A lady in white, so fair and fine, In a classic scene, so divine. Her dress flows free, like a summer breeze, As she stands among, small picture frames with ease.
But look up close, and you will see, Telephone wires, from her head free. A symbol of connection, so strong and true, A bridge between people, old and new.

A Lady in White

That was the place...where your hollow, metallic-tasting, humiliation turned a burning shade of rancorous red and the crumbling stone labyrinth of oppressive silence was abandoned during the freezing midnight of the final  freeway.  The indelicate flavour of blood, and the sudden spasms of perfect pleasure combined in your vacuum mouth and were absorbed, immediately. It happened there, right in the midst of fitful sleep and competitive wakefulness. Rivulets of sweat washed over the dam of your collar, the calendar's momentum was paused and impudent showers of needling ice-water stabbed into your skull like sharpened bones built from stilled seconds... they widened those wounds that defined your mind. It was precisely there - in the fullness of your 'forties - that you reclaimed that purple-drenched darkness and rewound the clock of confusion that had been wrapped and stored since it's era of remorseless pomp...at the half-life of your 'thirties.

A Siren's Segments and Intruding Entomology 

A lady in white, so fair and fine, In a classic scene, so divine. Her dress flows free, like a summer breeze, As she stands among, small picture frames with ease.
But look up close, and you will see, Telephone wires, from her head free. A symbol of connection, so strong and true, A bridge between people, old and new.
Her beauty and grace, a sight to behold, A lady in white, with stories untold. A classic art piece, with a twist so bold, A reminder of the power of connection, untold.


In a twilight field where the wheat bends and whispers in a gentle breeze, a girl stands alone, cradling a basket of chicken eggs, their fragile shells glistening like secrets kept too long. The air is thick with an elusive stillness, a haunting echo of a maternal presence that lingers like a shadow at the edge of memory. The girl glances toward the gnarled tree, its branches reaching skyward like twisted fingers, where an ancient clock hangs, its hands forever frozen, a silent witness to the passage of time since her mother’s departure. The girl feels the weight of the unseen, a warmth that wraps around her, reminding her of the love that still pulses beneath the surface of her loss. In this mysterious twilight, hope flickers like a distant lantern, casting playful shadows that dance among the golden stalks of wheat, while the spirit of her mother whispers through the rustling leaves, guiding her through the enigma of sorrow and resilience.

Fragile Secrets

Within this single, seething, face there abides a personal gallery of countenances, responses to experiences and paragraphs of emotional history written in the eyes, around the mouth and on the skin. Every one of them is lived, suffered, enjoyed and endured. Personal pride and confidence is carefully folded into this layered confection of hope, optimism, expectation and resilience, more than a single canvas can usually accommodate. This is a single aesthetic moment that harbors a multitude of lived minutes.

Unknown woman 1

In an enchanted wood, a spider-baby, With a curious trait that made it shady, Crawled on wooden legs, searching for more, Until it found an apple to explore.

Tempted by the fruit, it reached out its arm, And in that moment, the spider knew harm, It crawled out of the frame and disappeared, Leaving behind a tale that's weird.




Crawling Out of the Frame #8/50

 In the frame of life, she took her place, A spider's journey, now a lady's grace. Her form transformed, elegance she embraced, In a world of white, a new chapter traced. No more wooden legs, her past erased, A celebration hat, a smile replaced. From arachnid to lady, a story encased, In beauty and growth, her essence retraced. A symbol of change, she stands unchased, A testament to life's mysteries, interlaced.

transformation

A fairy tale of a different kind…
A mystical monarch sits smothered in its twitching wings
it exists beyond one's visions and dreams
Both tender and inert, the stepmother of all orphaned mice that populate the dark corners of the abandoned kingdom
Much like a serene and beautiful feline, flaunting sorrowful eyes, its kindness is rooted through its whole, toy-like, being as if its were merely a softly-sighing ornament aching instead to be a steadfast tree.
Beyond her sharp pointed teeth lies its true nurturing nature and when unsheathed, its claws are hard and quick to cut.  All but guaranteed to scare everyone with their painful utility.
its favored courtiers look on and squeak high-pitched adorations upward at the fetchingly fragmented 'mother' of all of their twitching kind.
In its decapitated majesty, its nourishes all.

That Most Decorative of Decapitations.

MaryamHasani Absentia

In the realm of buzzing bees, there exists a queen, A girl adorned with a crown of bees, a wondrous scene. She strives to protect a home nestled in her embrace, Her hands, crafted from the wood of an ancient tree's grace. With gentle touch, she tends to their needs, Guiding her loyal subjects as they work diligently, like seeds. In her eyes, a fierce determination gleams, To safeguard their sanctuary, she holds steadfast to her dreams. Through fields of flowers, she gracefully roams, Gathering nectar, creating sweet honeycombs. Her love for her buzzing companions never wanes, For in their unity, she finds strength that sustains. Oh, queen of the bees, with your noble reign, May your kingdom flourish, never to wane. In the symphony of nature, your presence thrives, A testament to the beauty of these buzzing lives.

"The Bee Queen's Embrace"

SuperRare

This image that you can see is a frozen moment. It aches with the remembrance of intense sensation and blissful romantic fulfillment. Outside the window, the snow continues to fall even though the current calendar page indicates the authentic season to be Spring. The printed image speaks of radiant morning light caressing dew-studded flowers; it conjures an imagined soundscape of unseen birds filling the air with their exuberant song. Today becomes the finest day in all of May because it was then that you kissed me and encouraged a decorous rose to grow where your warm, wet, lips met mine. No snow could abide on my sensitive neck where your considerate mouth ventured, journeyed, explored. This is a lingering love letter composed for you - the only one who can defy the calendar and transform the day.
Size: 2787 * 3195 pixels
 Material: watercolor, acoline, cardboard

frozen moment

Foundation

Crawling Out of the Frame #15/50

Maryam Hasani Editions

Mohammad Ali Shah Qajar (1 Tir 1251 – 16 Farvardin 1304) was the sixth Shah of Iran from the Qajar dynasty. Mohammad Ali Shah was opposed to constitutionalism and forcefully closed the National Consultative Assembly and ordered the killing of the proponents of freedom. After the attack on the parliament, a period known as the "Minor Despotism" began. Mohammad Ali Shah passed away in Italy in 1304 and was buried in Karbala.

Mohammad Ali Shah Qajar

In the realms of Qajar's fading light, Stood Ahmad Shah, a king so slight, A child thrust into a crown's embrace, A name of power, but a heart misplaced. Within his veins, no strength did flow, A puppet king, a kingdom's woe, For he possessed no royal might, Just a facade, a feeble sight. The Qajar dynasty's final breath, Laid upon his shoulders, burdened with death, A weak king, lost in the tides of time, A mere figurehead, a tragic mime. His reign, a shadow, a fleeting dream, A fragile vessel on a tumultuous stream, Ahmad Shah, a name, a hollow throne, A king in name, but never truly known. Yet, let not judgment cloud the truth, For he was but a product of his youth, A child forced to bear a weighty crown, In a world that brought him nothing but frown. So, let us remember Ahmad Shah's tale, A reminder of how power can fail, For even the mightiest can stumble and fall, Leaving behind a legacy, both grand and small.

Ahmad Shah Qajar

Persian women

"I do not want my fragile eyes to see anything more, but my ears are forced to hear it all regardless. Colluding crowds whisper and mutter to themselves. They delight in judging us. We feel obliged to do the things that they believe are right and we are further compelled to avoid those things that they disapprove of, on our behalf. I weep for for all of those young women who suffer in the country that I left behind; my tears are hurtful and bloody. Those cheeks are wet with red for the lost girls who are struck blind and dumb as they labour under the vulgar, unmovable, burden of stale patriarchy."

whispering 

maryam hasani art

For as long as I can remember, I have been captivated by Victorian art. The splendor and grandeur of that era, combined with its dark and mysterious life, have always enchanted me. Now, I have decided to create a collection of Victorian women using AI, and in doing so, I will live my dreams.


maryamhasaniart

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