The Unobliged Woman

Filmmaker and Writer Naz Riahi searches for the woman she admires.

This essay is one of four sponsored by Revel as part of a collaboration with Oldster Magazine for Women’s History Month. The theme is “The Women Who Came Before Us” and the four authors—Abigail Thomas, Naz Riahi, Emily Rubin, and Blaise Allysen Kearsley—will all participate in a virtual reading to be held on the Revel site on Tuesday, March 8th at 7pm EST.

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Barbara Loden as Wanda in her 1970 film by the same name.

It's so much easier for me to admire a tree, a bird or a vista, than to admire a human with our capacity to hurt. But, if I were to admire someone, it would be a woman who lives, truly and wholly for herself and the work of her mind.

Does this woman exist? Does she exist unjudged? Venerated, even? 

I've searched for her, my whole life. I've aspired to be her, to live entirely for myself and the work of my mind—writing and making films. Not to be a woman isolated, but one who lives and thrives amidst the world, its social pleasures and pains.

If I were to admire someone, it would be a woman who lives, truly and wholly for herself and the work of her mind…Does this woman exist? Does she exist unjudged? Venerated, even? 

When I separated from my ex-husband he told me I was selfish, a sentiment my brother and mother have occasionally shared. He suggested I learn to live for someone beside myself. I thought about our life together, the meals I'd cooked, the vacations I'd planned, the jobs I'd held when he was underemployed, the many painful visits to his hostile, racist family, for the sake of being a good partner. And, I remembered, also, he once told me I didn't have to be a writer just because it was what I'd always wanted to do. Instead, he suggested, I could try real estate because in his estimation, I was "good at sales."

I wouldn't say I lived for this man. In fact, I left him. But I certainly didn't live for myself while I was with him — eight years that will never be mine again.

In the film Nomadland (2020), Fern, the protagonist, lives seemingly for herself. She's lost her husband, her job and her home, and is traveling the country in her camper, taking seasonal work. She rejects the advances of a man whom she likes and who offers her an easier life. She rejects, also, her sister's comfortable home. But Fern is half in her situation because of her life's circumstances—because of the impossibility of life when you’re poor and aging in America. It's not a dedication to her mind's work that's put her on the road. 

When I was in my late 30s, I confessed to a man I was seeing that I didn't want children. He had three, all nearly grown. He said to me, confidently, "you'll change your mind." 

"I've never wanted children," I said.

"My sister doesn't have kids," he said. "So she's very self involved, to her detriment."

His sister is a great avant-garde musician who maybe was choosing to live for herself. 

When I was in my late 30s, I confessed to a man I was seeing that I didn't want children. He had three, all nearly grown. He said to me, confidently, "you'll change your mind." 

Fifty years before Fern in Nomadland, there was Wanda (1970), a film written and directed by Barbara Loden who also stars as the title character. Wanda surrenders the custody of her children to her husband, admitting that she is not a good mother. She then wanders alone, from a field to a factory where she briefly works, to a movie theater to a bar, hoping to find someone who will take care of her. Eventually she meets a robber, amidst a robbery, and walks straight into his life. Wanda has done something extraordinary, in the context of the era when the film was made, and even today: she has chosen herself over her children. Yet, not exactly herself either. Like Fern, Wanda is a victim of her circumstances and her gender. She is poor and misunderstood by the people in her life. Unlike Fern she still seeks connection and to be understood, and in doing so she chooses a foolish, violent man for whom she inadvertently begins to live. 

Wanda and Fern are fictive, but they represent a true struggle of womanhood. They show me a way of life that both thrills and scares me. 

The painter, Agnes Martin, left New York City in her 50s, and like Fern, drove across the U.S. and Canada for almost two years. Eventually she settled in New Mexico and famously received very few friends and visitors for the rest of her life. Though, she did participate in her career, writing, painting, exhibiting and giving talks on her work. While her life was dedicated to herself and the work of her mind, she did isolate herself. 

Can a woman who chooses to live for herself only do so if she hides away from the inevitable judgment of society?

History is full of men who have lived for themselves, dedicated their life to the work of their mind while having partners, lovers, even children. Norman Mailer and Ingmar Bergman weren't known for the way in which they obliged and pleased their families. Quite the contrary, Bergman treated his children as an afterthought and Mailer nearly killed his wife by stabbing her in a fit of rage and reportedly saying to a room full of guests, “let the bitch die.” After Barbara Loden’s death, her husband Elia Kazan, a much more famous and powerful filmmaker than she, claimed all sorts of credit for Wanda—even a film that at the time was so small and unseen couldn’t be hers.

My grandfather, Rahim Moeini Kermanshahi, was a poet and lyricist—one of Iran's most notable. I grew up watching him in his study from morning to evening, reading and writing. Occasionally my grandmother, Eshrat Moeini, interrupted him with tea or to let him know it was time to eat the meal she'd prepared for him. In the evenings, he often held salons. My grandmother cooked and prepared for their guests, served tea and joined the audience, as my grandfather held court, reciting poetry, talking about art and politics. 

Can a woman who chooses to live for herself only do so if she hides away from the inevitable judgment of society?

Recently, I stumbled upon a video of the writer Olivia Laing's home. I love her writing for the mastery of sentences as much as the brain behind them. I appreciate the portal she opens into other great artists' lives and her analysis of their works and motivations. A glimpse is about all I can handle. I don't read biographies, because I'm afraid to know too much about anyone whose work I like. People who are real are disappointing. This is a way of saying, I'll likely disappoint you and myself. 

Laing's home is bright, filled with flowers, art and books. There is a friendly dining room table which I can envision surrounded by her friends and topped with heaps of food and wine. There is her garden, which she tends to lovingly, even a rose there called the Poet's Wife. Her husband Ian Patterson is a poet, though he's not even mentioned on her Wikipedia page. In the video of her home, he is barely present, just a mention of his many perfumes and his poetry shed, and a few seconds of him cooking lunch. 

I think about Laing and her home often, about where she might sit when she reads, where she might write and how passionate she is about tending her garden. I know very little about her, yet when I think about her life, I am washed over with contentment and hope. I can see myself in that world, of books and art, of living, primarily for me, with a partner who isn’t my primary focus, but exist alongside me in love and collaboration. That is one definition of admiration, pleasurable contemplation. 

Yet, as I write this, I am half somewhere else, thinking about my own partner, his struggles, how they affect and consume me. My focus is shoddy, my energy for my own work, depleted. At the moment, I am half somewhere else with him, half here writing, and wholly afraid to lose myself. 

Still, I search for that woman, the one who lives for herself and her mind's work.