falling out in five parts over five years

i. we met just before our freshman yearat a mansion in la jollaat our legacy sweet sixteen friend’s mixertwo fragile thin bloodedsan diego idiots moving to new yorkevery single day came fat with an apple in its mouthwe constructed and assembled the dumbest empireof 5 minute friends but also some good onesi *constructed* my class schedule to allow forhangovers from my favorite weekly partiesthe night before usually at baddies orbutter or desantosNYU should be illegallost and horny18 year olds being reborn untodowntown manhattan$200,000 worth of debta solid fake ID networkfern cliff for 40scosmic cantina open to 4amand mental health wellness checksat every point of entryfor any campus clinic visitsbecause of all the suicideshe became my brotherwe talked everyday and he becameone of the few people i’d want toand could even spend time withall the timei knew his family and the quirksand the pain and the difficultieshe knew minehe knew memaybe best when in 2014after michelle’s house partyi biked home drunk taking houstonup bedford and then over christopherand then up hudson to perry sti picked up a four pack of crispini put them one by one into a blender bottleto shake the bubbles out so i could chugall four as fast as i couldi put on bojack horsemanreclining in my zero gravity chaira scene about fathers and abuseand abandonment and consequentmaternal engulfment passed byan instinctual thoughtof self extinctiontotal immolationcrossed my mindi recalled seeingas i was emptyingthe crispin into the cupsand then into meseeing a knife in the kitcheni thought about pushing it into my stomachnot stabbing not thrustingbut pushingi drafted a textit was sometime after 3ami told daniel the thought i had hadi told him i was okay and was goingto smoke pot and go to bedi didi woke up to several missed callsnot from danielbut from my momhis mom is a therapistand i’m sure she toldhim to bypass a call to meand to tell my motheri stopped drinking for a bitbut then he and i planned a tripto basquein and around bilbao and st jean de luzand the bullshit somm in mecouldn’t and wouldn’t abstainthe powerlessnessand unmanageabilitygrew and grew ii. michelle’s mom said somethingdisparaging about middle eastern peoplewhile we ate our cold pizza from star tavernthere was a pause thatso often happenswith white peopleafter something racist is saiddiffusion of responsibilityculminating in a disappointingreminder that“mom…. paasha is middle eastern”like having defended my backgroundsince 9/11the first time hearingthe N word was being used at me[of the SAND varietal]wasn’t enoughi’d met michelle through danielher now bfwho i stopped over with in orange njto get pizza and hang outon our way to dana and mike’s weddingfor which neither of us had broughtor bought a gifti talked to daniel about the incidentwe sorta landed on me sending a shortand kind text to michellesomething along the lines of“hey i might check in with your momabout what happened the other day”i sent in monday around noonwhen i was back home on state stshe responded faster than i wouldhave thought it would take to read the messagein the first placeshe called it passive aggressive and maybeeven unbecomingi talked to daniel about itand hethe infinite avoider of conflictsaid he didn’t really want to get involvedi left it alone and felt a space growbetween he and i iii. i got a call that my omawas in the hospitaland the feeling ofthis is itwashed over mei saw her in the hospitaland i adapted in the momentthe only way i knew possiblei took photos of everythingmy mom and aunts and unclesseeming weirdly understandingof that being my coping mechanismthe doctor looked like aneven more pathetic versionof buster bluthand he told usthat hospice at homewas usually what mostfamilies decided to doi never knew really quite what that meantthat you are taken off an IVthat you’d get no food no waterthat your organs failall in front of your familyin the living rooma hospital bedreplaced the coffee tablethat’d been there so longit had made four permanentdivets in the shag carpeti never got a call from danieli think i got a textsometimes our friends overthinkthings to the point of total inactionthinking FOR usto the point of harming us iv. after oma passedand after feeling some coldness on his endhe said he wanted to talk in personbut knew too that i was not going to beback in new york from awhileeventually we metin some random townhousein boerum hill he was housesitting fori asked what was happeningwhat was going onhe made some half hearted attemptsto be gentlewhich i’ve found alwaysdevelops the statements to followto be unconsciously seethingan entitlement to crueltybased in a preface of feigned kindnesshe arrived at his point after 10 minutes of floundering“you’ve been… and are…. just…. too much” v. i later developed a distrust for peoplewho are perpetually housesitting for otherswhat are you running away from?it’s *your* home*you* picked it outit’s okay to set boundariesit’s good to set boundariesi have a lot to thank you forlearningthe streets of new york on a skateboardhow to make a filmhow not to wash dishesit’s okay to set boundariesit’s good to set boundariesi also learnedthere is no such thing astoo muchjusttoo little

Previous · All poems · Next

Paasha Motamedi · paasha.motamedi@gmail.com

skip to content
Paasha Motamedi

Paasha Motamedi

Oil stick and acrylic on a machine-made Persian-style rug, the retail label left in place — Paasha Motamedi
Painting Oil stick and acrylic on a machine-made rug all 41 works →
From A Dying Tradition — photograph by Paasha Motamedi
Photography →
Paasha Motamedi handing a freshly typed poem across a garden table, a Smith-Corona typewriter in front of him
Typewriter poetry booking →
los angeles paasha.motamedi@gmail.com @paashamotamedi

Art

His multidisciplinary practice—shaped by poetry, cooking, music, and visual arts—took a decisive turn after embracing sobriety in 2015.

Film
← film

Opa, Last Days

documentary short · 2026 · 15:45

The final two days of the artist's grandfather's life. Opa dies before the film ends.

The film is not screening online. Programmers and festivals are welcome to request a link.

Request a screener

Credits

director, producer, cinematographer, editor Paasha Motamedi
Press & programmers — screening inquiries

Slow Motion

After 2015, the practice began again here — the camera slowed down first.
{{ v.title }} {{ v.n }} / {{ v.total }}
Watch on Vimeo ↗
← film

Ten Shorts

in production

A series of ten short films, in production. Individual films will be posted here as they are finished.

Inquire about the series

Painting

Oil stick, acrylic, and unconventional materials — saffron, black dried lime, pomegranate, sabzi, sand, and fire — applied directly to mass-produced Persian-style rugs. Repurposed as both medium and critique, the rugs interrogate the consumer fetishization of orientalized objects while evoking migration, displacement, and third-culture hybridity.

read as one sequence → inquire about a work
← all works
{{ pWork.n }} / {{ pWork.total }}
{{ pWork.alt }}

{{ pWork.title }}

From the rug paintings — mixed media on a machine-made Persian-style rug.
Inquire about {{ pWork.title }}
Use ← → to move between works, Esc to return to all works.

Painting — the full sequence

All {{ pCount }} works in order, one after another.

← back to all works
{{ w.alt }}
{{ w.num }}
{{ w.title }}

Photography

Personal reportage on diaspora, belonging, and autochthony — grown out of street photography.

Portrait work is shown under Editorial & Portraits.
← photography

{{ photoProject.title }}

{{ photoProject.date }} {{ photoProject.frames }}

{{ photoProject.statement }}

{{ photoProject.count }} frames

{{ f.alt }}
{{ f.counter }}
← {{ pFrame.project }}
{{ pFrame.n }} / {{ pFrame.total }}
{{ pFrame.alt }}

{{ pFrame.project }} — {{ pFrame.n }}

Use ← → to move between photographs, Esc to return to the project.

Poetry

{{ p.num }} {{ p.title }}
← poetry
{{ poem.num }}

{{ poem.title }}

{{ poem.stage }}
{{ poem.ded }}
{{ sg.t }}
Use ← → to move between poems, Esc for the index.
Five 30ml bottles of the artist's perfume, filled with a deep yellow oil, hand-labelled "paasha joon pici" with "hi" written over the caps

Scent

Persian cuisine in an "Under The Tuscan Sun" kitchen; the Food Network is blasting Emeril Live, as my mom teaches me about the Iranian palette where, here, butter and fenugreek are trellised by pink and black peppercorn as a treacly backbone is endowed by oud and ambergris. The room spins. Gourmand would be the lazy way to describe this savory, unctuous tandem of memory and opulence.

The perfumes are composed to evoke the dishes of that kitchen — gheimeh and beef rendang among them — and they accompany the rug paintings as an invisible part of the work.

Pictured: paasha joon pici, 30 ml, hand-filled and hand-labelled.
More will be revealed
Inquire

{{ hubName }}

{{ hubIntro }}

Writing

{{ sg.t }}

Features, artist profiles, interviews, and criticism, mostly about people who make things in Los Angeles. The poems have their own room.

Selected pieces

{{ row.pub }} {{ row.meta }}
{{ row.t }}
{{ row.note }}
read at {{ row.host }} →

In print

{{ row.pub }} {{ row.note }}

Longer work, fiction and a feature screenplay, is in development.

Commissions and pitches welcome. commission a piece Published in {{ pubWriting }}

Curation

{{ sg.t }}

Exhibitions organized

{{ s.num }} {{ s.meta }}

{{ s.t }}

{{ s.venue }}

{{ s.statement }}

With {{ s.artistsText }}.

 exhibition page →

Residencies

{{ row.label }} {{ row.year }}
Have a room and an idea? propose a show exhibitions as an artist, in the CV →

Commercial Services

Editorial portrait — photograph by Paasha Motamedi

Editorial & Portraits

Editorial and portrait photography on assignment, for publications and for people.

view photographs
Artwork documentation example — a painting photographed square to the frame

Artwork Documentation

Photographic documentation of paintings and works on paper, for artists, galleries, and estates.

the service

Typewriter Poetry

Live poems typed to order for holiday parties, brand activations, weddings, and conferences. Each guest leaves with the only copy.

how it works

Writing

Essays and interviews, alongside the poetry. Commissions considered.

Photography published in The New York Times · Los Angeles Times · Hyperallergic
For commissions and bookings — paasha.motamedi@gmail.com

Editorial & Portraits
{{ zoom.el }}
{{ zoom.counter }}
Photography published in The New York Times · Los Angeles Times · Hyperallergic
Commission an assignment — paasha.motamedi@gmail.com

Typewriter poet, Los Angeles Live poems, typed to order.

A guest sits down across from me and offers a name, a worry, a joke, or nothing at all. A few minutes later they stand up holding the only copy of a poem that did not exist before they sat down. Holiday parties, brand activations, weddings, conferences; eleven years at the typewriter.

Paasha Motamedi in a burgundy velvet jacket handing a freshly typed poem across a garden table, a Smith-Corona typewriter in front of him

The night, in order

  1. 1

    Setup

    I arrive early with a manual typewriter and a stack of card stock, and take the seat you have set for me.

  2. 2

    A guest sits down

    I ask what the poem should be about. Most people say a person. Some say the open bar. Either works.

  3. 3

    Three to six minutes of typing

    People gather and read over shoulders. A line forms, and the line is part of the evening.

  4. 4

    They leave with the only copy

    No carbon, no photo unless they take one. The usual reaction is happy tears.

ten to twenty poems an hour, depending on how long we talk. i write longer than most.

Four from the stack

Typed on a Smith-Corona Silent for guests who gave me a name and a minute. First names only. Each card opens to its transcription.

  • {{ c.alt }}
    {{ c.ded }}
    Read the poem
    {{ ln.t }}

Where I write

  • {{ o }}
    •

to name a few

Who I have written for

  • {{ b }}
    •

Also on offer

A second poet

For large rooms I bring another typewriter poet I trust, with their own machine, so nobody waits long. Two tables, two lines, twice the poems.

Paasha Motamedi and a second typewriter poet at two typewriters on a hotel rooftop
One week's notice

A custom stamp

Your event name, date, or logo stamped on every card before it leaves the table. The poem is the keepsake; the stamp says where it came from.

A typed poem card on the typewriter, for kelly and kevin

What I need from you

  • {{ n }}
    •
Paasha Motamedi in a cream hat and brown tweed behind a chrome typewriter, a black case lettered Free Haiku beside him
Paasha Motamedi in a cream fedora in an orange velvet banquette, chin on his hand, a chrome typewriter on the table

The practice

Eleven years at the typewriter

I can usually tell what someone needs before they give me a topic.

People have tattooed these poems on their bodies and read them aloud as wedding vows. One of them went to space.

The usual reaction is happy tears.

Almost always overdressed

Paasha Motamedi in a blue velvet jacket and polka dot bow tie typing by candlelight
Paasha Motamedi in a yellow linen jacket typing beside a second poet at a blue typewriter
Paasha Motamedi reading a typed poem aloud at an outdoor wedding, in a black and white patterned jacket

Questions, answered

{{ f.q }}

{{ f.a }}

Book a date

Send the date, the city, and a rough head count. I reply within a day with availability and the rate sheet. Two-hour minimum; travel outside Los Angeles quoted up front.

Artwork Documentation

Photographic documentation of paintings and works on paper, for artists, galleries, and estates — the full work square to the frame, plus details at working resolution.

Documentation example — a painting photographed square to the frame, full bleed edge to edge
Documentation example — one of the artist's own rug paintings.
Rates on request.
Book a session

About

The practice

{{ sg.t }}

Paasha Motamedi photographed at night in a leather jacket, in black and white

Curriculum vitae

Biography

{{ sg.t }}

Photography published in

{{ pubPhoto }}

Writing published in

{{ pubWriting }}

{{ s.section }}

{{ row.label }} {{ row.year }}

Contact

Page not found

That page isn't here. Everything is reachable from the sections below.