I work with wool because it connects me deeply—and imaginatively—to my childhood. Growing up, I was captivated by the abstract patterns woven into the nomadic carpets in our home, brought from villages near Persepolis and Shiraz. These carpets were more than decoration; they were landscapes for my imagination. I could spend hours tracing the lines and shapes, never growing tired of their intricate rhythms.
One corner of the carpet became my dolls’ home. To my childhood eyes, the design there resembled a spacious room, complete with walls and pathways. Wool also evokes memories of the white felt rugs that warmed our cold, tiled patios during winter. Their bold orange and black motifs remain vivid in my memory—symbols of comfort, creativity, and the quiet magic of handmade things.
Years later, while studying in the UK and feeling homesick, I found myself drawn back to those early memories. That emotional pull led me to learn the craft of felt making. Working with wool became a way of reconnecting with home—of holding onto something warm and familiar in a foreign land.
As I immersed myself in the process, I discovered that wool itself is a world—rich in variety and complexity. Each type of wool behaves differently: the breed of sheep, their diet, the climate they live in—all influence the texture, colour, and shrinkage rate of the fibres. This deepened my respect for the material and expanded my understanding of what it means to work with wool not only as a medium, but as a living, responsive element.
Wool is not just a material for me. It is a thread that ties my artistic process to memory, place, and a way of seeing shaped long before I became an artist. This emotional and tactile bond with wool continues to guide my work today: I blend felted textures, natural forms, and layered patterns to echo the visual language of those carpets and rugs—reinterpreting them through a contemporary lens while staying rooted in tradition.
Felt, Paint & Reflection 