I can hear the sound of the water, lapping against the side of the path, accompanying my footsteps as they hit the concrete, drop by drop. Slowly making my way away from the buzz and hum of humanity I find myself nearing my goal.
I reach the end of the pier and look out onto the multi-coloured canvas of the scene before me. I sit down and for a moment, soak in the solitude that is enveloping me. Today, the 6th of October, is the birthday of a soul, of such gentleness, fragility and beauty, whose like arises only too rarely. I take out the ‘Eight Books’, place it in my lap and open it’s window to peer through it:
I am from Kashan, My days are not too bad. I have a piece of bread, some wit, and some verve.
Sohrab Sepehri was born on the 15th of Mehr, in 1928 on the road between Qom and Kashan, in the heartland of Iran. His mother was a cultivated, literary enthusiast, and a strong influence on his life. His father worked for the Iranian Post and Telegraph Company, and was a musician and calligrapher.
I have a mother, finer than a new leaf … My father painted. He made tars, and played them too. He also had a beautiful handwriting
Sohrab’s early life was peaceful and serene. He entered the Khayyam Grade School in 1933 and upon graduation in 1940, entered the Pahlavi High School of Kashan
Our garden lay in the side of the shadow of learning, Our garden was the place where plants and feeling ran together … In those days, I would chew on the unripe fruit of God, in my sleep. I drank water which had no philosophy. I picked berries that were not yet wise.
The end of High School signalled a change, an end to the innocent days at home and pureness of childhood and youth. He decided to move to Tehran and enrol in a Preparatory college.
The child, slowly, tiptoed away into the alley of the dragonflies. I packed up my bags, and left the city of weightless daydreams behind, My heart yearning for the dragonflies.
Upon the completion of the two-year stint, he decided to return home to Kashan, and at the insistence of a friend took a job at the Kashan office of the Ministry of Culture. It was at this time, in 1947, while still employed at the Ministry, that the world would be introduced to his poetic side. He published a 26-page preliminary collection of love-poetry titled, “Besides the Grass Fields or the Resting Place of the Sun”.
I journeyed to a meeting on the other side of Love, I journeyed, and I journeyed, until I reached Woman, Until I reached the night-light of pleasure …
Throughout these years he also began to indulge in his other passion: painting. Sohrab would frequent locations around Kashan to use the natural settings as the subject for his painting and sketches. During one such excursion, he met a young man named Mansour Sheybani, a student of the School of Fine Arts at the Tehran University, who had a profound effect on his life. Several months later he resigned from his post at the Ministry, and moved, along with his family, to Tehran and enrolled in the School of Fine Arts to study painting.
My profession is painting: Occasionally I build a cage with colour, and sell it to you So that you can listen to the song of a poppy that’s imprisoned in it, And refresh the loneliness of your heart.
This transition would open new horizons for him and give a larger forum for him to nourish and display his talents, such as his meeting with Nima Yousheej, the father of modern Persian poetry. Indeed, 1951 was a red-letter year for Sohrab, as it heralded the publication of his first full collection of poetry, titled “The Death of Colour”.
A colour has died, Without a word besides the night. A black bird has arrived from far away, And sings loudly from the heights of the night of defeat.
This was the beginning of the productive years, in Sohrab’s life. 1953 saw him finish his term at the School of Fine Arts, earning him a B.A. and the Medal of the First Degree in Culture from the Shah. Following the beginning of his teaching duties at the School of Fine Arts, he was able to publish his second collection of poetry under the title, “The Life of Dreams”.
Had I, myself, come to visit this orchard, Or had this garden filled all my surroundings… Was this garden, Not the shadow of a ghost, That had, for one moment, bent over the pond of life?
Over the next brief while he also began to dabble in translation of foreign works of poetry such as his translation of some Japanese verses, which were published in ‘Sokhan’ magazine. At this time, his aspirations in painting began to grow and mature. In 1957, Sohrab travelled to Paris to enroll in the Paris School of Fine Arts in Lithography. He entered the First Tehran Biennale, followed by his entry into the Venice Biennale, in 1958.
His participation, two years later, in the 2nd Tehran Biennale heralded his arrival on the world art scene, as he was awarded the Top Prize in the Fine Arts. In 1961, Sohrab’s paintings were displayed in an individual exhibition in Tehran. In addition, during the year, he published two more collections of poetry: first “Torrent of the Sun”, followed by “The East of Sorrow”, which started to display his feelings about Sufism, Buddhism, and mysticism.
It was a moment, the doors had been thrown open. No leaves, no branches, the garden of nothingness had appeared. The birds of places were silent, this silent, that silent, Silence itself had become talkative.
“The Sound of the Footfalls of Water”, considered by some to be Sohrab’s magnum opus, was published in 1965 in Arash magazine.
And a goat was drinking water, from the “Caspian” on a geography map … The wheels of a carriage, yearning for the horse to tire The horse, yearning for the driver to fall asleep, The driver, yearning for death.
Over the next few years, Sohrab travelled all over the world, visiting Germany, England, France, The Netherlands, Italy, and Pakistan while his works and paintings went on exhibition.
I saw a train, carrying light. I saw a train, carrying religion, and how burdened it went. I saw a train, carrying politic, (and how empty it went).
In the meantime, he continued to publish more of his poetry, ‘The Traveller’ in 1966, followed by ‘Palpable Green’ in 1967, which was met with enormous public success.
I should remember tomorrow … To sketch the brooms, and their shadows in the water. I should remember, to quickly take out any butterflies that fall in the water… I should remember that I am alone.
Between 1953 and 1978 his paintings were featured in seventeen group exhibitions and fourteen individual exhibitions, seen in as diverse locations as Venice, Sao Paolo, Paris, New York, as well as Tehran and Shiraz. His final original collection of poetry was published under the name ‘As Nothing We Gaze’ as a part of his Collected Works Volume, titled ‘Eight Books’.
I will build a boat, And throw it to the water. I will go far away from this foreign land, Where you can’t find anyone in the Thicket of Love To wake up the Heroes.
Sohrab had always been a shy man of thin and frail stature. Unfortunately, as the decade of the 70’s neared an end, Sohrab’s health started to show signs of decline, and he was diagnosed with Leukemia. In a final effort to try and combat the disease, he flew to England in 1979. When all efforts were unsuccessful, he asked to return to his homeland, wishing to die on his home soil. Sohrab Sepehri died on the 20th of April, 1980, the first day of Ordibehesht, in Tehran.
If you're calling on me, Approach very gently, Lest you crack the delicate Porcelain of my solitude.
Sohrab approached death, the same way he approached life. He was a spiritual man; a man of utmost simplicity and never-ending depth.
Life is not empty: There is kindness, there are apples, there is faith. Yes, As long as there are poppies, we must live.
He saw everything in life as a testament to its beauty and simplicity. In his words, we see his wonder at why others cannot perceive this beauty in simplicity and why they do not enjoy life as it is.
I don’t know why they say: The horse is a noble animal, the dove is beautiful. And why are there no vultures in people’s cages. What does the clover have that’s any less than a tulip. We must wash our eyes, we must see in a different way. We must wash our words.
I close the book, hold it to my heart and look out onto the scene in front of me. Happy Birthday, Sohrab.
Maybe, our duty Is to run after the truth Between the lilies and the century.
