street for a coffee. It was a small café, with a stone floor, a low ceiling and a fireplace. I sat at one of the tables for a while, having my coffee and reading the paper, and looking at the pictures on the wall. The square was busy with people going to work, children running to get to school. I thanked the counterperson and left to explore the town.

A fog had come over the fields from the river, but the sun was trying to push through. The chimneys on the farm houses puffed gray smoke. There were old men working on a great pile of firewood, their hands clasped around their axes. I took a photograph.

That afternoon, and every other afternoon, the old man sat beneath a very old and beautiful oak tree, as if he was a schoolboy himself. With his cheerful, undefeated eyes, he looked over the grass to the schoolyard where he could see his grandson. He was watching so intently he could never notice me. I knew this was my opportunity. I could hear the leaves crunching beneath my feet as I walked quickly across the grass and leaned against a tree, balancing with my camera to get the best angle on the old man’s face.

From the far corner of his eyes, he saw me. His big eyes opened wider as he turned to look toward me, and then quickly back at the boy. I felt ashamed. He raised his hands and waved at his grandson, shouting a name I hadn’t heard before. The boy waved back. He shouted the name again.

“Be patient,” I said to myself, “that’s not the way to be a photographer.”

I walked away, back toward the hotel. I wanted to go home. Funny if you could call it home.

I stopped at the concierge to get my mail on the way to my room. There was nobody there, so I rang the bell. A young woman appeared. Her name was Sophie, she stood five foot eight inches tall. She had me looking. She was pretty in her uniform, her dark hair gathered in a low knot on her neck. She gave me my mail with a kind smile. I wished her a good day, giving her another glance.

In my room, I opened my letters. One was from a friend in Switzerland, saying she’s well and in love again. God only knows how many times she’s been in love: the polo player, the banker, and how can I forget, the young musician in the UK. Now it was a rich Italian businessman.

The next morning was a good morning. It had rained the night before, and the air was sharp and fresh. I grabbed the daily paper and left for the café. To my delight, I saw Sophie standing on the corner. She welcomed me with a familiar smile. “How is your morning going, sir?” she asked me.

“I’m doing well,” I replied, offering her a cigarette.

“Actually, I’d rather wait,” she said. “I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

“Would you like to have breakfast with me? “ I asked.

At first I felt a bit of hesitation from her. But then she said she would love it. She loved anything that was exciting, that involved a change of scene, where there were new people and things were pleasant.

The hotel dining room, which I hadn’t been to before, was down below street level, close to the wine cellar. We entered from the back alley. It was good to get out of the cold.

We sat across from each other at the far corner table with our coffee. “So, how do you like staying with us?” Sophie asked me.

“It’s been wonderful so far,” I replied.

“Do you like this weather we’re having?”

“ I love it,” I said. “I love the rain, because it makes everything clean. It’s as if all of our sins are washed away, like God is blessing us. It would be hell if we didn’t have rain. I live in California and our winter isn’t the same as yours. Sometimes we don’t get rain for months at a time.”

A girl in a blue apron came through the kitchen to refill our water. Sophie thanked her and turned back to me. “Have you always lived in California?”

“I was born in Iran,” I explained to her, “and have lived in the United States for the last 26 years.”

She looked curious. “Others call it Persia, but you said Iran.”

“It’s the same thing,” I said. “There are many Iranians who are proud of who they are, and then there are those who just don’t want to have anything to do with the motherland. One must realize, seasons change, but not your roots.”

“Are you a religious man?” she asked.

“I can’t think when was the last time I went into a mosque or a temple or a church.” I replied, “All religions are alike. They’re meant to bring peace and comfort to our souls, and after you finish reading a book or a page, you’ll find yourself closer to God. But when a religion is practiced in such a way that it can bring harm into people’s lives or souls, or their beliefs … that’s not a religion, it’s a poison. All of my life all I ever wanted was to worship the God that I know in my heart. ”

“There is a lot of truth in your words.” She said.

“And you?” I asked. “Are you a religious woman?”

She was born and raised as a Catholic in a loving family. She went to church every Sunday, until one day she stopped. “I was ashamed for a long time,” she said, “because I thought I was a rotten Catholic, and my family thought the same way. I wish I did feel religious again. Maybe in the next life.” She realized there was nothing she could do about it, at least for a while, and maybe never. After all, she had not only lost her faith, it was a war against a grand religion.

“Never lose faith,” I told her. “The kingdom of God is inside you and all around you - remember that,” I said. “Split a piece of wood, I am there. Lift a stone and you shall find me.”

She’d lived with her parents outside of London before she became a concierge. They’d inherited an estate when her grandfather died. Then the inflation came and the money they’d made wasn’t enough to keep the place going, so they’d leased the land and moved to Scotland.

“Why Scotland?” I asked.

“In Scotland, the water is pure and unpolluted. Have you ever been?”

“No, I haven’t. “ I answered.

“Well, one day you must come and visit me and my family. I’ll show you around.” She looked at her watch. “Oh god, I have to get back to work,” she said.

“Will I see you again?” I asked, “I’d like to finish our conversation.”

The girl in the blue apron returned to the table. I noticed the apron covered her pregnant belly and wondered why I hadn’t seen that when she first came in. “Can I bring you more coffee?” she asked.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to get our check,” I told her.

A porter came in through the front door, and Sophie sat up, suddenly formal. “Will you excuse me,” she said, pushing herself away from the table. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you.” I replied. Sophie joined the porter. I paid the bill and walked back to my room. I couldn’t stop wondering if I’d see her again, and what had happened that she’d left our conversation so abruptly.

In my room, I showered and got ready for the day. I was drying off when I heard a knock. I put on a bathrobe and opened the door. There was a note waiting there for me. It was from Sophie. “I enjoyed very much our meeting this morning, and would like to finish our conversation. If you are free, we can meet at 5:00 for a drink or an early dinner.”

Later that morning, I went down to the front desk, hoping to find her. Just as I was about to ask for her, she walked through the door. “Good morning, sir,” she said, “How can I help you?”

“I’m glad to see you.” I said. Her coworker excused himself.

She whispered, “Did you get my note?”

“Yes. 5:00 is perfect. Where?” I asked.

“Just go all the way down and turn left. At the end of the street, you’ll see a bar called The Mermaid. I’ll see you at 5:00.”

I summoned a cab and asked the driver to take me by the old brown church. The first time I’d ever seen it, I was in a taxi. The second time, I just missed the light. The dark came very early in the fall, and I’d lost the opportunity to photograph it. But this time, it felt good. The rain had stopped and the sun was pushing its way out. There was a big wind blowing, but it was helping the clouds move faster, creating shadows everywhere.

I had my camera loaded with black and white film. I captured the old trees with their roots bulked together above the ground and their twisted branches. The sunlight came through the leaves shining patches of light on the grass and the wet asphalt. Everything looked so fresh and clean. It was as if someone had washed all of the church walls. Suddenly, there were no cars on the street and there was absolute silence. CLICK and CLICK I photographed all around.

It was worth waiting for. Thank you, Lord.

I decided to go inside. It was warm and dark and it smelled of incense. There were people praying, and I joined them. I knelt in one of the wooden pews and began to pray for everyone I could think of. I prayed for my family, especially my mother. She is such a fine woman, and it makes me so sad to see her ill. The last time we spoke, she said, “I miss working on my paintings. I feel everything is being taken away from me.”

I prayed to God for strength to give to my sister, and I prayed for my friends who had helped me, and their wives who had supported me. I thanked God for the dignities he taught me, and all he had already blessed me with. All this time I was kneeling, with my forehead on the wood in front of me. I was praying. I didn’t feel ashamed or rotten for not being a Catholic, which I’m not. All I wanted was to be close to my God. I prayed that I would make enough money to take care of my family and my friends. I prayed for Sophie the concierge girl, and I wondered what might happen with her, and then I realized there was nothing I could do about it, at least for now.

Back in the bright sun, on the steps of the church, it was so cold my hands felt numb. I put my gloves on and began walking back to the hotel.

At 5:00 that evening, I was in the Mermaid Bar, waiting for Sophie. The bartender looked up and said, “What’s yours?”

“I’m waiting for a lady friend,” I said. The room was dark, with low lights hanging from the ceiling.

“How you feeling?” the bartender asked me.

“She’s late,” I replied.

“That’s women for you,” he said. “This one’s on the house. What will it be?”

“Scotch.” I answered.

“You speak my language,” he said, reaching for the bottle of scotch on the shelf.

Frederick the bartender was 67 years old. He was very tall and well-built, with his gray hair slicked back and a thick, dark moustache. He wore a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up like he was ready to challenge somebody to a midnight fight club.

He’d spent the better part of his life behind this bar, and these faces were his family: the regulars and the strangers and the shy new boys, even the whores, fat and thin and ugly alike. He remembered the good times and the dark times that brought the wicked out of drunken men. At night he could remember everything that had ever happened to him. The night he took the trash out, like every other night, and found a young woman’s body left outside in the dark alley.

“Do you have a woman?” I asked him.

“They’re complicated,” he said. He said he would like to have a woman in his life, but he didn’t want to have to work to get her. And he didn’t want any consequences. He didn’t want consequences

ever again. He wanted to live alone, without any consequences, and he didn’t need a woman besides.

The room was getting crowded, and the crowd kept getting louder. The bartender started a fire in the fireplace with some chunks of pine. Every time the door opened, the winds blew in and the flames flared up. I got up to look out the windows. It was cold and dark. I thought to myself, “I hope she’s well.”

And then her cold hands were covering my eyes. She’d suddenly crept up behind me. Her icy cheeks touched my face, her fingertips sank into my skin. She whispered in my ears, “Will you forgive me?”

I turned to look at her. Wearing an old military overcoat, she was pretty more than she was beautiful, her dark hair still tied up in back. “The strange things was,” she said, “I thought you’d already left. What are you drinking?”

“Scotch,” I said. “Would you care for a drink?”

“Let’s finish yours and leave,” she said, “I’m hungry.”

We drove through the town. The moon was growing weaker as the fog crept in. The streetlights came through the bare branches of the trees along the sidewalks, casting thick shafts of light. She stopped the car in front of a market. Several men were sitting outside, drinking wine and eating from a big bowl of meat and bread. Sophie nodded toward them and they nodded back.

We left with baguettes and garlic and sausage and cheese, and two bottles of wine. I gave my money to the woman behind the long wooden counter, and carried the bags out to the car. Sophie leaned over to open my door.

“I’d like to stop by the hotel to grab some things before supper. Would that be all right?” I asked.

“All right,” she replied, “ but nobody can see us together.”

I asked her if I could smoke in her car. “Yes,” she replied, “Will you light one for me?” I lit her a cigarette and placed it between her lips. We rolled our windows down and the cold air rushed in. “Try

not to have any eye contact with the night staff,” she said as she turned into the alley and stopped the car. “I’ll wait for you here.”

My hands were stiff and shaking as I walked toward the hotel. I hoped it was the cold, or maybe because there was no food in my stomach. In my room, I grabbed my portfolio and my camera bag, making sure I had enough film. I hurried downstairs and back outside. The cold wind wasn’t stopping. Even through my overcoat, I could feel the winter air.

“What’s this?” she asked when I got back to the car.

“I brought my camera, and some photographs I’d like to show you.”

“Are you planning to photograph me?” She looked at me brightly, “Don’t be shy.”

I didn’t know how to answer her question.

We drove slowly through the hills into the thick fog. My mind was as restless and winding as the road we were on. There was something working in my soul, I didn’t understand it. Finally, she pulled in front of an old stone cottage. “Maybe after a few glasses of wine and a good meal, you’ll feel more relaxed,” she said.

Inside, there was a living room next to the kitchen with a fireplace and a small piano, and a narrow hallway that lead to the bathroom and her bedroom. “I’ll start a fire.” she said, “My god you must be cold.” It was so cold inside the house we could still see our breath. She blew hers towards me.

“I’m going to take a bath to warm up. Please, open a bottle of wine.” She grabbed the corkscrew from a kitchen drawer and handed it to me. “Anything you need should be right in the cupboard,” She put a record on the gramophone. It was Chopin, Piano concerto Nocturne op 9, no, 2.

The door to her bathroom was halfway open and I could see her shadow getting undressed. I turned to keep myself busy preparing our meal, but I could still hear the water, rushing against her bare skin.

She joined me in front of the fireplace with her glass of wine. Her hair was down now, and lit up all around her face from the firelight. She

was naked under her bathrobe. We were both very hungry. I don’t remember what we talked about over dinner. All during the meal she looked at me, smiling and glancing back through my photographs.

When we were done, she asked, “Should we have a drink before you take pictures?”

“Do you think we should?” I replied.

“I’m having one,” she said. “After all, I’m posing nude. It will make me less nervous.”

“Very well,” I said, “We’ll have one together.”

“Scotch?” she called.

She used to drink scotch reading in bed with her husband. For a while she’d devoted her life to him. He had died when she was still a young woman, and then the lovers came. But the lovers bored her. She’d been married to a man who never bored her.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said.

She walked into her bedroom and came back out wearing only the old military coat, striding across with the room with a smile. “Do you think I’m cut out for what you want?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“How do you know?”

“When you’ve been doing this as long as I have, you know.”

“We must all do what we do best,” she said. “I trust you. You’ll send me a print? Promise?”

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“I’m fairly drunk,” she said. She walked over to the wall and leaned against it. The paint was chipped, it had cracks. “Now what? Is this how you want to see me?”

She opened the overcoat. I grabbed the camera and began to photograph her. She was over-ripe. She was smooth like a rose petal, flat-bellied, big-breasted, round buttocks. And it came with a rush. Not a rush of water or wind, it was hard to describe. All I knew was it was well worth it.

When the photos were done, we were both exhausted, and it had started to rain again. I asked her to call me a taxi.

“Don’t be silly, there’s no need to go.” she said. “No cab driver will pick you up all the way out here at this time of night. You can stay with me in my bed. I’ll run you a bath.” She walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. The water ran steaming into the tub. The rain came down harder. I washed myself quickly and crawled into bed next to her. We fell into a deep, black sleep.

It was the middle of the night when I woke up. At first, I had no idea where I was, and then my head started working. I was in Sophie’s bed with her laying so close I didn’t dare move. I could feel her breasts against my shoulders and her stomach against my back. I was overwhelmed by the presence of her half-naked body. I shut my eyes and listened to the sound of the rain.

The morning came painfully soon. The rain had stopped, I could smell coffee. I got up and put my clothes on. It was dark inside, but for the bathroom light coming through the door, which was cracked open. I couldn’t help looking through. This was the last time I’d see her bare neck and her shoulders, her arms, her back, her breasts.

“Good morning,” she said when she joined me in the kitchen. “Did you sleep well?”

“I had a good sleep, thank you.” I said. I asked if she could write her address down for me, and tell me how to get back to town.

“I’ll drive you,” she said, “It would make me happy if we leave together. Now that the storm’s passed, it’s a beautiful morning.”

After our coffee, we stood outside together for one last cigarette. I explained that my journey had come to an end and I’d be checked out of the hotel by noon.

“If you have to go away, I understand,” she said. “Will I see you again? Will you write me?” And I promised her I would.

Driving out of the forest, it was still half-dark. We came around the curve into town. The streets were empty and everything lay pale under the colorless sky. When she stopped the car, I reached over and we embraced each other for a minute or two. I don’t like to say goodbye.

She looked as though she understood it all, or as if it didn’t matter whether anything was understandable or not. “Will you write to me?” she asked again. I nodded my head and kissed her forehead. I got out of her truck and walked straight toward the hotel. I didn’t look back.

In the midst of the euphoria I was feeling, there was still the black hollow of emptiness. It was as if one string in the chord was slightly out of tune. I realized all these feelings were meaningless. Soon this sadness would fall behind me, or be forgotten completely. I remembered the days gone by like a slow train. It was as if time cased to exist. All the hours and all the days just vanished. But the minutes still crept by.

It wasn’t dark out anymore. You see things differently in the light.

That afternoon, as I was waiting for the cab, I realized you give up some things in life for something else in return. Or you work for something. You pay in some way for anything that’s any good. I’d paid my way into enough things to have a good time. Enjoying life was learning to get your money’s worth, and knowing when you had it. The world was a good place to buy in, but it could be cruel and unfair at times as well.

Finally, the taxi arrived. I got in, and the driver put my bags in the trunk. He took me past the schoolyard, the shops, the Mermaid bar where I’d had my drink with Sophie. As we passed the old brown church, I asked him if he could wait and run the meter.

“All right, sir.” He stopped the car. I got out and went inside. I knelt once more and started to pray.

Hearing footsteps, I raised my head and saw a priest. “Good morning, Father.” I said.

“Good morning, my son. Welcome to our church. You must be visiting.”

“Yes, Father.”

He asked if I wished to confess my sins. I was kneeling, with my hands on the wood in front of me. “I don’t think God would be interested in my sins, Father.”

I stood up and thanked him and went back outside. Just then, I saw the old man with his grandson. He saw me too, and smiled. I smiled back and waved my hand to him and the young boy. They waved back.

I got in the cab. “Please, take me to the station.”