Portrait of An Artist as a Young Woman: Anita Amirrezvani's The Blood of Flowers

First there wasn't and then there was. Before God no one was.

Under the brilliant reign of Shah Abbas the Great, Iran flourished, its minarets casting long shadows over busy bazaars filled with peoples from every civilized point of the world, mullahs calling out prayers above a gorgeous mix of cultures, swirling like the intricate knots in its celebrated carpets, the objects inspiring Anita Amirrezvani's Scheherazade of colors and patterns, a talented, dangerously impulsive narrator without a name, a simple village girl who must adapt to the temptations and glories of the Shah's capital Isfahan in the early 1600s.

The novel begins with a curse from the sky. A comet streaks through her village, leaving cosmic destruction in its wake. It seems our heroine is destined for ruin...but she defies the stars at every turn, to the dismay of her passive, traditional mother. This is a kohl-rimmed peek into a jeweled world of women's rivalries, hopes and dreams, veiled struggles in a male-dominated society. Left without a father protector, the young girl and her mother must throw themselves at the feet of a wealthy relative, dependent on his charity and the malicious schemes of his wife. Traditions trapped and protected women - from the sensual mystery created by chadors; to marriage contracts that brought impoverished brides into temporary sigheh unions in exchange for money. We see all sorts of women: our ambitious heroine, her long-suffering mother, her greedy aunt Godiyeh, her pampered cousins, and the sad, steely Naheed, her best friend and surprising rival for one man's capricious affections. It was not easy being a girl, whatever station in life. Especially one as determined as our narrator, who longed to take her place among the celebrated carpet designers employed by the Shah himself.

There are a lot of obstacles - most created by our impatient heroine, whose desperate need to be free of an unwanted marriage contract costs her the comforts of her uncle's home. Sometimes I wanted to cheer her on...and many times, I wanted to throw the book across the room in frustration over her foolishness. I felt like a parent watching over a headstrong daughter - she had to make her mistakes to succeed...but what mistakes! What tangles she creates with such horrible decisions! As she realizes how her actions prevented her from realizing her full potential as an artist, our heroine's bad luck star fades into the deep indigo of the desert sky. She learns to accept who she is.

I will never inscribe my name in a carpet like the masters in the royal rug workshop who are honored for their great skill. I will never learn to knot a man's eye so precisely it looks real, nor design rugs with layers of patterns so intricate that they could confound the greatest of mathematicians. But I have devised designs of my own, which people will cherish for years to come. When they sit on one of my carpets, their hips touching the earth, their back elongated, the crown of their head lifted toward the sky, they will be soothed, refreshed, transformed. My heart will touch theirs and we will be as one, even I am dust, even though they will never know my name.

Tradition provides the loom, her mother's stories as yarns of experience. But only her nimble fingers, her own efforts, could create the designs, the tiny knots holding her life together. It was her choice, in the end, to be happy. The story ends within another story, and we have no picture of her hand in hand with a handsome suitor - a traditional happy ending. Instead, we have a clear vision of an artist finally coming into her own.

I could not guess what fate promised me, but I knew I would strive to make a good life...I thought of my father, and his love coursed through me like a river. As I began to fall asleep, I could hear him giving me advice. He said, "Put your faith in God, but always fasten your camel's leg."