Behind Closed Doors

By Noy Thrupkaew, Nerve.com. Posted April 29, 2005.

Comic artist Marjane Satrapi's Embroideries is a bawdy love letter, a work on a smaller, more intimate scope than her previous books, Persepolis and Persepolis 2, which were set against the backdrop of two revolutions -- Iran's Islamic revolution, and the West's sexual one. The first book featured Satrapi's young alter ego grappling with the hypocrisy of a movement that promised freedom but brought oppression. In the second, the teenaged Marjane struggles through ill-fated romances and brutal xenophobia in Europe before she seeks solace in Iran -- but once home, she finds the Islamic Republic's sexual repression intolerable as well. She returns, ultimately, to the West -- an exile who cannot purge her passion, animosity and hopes for her homeland from her artistic imagination.

Embroideries returns to that home, taking place over one long afternoon as Satrapi's women relatives and friends drink tea and talk over a favorite subject -- sex. Embroideries is an X-rated (and actually entertaining) version of The View -- one where grandmothers, mothers, and granddaughters talk about hymen restoration, the virtues of being a mistress, and the questionable aesthetic value of the penis.

In Embroideries, Satrapi documents the ways in which strong-willed women in Iran have fought back -- in secretly gleeful silence or through overt rebellion -- against misogynistic traditions and piggish men. The book is also a celebration of these women's resilience, their tough-mouthed, tender-hearted talk over tea. Satrapi spoke with me on the phone about geriatric sex, the appeal of the ass, and the promise of young women in Iran today.

Noy Thrupkaew: How did Embroideries come about?

Marjane Satrapi: Embroideries is appearing in America after Persepolis 1 and 2, but I made it between those books. Persepolis was a heavy story -- I had to remember unpleasant things, and had in my mind a mission to teach people about my country, because there has been so much misunderstanding. So I really needed a moment of joy, just joy -- and I wrote about this afternoon that I spent with women of different generations. I really loved the stories the women told me. I don't know if they are made up or true. I don't think it matters. They made me laugh so much I just wanted to share them.

It's very interesting how women make use of gender segregation in Iran -- which definitely can have its disadvantages -- to create such a powerful and private space for themselves.

It has always been like that. Even before the Islamic Republic, we were always a very traditional country. When you have such strong traditions, you have very extreme reactions. In such societies, discussion between the women is the space for freedom. These stories don't present a complacent point of view about women, that they are all suffering, oh my god. They're not victims. And I refuse it completely, I hate that image. Even in the worst days under the Islamic Republic, I never saw myself as a victim. We always have the choice to do something else, to make a parallel life.

And part of that parallel life seems to be these talks over tea. No matter where we are in the world, women will get together and talk about sex.

Absolutely. And so do the men. But the women go more into the details. A woman will tell you about every corner, every inch.

Yes, they certainly do in your book, even saying the penis is ugly. What do you think about the penis, as an artist?

It's not so special. Other parts of the body are more interesting to draw. The penis is not photogenic, I would say. [Laughs]

What other parts are more photogenic?

I like very much the breasts, the shoulders, the neck, whatever leads to the head. Actually, a nice ass is beautiful, too, a continuation of the leg. A continuation of the balls is nothing, just a hole. And then that thing hanging. [Laughs]

Did you have opportunities to draw nice asses in school?

Oh yes, there were many asses. Well, not in Iran. When I went to school in France, we could draw nudes. But when you draw, you become like a doctor, these things don't have any sexual connotation anymore. All you think about is a matter of proportion, just a part of the body.

Noy Thrupkaew is an American Prospect senior correspondent.

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