I was born under the wind element on Saturday 24 September 1954 at 7 am from young and joyful parents, both steeped in culture and art. I do not recall having picked up anything in school. Whatever I needed to learn could be found at home: a garden with trees, porcupines, toads, and a running stream in which the mystery of life beamed. My grandfather’s hobby was photography and writing satirical pieces for a newspaper. My grandmother was erudite, my uncle a writer, my mother a school teacher, an artist, and an intellectual, and my aunt – my mother’s twin – an artist and a weaver. Ours was a large family, teeming with aunts and uncles, us being their daughters and sons, and we all lived in a single neighborhood next to each other. Our lives were buzzing with stories.

My grandfather’s mother, Maryam ‘Amid, one of Iran’s first female journalists and social activists, was an inspiration to the family. She is still an inspiration to me. I never knew my father directly, only through stories told and pictures shown of him. I regret not having met this special man who lived bright and died young.

I was not a good student. I didn’t like being forced into doing things. I was, however, attracted to books early on. It could be that I had little choice over that – everyone in the immediate family was into them. When I finished high school, I went to London. I studied operating systems at a computer science school. My heart was in Paris, though. To me, back then, London was an overcast, grey city. Sunnier Paris, on the other hand, was full of happenings: films, exhibitions, plays, fashion shows, cafés, and busy neighborhoods. Paris was where I landed 9 months later and lived for the next 14 years. At first, with much too much labor, I continued with computer science. “Maryam,” my mom wrote me in a letter, “computers are not your thing. Study art, instead.” I loved the arts (I spent all day drawing or building houses in childhood) but I had no patience for tedious drawing classes. I didn’t have the confidence to move in that direction. Back then, the late Iraj Karimkhan Zand, a long-time friend, who was also in Paris at the time, would assure me that my drawings were good and that I had it in me to land in art school. But something kept me from trying, perhaps my fear of not being accepted.

My graduation coincided with the revolution in Iran. My mother could no longer afford to support me. I started earning money by making jewelry and babysitting, among other things. I painted small trees and sold them on the sidewalks of the Boulevard St. Germain, the way Iraj and other art students did. My paintings sold well. This was the most fulfilling period in my life. I felt independent and free. I started working as a copy editor and a calligrapher at a Lebanese-French publishing house called “Khayat Publishing” specializing in printed Korans. My work slowly expanded. I became the supervisor of the workshop. A little later, I was given the task of choosing styles of calligraphy and layout of Korans. This was a doorway into the world of art. Since I was always on the move, I ended my stint at the publishing house after several years with wonderful memories. I was out of jobs for a while when I stumbled upon the studio of Maître Savigny. I got into his studio and my life changed for good. I had stepped onto the right path. I shall never forget the quiet world of the shelves on which the vases laid and the aroma of clay the first day I entered the pottery and sculpture studio of Maître Savigny. Those innocent and simple shapes enchanted me. That feeling is still with me. My hands touched clay, my mind turned quiet, and time stopped. A new world opened and once more – as in childhood – I was one with what I was doing. Confusion was at bay, freedom and peace moved in.

Upon my return to Iran, I set up my own pottery studio with the help of my husband. My daughter was growing in me as clay took shape in my hands. With the birth of Nargess, life took on a new meaning, and it made me complete on a different plane. Since the clay available in those days in Iran did not meet my expectations, I started researching. I read books on various ceramic cultures. After a while, I came up with my ideal white clay, whose ingredients could be found in the mines of Iran. Later, I gradually made colors and glazes of my own.

Nothing comes about at once. Seeds are sowed and, in due time, saplings start to sprout. Under my hands, shapes came about with ease and they shaped me in turn.

Maryam Salour
October 2017