The Inukshuk of Alborz

Mazandaran Provinvial Park  Circa 1975

I still remember the gentle stroke of his hand up and down my back to help me fall asleep.  

I don’t quite remember where I heard this for the first time, but someone once said music is nothing but pauses interrupted by sound. By the same token, one’s trajectory in life seems to be long stretches of mundane interrupted by significant people, memories or events that enter the scene and then leave or disappear. And as times goes by and memories merge with desires, one begins to remember these sounds of times gone by and somehow finds their echo resonate in one’s present.  

After my father’s passing I began to recall the long expanses of time I was away from him; these long pauses, had awakened a certain consciousness, a certain awareness of things he had brought into my life; characters, notions and ideas he had represented and symbolized that now I find surprisingly missing altogether from my surroundings. Things that one thought little of or not at all, somehow have become more relevant, more necessary. I began to become aware of the missing elements that should have mattered to me much earlier. 

He was born in the Caspian Sea region. A region commonly referred to in Iran as “North”. I recall the many trips we used to take across Alborz Mountains when I was a kid to visit where he lived as a child. Now, thinking about those years, it all seems like a dream: surreal and remote, a different continent, a different life, where your family tree stands, anchored by the centuries old of its roots, strong yet alone. I question my choices: are the things I gained worth the things I lost? Do I belong anywhere? Am I an eternal alien no matter where, no matter when? 

I, this latter-day nomad of once undiscovered shores, can hear the drumbeats of native chants as I navigate my path through the limitless horizon of the new North. Which one, my past or present, is the True North? Where are my roots, once deep and wide, now a twig in the limitless horizon of white? What became of my trunk, once ancient and strong, now a stem whose bloom is yet to come? This tree, once branching sky high, now a lone maple in the short spring of bloom. I hear the calling of the father, the eternal guardian of the valleys I once passed through, the ever present Inukshuk of Alborz, whose son now sings the native ballads of the Algonkians.  

Those decades that became fleeting moments; those seeming oceans of everlasting love that became but drops in the invisible realm of absence; this time that cannot be captured nor conquered; this unbridgeable past; the separation that could not be undone; this noble soul who is now a native in the concourse above. The great spirit who flew over the cascading ranges of Alborz, whose voice echoed in the Caspian ever greens, now ever-present if absent, is with me through the dimensions unknown: 

O! gentle reminder of forgotten times, hear my cry if you can; I am North, don’t let me astray in the perilous journey of life’s glens and groves; call me if you can, don’t leave me lost in the far away trails of my solitude’s inlets and coves; take me once again through the green valleys of Alborz as I sing the native chants; set me free, unbound me from the concentric rhythm of time, for I too search for the lost roots of my generations past. 

The primal will has called him to be the gardener of the changeless beauty of the ever-blooming spring of after-life. In the picturesque echoes of memories, frame by frame, reel by reel, I remember, ingrained in the depth of my soul, those seemingly forgotten years that are but an illusion now.  

***

Circa 1960

I remember the excitement of being taken to a military base in the back seat of a jeep watching the soldiers salute him, or walking in the middle of a field watching the Drill Sergeant in action while standing close to him. I remember how walking late at in the streets of Tehran, back when nights were quiet enough to hear the silence punctured by an accidental car passing by and stars were not yet hidden behind the fog of smoke and sulfur, he'd put me on his shoulders so this five-year-old could lean on his head half sleep with a smile on his face. I have never stood that tall again.   

How those nights and days passed us by, the mortal moments disappeared and so much of life remained un-lived. Mind has a time of its own and so it seems the rest will be in the unseen kingdom. I’ll always remember him standing firm, both in faith and life, an accomplished officer, a true gentleman wounded by a land that is alien to justice and removed from fairness. There was something unmovable, unshakable in his character that seems so out of fashion and yet so needed. It is curious that only now I realize what a great role model he was, something I wish I had told him at least once. 

Regrets are a many but in my mind his image is that of an Inukshuk that will help me navigate thought life for the rest of my days. I do miss him. 

In 2004, a group of Italian archaeologists made one of the most amazing discoveries of the early 21^st century. They unearthed a previously unknown painting by Michelangelo, believed to be the inspiration for his subsequent masterpiece, Mona Lisa. This painting, called Mona Lisa in the Bathtub, is one of the pivotal Renaissance works of art, a period better known to its contemporaries as "Epocum di Artisti Homosexualis".

Mona Lisa in the Bathtub with Pro V Shampoo and Conditioner

Mona Lisa in the Bathtub with Pro V Shampoo and Conditioner

Michelangelo revolutionized Renaissance artistic landscape and, as such, exerted great influence on many young artists who ended up going nowhere in their lives. His influence, at once shocking but not absorbing, is even more significant when one doesn’t considers the insignificance of his influence. The score of artists who followed him truly believed in a world where one can draw two parallel lines and colour the in between space and call it art.

This painting has come to symbolize the agony of humanity lost in an ever shifting post hygienic era, where soap and shampoo are missing. Yet, the yearning for a global village where everyone is a potential village idiot is strong. 

Removed from reality, and his underwear, Michelangelo opens up a new door to art, as he closes many to his ass, exposing his glorious gluteus maximus. His legacy is not so much in form, substance, convention or novelty he brings in, but in the fact that I know how to spell these words. He is most definitely in the top ten most influential artists of all time even though it is futile to rank artists since most don't know how to count.

Michelangelo came from the illustrious Vermicelli family known for its patronage of music and sausage. The Vermicellis were one of the two powerful families in Northern Italy during early Renaissance, the other being the Panzerrotis with whom they competed for supremacy in Florence and Venice. 

One of the main points of friction between the two families was their pedigree. The Vermicellis were direct descendants of Alfredo Fetuccini, who had married Michelangelo’s great grandmother, Maria Molto Picolo Panini.  During the 100 year war the Paninis and the Fetuccinis had different allegiances and would not mix with each other except when forced by tomato sauce. This long family feud gave rise to rivalries which at times were violent and unpredictable, but always included Calamari.

Although little of this feud is known, there are documents which shed light on how the Fetuccinis tried to undercut the Vermicelli’s patronage of sausage arts to damage Michelangelo’s reputation. 

A projection of human existential angst, Mona Lisa in the Bathtub is an expression of man's hunger after eating dumpling, and sees the world as a composition that reflects the unconscious will of a cosmopolitan villager looking for a ride to a local witch burning jam. 

Later in life, Michelangelo confessed that Mona Lisa in the Bathtub not only inspired him to paint his master piece, Mona Lisa, but also encouraged him to shower more frequently, itself a challenge in medieval times.  

In Mona Lisa in the Bathtub we see the desire to use shampoo, yet, the sculptural elements in the painting point to a digestive symbolism that to this day upsets one’s inner turmoil as one looks for public bathroom. Therefore, it is not surprising that today’s mediocre exhibitions owe so much to Mona Lisa in the Bathtub’s revolutionary interpretation of water as a washing agent. 

This style of painting, which lacks both form and substance, gave way, later on, to a popular style adopted in the 20^th century called “constipated impressionism”. The focus of the style is to zoom in on the agony of human condition while being constipated during the creative process. As one studies the details of this masterpiece, it is easy to realize why so many modern artists draw inspiration from it as it democratizes art to the point that even a painter with the artistic ability of a four year old can draw on a canvas and sell it to international art museums.

Michelangelo's journey as an artist is a journey without a ticket, full of passengers who forgot to use deodorant. The new discovery will undoubtedly become an object of inspiration for countless talentless aspiring artists who will never make it but feel educated enough to talk about art in local cafes. 

Upon reflecting on Mona Lisa in the bathtub, it is hard not to realize that there is not much to reflect on except the desire of one of the most acclaimed artists of human civilization to have a few moments alone in the bathroom, preferably with running water.

Written for “Modern Art” Magazine, April 2017

Ped Shawn, Editor-at-large