When I was a child, I used to stare at carpets for hours. I would imagine things emerging from the patterns: characters, faces, superheroes, villains. A single motif could become an angry expression or a figure, and I used to draw these motifs and let them evolve into something different.
Years later, when I revisited this childhood fantasy involving carpets, the idea came back to me very naturally. With the experience I had gained over the years in filmmaking and animation, I immediately started imagining the carpets moving, which led to my first experiments. The earliest pieces were Carpets and Wind, four videos in which the patterns on the carpets come alive and move gently as if there were a breeze blowing through them.
From there, I began experimenting with physics simulations, particularly gravity, using software that allowed the carpet elements to fall and interact. It was at this point that the series really caught people's attention. When I first shared it online, the response was immediate and overwhelmingly positive. People connected with it, which encouraged me to keep pushing the experiment further.
Yes, I come from a background in art: I studied fine arts in Damascus. I didn’t study filmmaking, but I always wanted to do something related to video and moving images. My dream was always to become a filmmaker and tell stories on the big screen. But that path simply wasn’t accessible in Syria, where I grew up and come from originally.
So I studied art. I painted a lot as a kid, and I was always learning and making things on my own. By the time I graduated, I immediately started my own business, a small advertising agency concentrating on video production. However, my art background kept seeping into my video work. That’s when I discovered video art. I didn’t even know it existed before — the idea that you could create a video purely for the sake of artistic expression. What attracted me immediately was the freedom: you don’t need a big budget or a large team. You can work alone, with just a small camera and a computer.
That was incredibly empowering to fulfill my artistic visions. I started experimenting around 2007, creating works that sat somewhere at the borderlines between narrative, poetry, and short film. Of course, I can’t completely separate the two practices. My artistic background always finds a way to seep into my storytelling endeavors.
Since my work on Instagram started gaining traction, I’ve been channeling a lot of my artistic energy there, experimenting freely and intuitively. Interestingly, my experience with social media has helped me relax with my storytelling approach, and concentrate more directly on the story.
At first, when I worked on Takrar (2023), everything was based on photographs I took myself in Istanbul. Around 2021, there was a special exhibition at the Islamic Museum showing very old carpets — maybe fifty or sixty of them, each with a unique history. I photographed most of them, though I didn’t end up using them in that film.
For Carpets and the Wind, the first one I chose was a very classical Persian design, probably one of the most iconic ones. I simply wanted to see this familiar pattern move. Persian carpets are also famous in Syria and present in almost every household; they’re part of our culture.
As the series evolved, especially with the gravity-based works, technical constraints became more important. Some carpets are beautifully designed but don’t work well because the motifs are too dense or too close together. I need designs with enough negative space so the elements can fall, interact, and breathe. Ultimately, the design has to speak to me visually and emotionally, but it also has to allow movement. That balance is essential.
For architectural projects like Takrar, which feature moving patterns, it is essential that I take the photographs myself. I need to visit the location, experience it and learn its history before I can do so. This process forms part of the artwork and is a self-imposed limitation. I did the same for Takrar in Istanbul and for Handasa, which is still a work in progress, in Andalusia. I hope to do the same in my hometown, Damascus, soon. This physical encounter and process of discovery is inseparable from the final piece.
However, with For the Love of Carpets, I eventually ran out of my own photographs and had to use stock images.
I actually like limitations. There’s a moment in The Legend of 1900 where the main character, a pianist, talks about the piano: it has 88 keys, yet you can make an endless number of melodies from them. So imagine if you had a piano with an unlimited number of keys, it would be impossible to play. So its limitation is the key.
Sometimes I limit myself by choice. Other times, limitations come from the tools themselves. The software I use, for example, starts falling apart when animating above a certain number of elements. That forces me to make decisions.
Social media also has its own constraints. On Instagram, for example, clips under fifteen seconds often perform better than longer ones. The vertical format is another limitation. Rather than viewing these constraints as obstacles, I see them as factors that shape the work.
I see my artistic journey as episodic. For example, in my experimental film Takrar, which means 'repetition' in Arabic, I focused on motifs and patterns of all kinds. Then there was the carpets project, and now I’m revisiting old ideas, trying to explore them in new ways. The patterns phase, for example, is not finished yet, as I would love to make a trilogy out of it: the first, of course, being Takrar 2023 which I shot Istanbul; the second, which has already been shot in Andalusia, is currently in the editing stage; and the third, hopefully, will be in Damascus.
I would also love to expand further to places such as Uzbekistan and Iran, which are rich in Islamic and Oriental architecture and patterns. Each experiment shapes me, and I shape it in return. Although my projects and interests vary greatly, I think I have a unique perspective: my approach to colour, composition and rhythm creates a continuity that people recognise in my work.
Warmth.
Many people tell me that my work reminds them of their childhood. These carpets are almost a universal language; they’re everywhere — almost every household has them. I was surprised by the number of people from different cultures and backgrounds who contacted me to tell me how touched they were by the works. I feel fortunate to have been able to tap into that and trigger nostalgia, a sense of home or memories of a place where they once belonged in viewers.