Arman Molavi at the Milan Image Art (MIA) Fair
by Isabella Chiardini
I had been told that Arman Molavi’s photos are full of nature. His work identifies him as a nature photographer from 2016 onward, when Molavi largely stepped away from fashion photography and portraiture. For me, just hearing the word nature was enough to come running. My happiest memories are of a childhood spent eating cherries straight from the trees in a place with nothing much beyond trees, wildflowers, and hills colored rust and green.
I went to MIA Photo Fair in Milan (March 20th – 23rd, 2025) with the explicit goal of seeing photographs by Arman Molavi: I found them astonishing and touching, and he was there at the stand, his posture relaxed, his gaze gentle and curious.
Arman had to leave Iran at 22, settling in the United States for a while after a stay in France, only to later return to France to live there permanently. He radiates calm and puts people at ease, yet exhibits glimpses of restlessness and turmoil—maybe even perpetual dissatisfaction with a quiet rage that seeps through at times. Ultimately, the photos themselves tell of Arman Molavi: of his connection to nature, and how this relationship, through the medium of photography, forges a language that lights up the natural world with a gaze that radiates gratitude for its beauty. Arman finds a kind of quiet center, a stillness within, one that transmits itself to the viewer, as he handles with gentle, delicate touch the sole certainty—nature itself—in a deracinated life. Nature saves and embraces, revealing to Arman his original creative desire and his talent, fused with photography. Photography, too, is solace: in its joyous and playful unfolding it merges elements of our collective painterly lexicon with experimentation. The result is images of such profound uniqueness that they become a space of emotional connection, or a space of kindness; without any other pretense. An airy kindness, ethereal and barely tangible, is the essence of Arman and his photos from the Dark Tree Series and the Bright Series that I saw at MIArt.
A few days after the Fair, I came across a picture of Arman embracing his late cat Pambeh, which means ‘cotton’ in Persian. Amar’s smile in that image, and what he shares in this interview about trying to photograph the moon during early nights in Paris, offer us a glimpse into Arman Molavi’s work.
Let’s start from the beginning: where did your interest in photography come from? Are you a self-taught photographer or was there any adult who taught you? I am asking since I know you properly studied photography in France (at ETPA in Toulouse) but it all began earlier, when you were still living in Iran, is that true?
I was in the middle of my baccalaureate when Iraq attacked Iran, and at the same time, the Iranian government shut down universities under the pretext of a “cultural revolution” (which was actually aimed at eliminating political opponents). So, I started taking on all sorts of odd jobs to keep myself busy trying to avoid going to the front; but I had an insatiable thirst for knowledge, and the urge to find something I was deeply passionate about. After two years of random jobs I ended up working in a photo lab. And that’s when, at the age of twenty, I caught the photography bug.
Did you also have books that trained you? And which was your first camera?
I started with Principles of Composition (1973) by Andreas Feininger as my first photography book and a Praktica as my first camera, later replaced by a Nikon FE, that I remained loyal to for forty-one long years.
Back to that Tehran photo lab: that lab was actually your first school wasn’t it?
Absolutely, and I was absorbing so much through keen observation and constant practice but as the war intensified, we were starting to run short on photo developing materials. At the lab, we processed war footage; those horrific scenes stay with me (the conflict claimed a million lives). Eventually, the lab closed, and at twenty-two, I fled the country through the Pakistani border with a smuggler. My mother had to sell all her jewelry, and much more of what she had, to fund this dangerous journey.
And then what happened?
Due to a series of circumstances I ended up in a town in central France, where I started working for a well-known portrait photographer. Later, I also received a scholarship to study photography at ETPA in Toulouse. Juggling my job as a photography assistant and my studies, I successfully finished the four-year course, graduating with top marks and several awards. I was also offered a teaching position at ETPA, which I held for a year before moving to the United States, in California. I imagined there’d be a full-fledged Iranian community, but it turned out to be an illusion. I eventually found myself in New York, working as a fashion photographer; by then what I was missing was my life in France and I decided to go back.
In all these back-and-forths, with their burden of expectations, satisfactions, but also nostalgia and disappointments—could you explain the process that led you to what we might call Nature photography (like the works we are seeing here at MIArt, for example)? Was it a natural passage or did you decide to the work you did until that moment?
Truthfully, nature has always inspired my photography and my passion for taking pictures—right from the start. My first photo (which I need to find in my negatives) was completely failed but it was a rose from our garden, with my little sister holding a black background behind the flower. During my stay in Puy-en-Velay, in France, my employer lent me a camera, and on weekends, I would go out in the woods to photograph nature, walking among the trees, my favourite subject. But when I moved to Paris in 1993, I had to give up this practice because nature wasn’t immediately at hand and even when present, it was highly domesticated. Aside from the fact that I had to turn to commercial photography to make a living. I have nothing against that genre of photography (far from it!) but it’s a completely different universe considering what I actually wanted to pursue. And no matter how hard I tried to forge my own style, and not lose my creativity, there was always this lingering restlessness. So, I can’t say that I didn’t carve out my own space; for example I worked in black and white film, with beautiful manual enlargements on baryta paper, to the point where I became an expert in this type of printing. Yet, I felt uneasy… Perhaps that prolonged detachment from direct contact with nature might have triggered, or revived, my compulsion to photograph it once more. Thus I come back to marvel at trees among the awe-inspiring forests and scenery of my present region.
Would you identify a specific image as the pivotal moment in your professional trajectory? A photograph that marks the moment you consciously reclaimed, even at risk, your authentic photographic voice?
Did you know that roses come from Iran, from Isfahan in my country, which I miss so much? My mother loved nature and taught me to appreciate it. For our Persian New Year, she would plant different flowers, especially pansies. After her passing, to preserve an image of her, I bought this flower and created a still life in her memory. That’s how the flower series began, and then the subject evolved into tree branches and, later, trees.
When you think about Iran, you just told me you miss your country, what are the images or colors (and any other sensations) that you associate with them?
Even though I hold some nostalgia for the past, I was born in Tehran, my homeland no longer makes me dream. The Iran of my childhood and youth lives on vividly in me, but I realize this nostalgia (for yes, I ache for those days) is a nostalgia that lives only in my mind. Those places no longer match my memories, and when I happen to see them again, I experience it as a kind of betrayal, even a shock. But this is because I didn’t witness those places’ gradual transformation. Today’s Iran does not influence my projects, not even when it comes to places I have never seen. Uncontrolled construction has disfigured the landscape and environmental disasters are everywhere. I discovered Isfahan for the first time in 2017, during a trip to Iran with my daughter for my exhibition at the Seyhoun Gallery (Tehran). We obviously were mesmerized by this magnificent city, how could it not be, but I didn’t feel something deeper; something to begin weaving a bond with. Perhaps if I stayed longer, I would feel something deeper, but that is not an option for me.
At MIA I saw a series of photos with definite trees and colors emerging from a dark background (Dark Trees Series) and another series of photos (Bright Series) which are an explosion of colors where the forms are not delineated anymore. Can you explain your different mood (if there was indeed a different mood) and your different objective (if there was)?
After the Dark Trees Series (which I’m still going through sometimes), I felt the need for a change. In fact, looking closely at these photos, you can see colorful leaves: yellow, green, orange, gold; they are not that dark. Then I started a new, brighter and more joyful series. Perhaps I was feeling less melancholic, who knows? In any case, both series retain a somewhat surrealist aspect and distort reality. The so-called Dark Series is not necessarily perceived as such. Some viewers see sadness, while others are captivated by the colors and details of the leaves. I don’t know if my state of mind influenced this transition to a new series, it might be, but it would require a psychological analysis!
I find that your last series of photos (the ones from 2023 onward – the Bright Series) evoke something mysterious. I also read some reviews in which the rendering of your last works is somehow associated with a visual vocabulary that references Impressionism, Expressionism and at times Surrealism. Do these parallels resonate with you?
As you can imagine, labeling your own work is never easy but I’m delighted by these connections. What I can say is that I wanted to create a new vision; a type of photography that is both personal and innovative (though ‘innovative’ is a slippery concept—because nothing is ever truly completely innovative) and at the same time reminiscent of a collective visual imaginary. Then, every photography takes its own peculiar course, which I don’t attempt to define while creating it. What I know for certain is this: I want these photos to emanate color and warmth; lightness and solace. It’s a nature that holds and welcomes us; one with which we coexist in harmony.
What technical steps led to this result?
In 1987, while working in a studio, I was assigned to photograph a catalog of metal lids. After the shoot, just for fun, I printed the slides (6×7 cm) onto positive paper, achieving a result that fascinated me—but not my employer. She told me that chrome lids couldn’t appear black, or the clients would go crazy! I hope to find these images in my archives one day. In any case, my photos are taken in high-resolution digital format. After developing them from RAW to TIFF, I invert the colors during electronic post-production. For example, in the Bright Series, blacks turn white, whites turn black, blues become yellow, and so on. I spend a lot of time finding a harmonious and visually pleasing color balance. Some images don’t make the cut—for instance, skies tend to become too aggressive when inverted. The idea of inverting colors was already present in my work long before AI. I also remember suggesting a similar technique for a poster of the Puy-en-Velay carnival, featuring a portrait in negative with inverted colors. Today, many artists use this approach. For me, technique is just a tool to serve emotion. What truly matters is how the image resonates with the viewer.
At this point it’s impossible not to ask you what you think about the use of AI in photography: do you think it is possible to use artificial intelligence as an additional tool for human creativity? And would you say you also act as a kind of custodian of your knowledge?
What worries me is the growing banality of images. Photography used to require expertise—choosing the right film, the right development process, the right paper… Yet with the advent of digital photography in 2003-2004, all that knowledge vanished, which was traumatic for me. But I might say that, though I initially fell into a kind of paralysis, I believe I’ve managed to find my own voice—my own perspective—by drawing on my now-traditional knowledge while learning to reinvent myself with humility. In short, there’s been a kind of exchange with my younger colleagues, too. As for considering myself a sort of guardian… Perhaps I am, but in the most humble and open way possible—because everything evolves.
However it seems to me that for you the digital photography has constituted a new challenge, a sort of stimulus to seek new ways of expressing oneself even more personal. Considering what phone cameras can do technically these days, what sets your photographs apart? And, at he same time, do you miss the analog?
In the digital world, there are no longer any limits to creation and I do appreciate this aspect but, in my opinion, one must be very careful not to fall into banality, to strike the right balance, and not to overuse effects. Today, anyone who buys a camera practically will declare themselves a professional photographer. I have nothing against people who take photographs. Since photography was invented, everyone has tried their hand at it. Families have always taken pictures, for instance. Yet this very accessibility (and ease of use) diminishes the medium’s capacity for wonder and singularity. These are subtle distinctions, but perhaps these are exactly what I try to work with. As far as analog photography, my dream would be to have my own lab again, although today it is less environmentally friendly. And I must say that if I had my darkroom, it would be entirely possible to achieve the same results with film, but the cost would be exorbitant. Moreover, some positive papers are no longer available. Still, chasing a supposed golden era and nourishing nostalgia is pointless. I’d rather prefer to think that behind my final result, there are forty years of maturity and deep reflection on modern photography.
Post-photography has made the eternal encounter/clash between painting and photography an increasingly central topic. What do you think about it?
At our stand, at MIA, I received a lot of questions (and compliments) especially about whether my works were paintings or photographs. When photography emerged over 170 years ago, painters feared that painting would disappear. It is still too early to predict the future of photography, but even in the analog era, chemical processes allow image manipulation to achieve different artistic effects.
Could you define your work a kind of post-photography in the sense that tends to make us see the invisible? Does post-photography make the unseen increasingly visible?
Undoubtedly, in my work, certain elements of nature emerge: those that struck my eye most intensely. So yes, in that sense, my photographs unveil details others might have missed. Yet it remains a personal vision, steeped in the emotion of both the shot and the act of reshaping it. I hope that emotion comes through.
Is it fair to say your style leans into playfulness?
Indeed, mine is a playful approach rather than a scientific capture of nature. Even the manipulation of the image—the distortion of colors, the choice to highlight certain forms over others—stems from a joyful desire to give back to nature the delight it sparked in me. I intentionally leave the harshness of the world outside.
Did you enjoy this fair? Do you think that attending a fair is still one of the best means to be known or is it almost mandatory to be on social media because not being social equals not existing?
This is my second time participating at MIA in Milan with my dear curator Roya Khadjavi. I so much appreciate the vibe and vision of this event; and its audience, whom I find very knowledgeable. Art fairs offer galleries an efficient platform for global outreach, with many participating in numerous international events. Being in Italy, then, makes everything better. There’s no hiding how deeply I love your country and your culture. This isn’t just talk: I’m actually studying Italian, too. As for social media, I’m not entirely comfortable with it, but I push myself to post occasionally. Having an online presence is essential.
What struck you about France and Paris (from a visual point of view) when you first arrived?
When I arrived in France, I no longer had a camera. For a year, I took ‘virtual photos’: I’d ask my brother to stop the car, describe the shot I wished I could take, and then we’d move on. It sounds crazy, but it’s true. Once I finally got a camera, I photographed everything. Moonlight and its nocturnal atmosphere captivated me most. At my first exhibition, people asked why I focused on the moon. My answer was simple: ‘I love it. It’s the only thing that looks the same here as it did back home.’ It was a way to soothe my nostalgia. I missed my family and my country deeply.
Where is your gaze directed at this stage of life?
I am very demanding of myself, and it took me a long time to regain the confidence to start creating again. Creativity remains an immense source of joy for me. Though I stepped away from the art world for a time, I’ve rediscovered my passion for it. Now, I strive to stay creative, making images that bring me deep fulfillment.