More than twenty years ago, Azza Al Qubaisi became known as the first Emirati jewelry artist. Since then, she has gone far beyond that title, working across sculpture, design, and installation. Her practice is deeply rooted in Emirati heritage and the desert landscape, turning materials like metal, sand, and palm fronds into works that connect tradition with contemporary art.

Recently, Azza took part in Ithra’s Khoos Initiative in Saudi Arabia — a programme aimed at preserving and reimagining the traditional craft of palm-frond weaving. Over two weeks, artists and designers from around the region worked side by side with master weavers in Al-Ahsa and Dhahran, exploring old techniques and finding new ways to bring them into modern design. For Azza, it was also a chance to reconnect with a material that has long been part of her own artistic language.

Talking to Azza feels like stepping into a story — she has so much experience, so much to share. We spoke about what she learned during the residency, the questions that keep driving her as an artist, and the ideas behind her most recent works.

— Azza, first of all, I remember a journalist once asked you, “Who is Azza Al Qubaisi?” You said, “It varies — depending on who’s asking and when.” So what would you say today to me?

— I would say I am an Emirati artist who started her journey in 2002. To survive as an artist in the region, I started my own line of product design to earn an income.

At the very beginning, I really wanted to understand who I was as an Emirati. Because we are actually a minority in our own country — about ten per cent of the population — and that question kept coming up for me: Who am I? What does it mean to be Emirati?

So, I started to answer that question through my artwork. After twenty years, I feel like I understand myself a little better — maybe not completely, but definitely more than I did back then. Through working with craftspeople and creating my work over the years, I have found a lot of those answers — definitely through my art.

— So what would your answer be? What does it mean to be Emirati for you?

— For me, a lot of who I am today comes from the essence of the past — it is a big part of me. I use two icons, the palm tree and the ghaf tree, to represent who I am today.

Many of our families in the past worked in the pearl-diving industry. It wasn’t that long ago, only about 50 or 60 years. Most people in the region weren’t wealthy — they lived in debt most of their lives, earning just enough to pay it back and provide food and essentials for their families. That kind of hard life shaped who I am. It taught me not to take things for granted and to appreciate the life I have now compared to what our families went through.

Spending time with my grandmother when I was young helped me see the reality of how people perceived life back then. She used to tell me that it was just hard. But for me, it was about understanding their struggles, how they lived, how they were as mothers and women of that time.

My grandmother had eleven children, including my mother, and I was always eager to hear her stories — from giving birth to her daily chores, everything she went through. For her, it wasn’t just “the past”, it was her life. She is a woman who went from riding camels to driving cars, to owning property and running a business. Understanding her journey helped me understand my own — and what it means to be Emirati today.

— It is really interesting to hear more about your grandmother. Are there any memories of her that you would like to share? How do you think she influenced you?

— Definitely. My grandmother was a single mother. My grandfather passed away when he was very young, and she took care of the whole family. To me, she showed that a woman is a truly powerful person.

I never grew up in a household where women were seen as weak or without a voice. That was never the case — not in my childhood, and not in the stories I heard from my father or my grandmother. So my perception of women has always been very different from the general one people might have.

So, for me, it is important to show that the strength I have today comes directly from my family — from my grandmother and the women before her.

— Thanks for sharing. Now, going back to your artistic journey, let’s talk about who you were 20 years ago and who you are today. You mentioned that you understand yourself better now, so how would you compare these two women — then and now?

— When I first came back home from the UK, I started volunteering with different organisations. That experience taught me a lot. I helped establish handicraft projects in Abu Dhabi, worked with craftswomen, and even created one of the first competitions for handicrafts.

People often told me, “Craft will die in 20 years.” But I can proudly say it hasn’t. And it won’t. Many people still take great pride in it, and today it provides real income for families who continue to practice traditional crafts.

Knowing that, in some small way, I helped change the perception of how these crafts should be practised means a lot to me. Twenty years ago, I argued that craftswomen shouldn’t be moved into workshops — they should continue working at home so their children and grandchildren can inherit the craft naturally. Some people wanted to industrialise the process, but I told them: if you take the women out of their homes, you will kill the craft. And today, seeing these women still practising from home makes me feel proud and grateful.

— Recently, you have taken part in the Khoos Initiative. Did you know how to palm-weave before residency?

— I had tried for years to learn palm weaving, but somehow it never worked! Maybe I didn’t have the right teacher. Then, during the residency, I met a woman named Masouma. She was slightly older than me and an incredible educator.

At first, I doubted myself. But within an hour of sitting with her, she had taught me how to weave from two palm leaves to four, then six, then eight — even how to make flowers. I couldn’t stop! I don’t know yet if I will use palm weaving in my art or jewelry, but it made me realise that this knowledge lives deep within us. Sometimes, we just need the right moment and the right teacher to access it.

— What made that experience special for you?

— That experience made me see myself and my heritage in a completely new way. I met people from Al-Ahsa who still care for palm farms, and I realised how much traditional knowledge I was missing. My father inherited his farm from his father, but since his father passed away young, much of that knowledge wasn’t passed down to me.

In Al-Ahsa, I met a man everyone calls “the cat of the farm.” He is always in the palms — under them, climbing them, caring for them. He shared incredible wisdom about the palm and its traditions.

One practice he described really stayed with me: after cleaning the palm trees, people used to pile the remains together, cover them with sand, and burn them slowly so the ashes returned to the soil, giving the nutrients back to the earth. This ritual no longer exists in the UAE because of modern safety regulations. Now, everything must be sent to composting facilities. I understand the reasons, but learning that this beautiful practice once existed filled something in me. It was like a missing piece of knowledge returning to my soul.

I realised that I am still trying to reconnect — not just with the dates the palm produces, but with the palm itself, its spirit. In Al-Ahsa, I learned to see the palm for what it truly is: a living being that gives so much, yet is rarely cared for in return. So, through my art, I want to tell palm’s deeper story — its resilience, its spirit, and our shared responsibility to care for it.

— I have two more questions about the residency. The first one is about emotions — what did you feel when you first touched the palm leaves and started working with them?

— I think the first emotion I had was — how can I allow this to be part of my life today? The practice of using materials made from palm leaves has almost disappeared from our daily lives.

I began bringing back items made of palm leaves from the places I travelled to — different designs from different cultures. I would show them to the craftswomen I worked with, not as part of a formal program, but simply by displaying them at festivals. They would see these objects and get inspired to create new designs of their own, like small wallets or pencil cases made from palm leaves.

— Did you produce any artwork during the residency?

— The residency wasn’t about producing a finished piece. It was about connecting, understanding, and learning directly from the community — from the farmers and people who live in the world’s largest oasis, surrounded by the greatest number of palm trees.

It was truly about that exchange. Did we come out with ideas? Of course. I think as creatives, we can never say no to creativity. On the final day, we all presented concepts — projects we hope to develop further or eventually produce.

I came up with two concepts. The first was something I called the Palm Tunnel. Over fifteen years ago, I had designed a simple bench made from discarded palm branches. In palm trees, there are two main parts that get thrown away — the thicker base and the thinner top sections of the branch — and I wanted to make use of them rather than send them off for compost.

So this time, I wanted to expand on that earlier bench design and turn it into a tunnel. I envisioned a large structure with two benches inside, where people could walk through, smell the palm material, and reconnect with its texture and scent. In the past, people lived in homes made of arish — entire structures built from palm branches and leaves — and I wanted to evoke that memory through this immersive piece.

The second concept I presented at Ithra was more sculptural. It combined the flowing lines of sand dunes with the textures of palm material — two of the visual languages I am most connected to. I often work with clean, structured forms, but also with soft, organic curves inspired by the desert.

Now, I want the palm itself to be the hero — the material in its purest form. That is what I am exploring next: how to let the palm stand on its own, structurally and symbolically.

— I am curious about your sculpture, Between the Lines, for Bulgari. Could you tell me more about it?

— I have a whole series called Between the Lines. Bulgari gave me complete freedom to create whatever I wanted, as long as it connected somehow to their Serpenti theme, since they were celebrating its 75th anniversary.

I didn’t want to literally create a serpent because it just didn’t fit me or my style. And for me, it was so important to stay true to myself and my series, while also honouring their story and legacy. So I had to find a way to capture the essence of it — the spirit, not the form. For me, that was the desert: the dunes, the lines, the patterns, the sense of movement. That became my interpretation of the serpent — abstract, flowing, alive.

When I work with those desert lines and abstract forms, I always feel like they give something back to me — every sculpture ends up meaning something different to different people. I think that is what makes it special. Bulgari loved the idea immediately, even though I only showed them a sketch, not the final piece. The work was first exhibited in the UAE, then travelled to China for a second showing with Bulgari.

Bulgari has been commissioning artists from around the world for over a decade, and to be part of that initiative — to be commissioned and supported as an artist — was truly an honour.

— And the last one: there was an exhibition last year where you presented three works: Metaphor, Dune, and Root. I read that Dune represents your journey as an artist, capturing the mystery, shapes, patterns, and textures of the desert landscape. Why?

— I feel very connected to the dunes. And the real reason for this is that I have spent so much time there. It is the one place in the world where I truly feel grounded.

The dunes tell a story. For me, the lines in the sand are like the earth writing its own story, and every shift of the wind is the story being rewritten. When I am there, I just sit and observe, trying to read those lines, to feel that connection — because this same sand, these same dunes, are what my ancestors once walked on, lived on, and crossed with their camels.

In one of my exhibitions, an older visitor told me something beautiful. He said, “You know, when we used to travel, we would choose where to sleep depending on the sand.” I asked him why, and he said, “Some sand is softer — it is more comfortable to sleep on.” I had never thought of that! I didn’t know that the sand could differ from place to place, that they even had their own version of choosing between hotels, like deciding between the Four Seasons or the Sheraton.

People often look at the desert and think there is nothing there — no life. But for me, it is full of life, full of meaning. There are native plants that grow there that once provided our ancestors with nutrients and medicine. There are poems written about it, stories passed down through generations. To me, the desert is not empty — it is alive. And it is still speaking to us, if we take the time to listen.