Jason Seife, an artist of Cuban and Syrian descent, can spend hours working meticulously, drawing out the tiniest details without lifting his brush. Those details eventually come together to form enormous artworks — intricate reinterpretations of the geometric motifs found in traditional Persian rugs. The reason behind this dedication goes back to his roots.

Jason grew up surrounded by carpets. His father was a carpenter, and from an early age, he was fascinated by how things were made: the textures, the craftsmanship, the human touch. He has always been drawn to objects created by hand, believing they carry the energy of the person who made them.

To understand the craft more deeply, Jason travelled to Istanbul, Morocco, Iran, and Syria to meet artisans — the actual weavers who create these carpets. He wanted to see firsthand how they work, to immerse himself in their process and traditions.

When you look at his artworks, you truly feel as if you are seeing a carpet with a story — something alive, carrying memory and meaning. How does he do that? How is it possible to convey the essence of such a complex object — a carpet — through painting?

I was lucky to ask him this question directly. We also spoke about the artisans he met and the ideas behind his upcoming exhibition in Sharjah, titled "A Place Once Known" (November 19, 2025 – January 31, 2026).

— Jason, first, and this is a bit of a random question. When I Googled you, it said, “Jason Seife, American visual artist and musician.” Musician?

— Haha, it is so funny! I think it pulls that from Wikipedia. Anyway, I will tell you the story.

I fell in love with art early on — I was completely obsessed. When I was around 10 or 11, I found a book about Van Gogh in my aunt’s closet, and I was instantly captivated. I didn’t even really understand what I was looking at, but I just thought it was incredible.

I started drawing a lot. My art teacher noticed my drawings and recommended that I apply to a magnet school for art. We had art classes for a couple of hours each day. I got to work with different mediums — paint, clay, photography. That experience really opened my eyes; it was the first time I saw art as something more than a hobby, as a possible career path.

When I got to high school, I wanted to attend a specific arts high school. I applied and auditioned, but later that summer, I found out I didn’t get in. That hit me hard.

At the age of 13, it felt so black and white. I took it as, “Okay, I guess I’m not supposed to do art.” I loved it, but I kind of shut down that dream for a while.

Still, I knew I was creative and wanted to do something creative. I just wasn’t sure what. Around that time, I decided to try playing the guitar. So I bought an acoustic guitar and taught myself using YouTube.

I started playing with my friends, and throughout high school, my focus shifted to music. I wasn’t necessarily thinking I would become a musician, but I wanted to explore it.

Eventually, after high school, I joined a band. We toured around the U.S., and it was an amazing experience, but after a while, I started to miss art. By my early 20s, I realised that playing in a band wasn’t for me. What really clicked was seeing how much we were paying graphic designers for merch and album covers. That is when I thought, “Wait, maybe I can do that.”

I quit the band, moved back home with my parents, and taught myself Photoshop — again, “YouTube University”. I just started practising and reaching out to people.

So, you see, that music came into the picture — and eventually led me right back to art. I started playing guitar because I thought art was taken away from me — it was my “option two.” But through that detour, I eventually found my way back to art. It helped me rebuild my belief in myself as an artist and gave me the confidence to start making my own work again.

— Do you play music now?

— Yes, I still play. I have got several guitars now. Aside from making art, travelling, and all of that, one of my favourite things to do is just play guitar, write music, or jam with friends. It really helps me disconnect one side of my brain and lets the other side work.

I consider myself an artist, and I think that term is pretty broad. If I had to categorise what I love to do, visual art is definitely my strong suit — it is how I naturally express ideas. But music is something I genuinely love, too. It is a huge part of who I am.

— Okay, let’s get to the essence of your art — the carpets. You were surrounded by them since childhood. You once said, “I moved a lot at a young age, and sometimes the one piece of carpet that followed me through different homes and stages of my life became a kind of family heirloom.” Do you remember any specific carpet from that time?

— It is really like a synesthesia — you know, how you smell a cologne or hear a song, and it takes you back to a certain place or person? It is that kind of thing.

I remember a Tabriz-style carpet. It had that classic structure with a central medallion and a border, but what really drew me in were the tones. The background was this rusted, pastel coral, almost like a faded warmth. That colour was unique, and it came from the way real silk or wool carpets are made. They use organic dyes rather than store-bought pigments, so the colours come from what is naturally available in the region — plants, minerals, the environment — and that all affects how they age and fade over time.

That particular piece was actually one of the first paintings I made when I started working in this style. In the beginning, the works were very derivative of existing carpets — I was testing if I could recreate something I loved so much through painting. Over time, I started developing my own designs, building a visual language, and learning why certain motifs or patterns were placed where they were. I began to understand what rules existed and which ones I could bend or break to make something my own.

— You spent time in Syria, Istanbul, and Iran, studying under actual carpet weavers — that is incredible. Can you tell me more about that experience? I am really interested in the people behind the craft — the weavers themselves. Who did you meet?

— Yes, I did it from around 2017 to 2019. I first went to Istanbul and Morocco, later to Iran, then to Syria. And I still plan to go back!

What really led me to do all that was my love for history and handmade things. I am fascinated by how things were made before mass production, when craftsmanship meant something lasting. You buy something on Amazon today and it falls apart in a year, but something handmade, you can feel the soul of the person in it. Whether or not they signed their name, that energy is there.

When I first started creating designs, the drawings and paintings of carpets came naturally. I just drew the carpets around me. Then I started wondering, why am I so drawn to these patterns? What do they mean? I wanted to understand their language.

As I began researching, I realised how much history is embedded in them. I learned that colours and motifs were connected to geography — desert regions used more earth tones, and certain floral or border styles came from specific cities.

Once I understood that, I wanted to see the process firsthand, to understand the rules, traditions, and what I might be able to contribute to an art form that has existed for centuries.

So I decided to meet the artisans, the actual weavers of the carpets. When I came, they were genuinely happy that someone like me — someone from outside their world — was interested in what they do.

One of the most interesting things I learned there was the difference between mapped and unmapped weaving.

Unmapped weaving is common in tribal or nomadic carpets, like Bakhtiari pieces. Those weavers often work entirely from memory, without following a carpet map. The carpets they make are a bit looser, they have these little irregularities, these gestures that remind you a person made this, knot by knot.

In mapped weaving, a designer creates a carpet map, a pixelated version of the final piece. It is drawn on graph paper, each square representing a knot. The map guides the weavers — it tells them how many knots to make and what colours to use. For silk carpets, the knot count can be incredibly high, creating fine, intricate details that can take years to complete. Wool carpets, on the other hand, have larger knots and a slightly blurrier, softer look.

What struck me was that, without realising it, I was doing something similar in my own work. I wasn’t following a grid or pixel system, but I was designing patterns cleanly — first by hand on paper, and then digitally in Procreate on my iPad. Like traditional designers, I would often create a quarter of a carpet and then mirror it four times to form the full composition.

Of course, there were aspects of their process that didn’t directly apply to what I do. For example, they might create multiple versions of the same design, changing background colours or certain motifs. And because they use natural dyes, certain colours are tied to specific materials or plants, depending on what is available. That limitation actually inspired me — it showed me how restriction can lead to creativity.

Learning their logic gave me so much to build from. And even though that world is facing challenges — sanctions, limited resources, declining demand — their passion remains.

It honestly broke my heart to see how little financial reward there is for the people keeping this tradition alive. Meanwhile, in the West, we are surrounded by objects inspired by their work — boho rugs, patterned pillows — yet the original creators often struggle the most.

When I came back from my first trip, I felt this kind of survivor’s guilt. Why is it that I am able to make a living from this when so many others can’t? But I realised the best way to honour that is to use my privilege to share their stories, educate others, and acknowledge where my inspiration comes from.

One story I will never forget is when I met a woman in Iran who was blind, yet she wove carpets entirely from memory. It was incredible. I bought one from her.

— Do you know her story? Like, how many years has she been doing this?

— I know she wasn’t always blind — she lost her sight due to an illness pretty early on. She was from a nomadic tribe, so she didn’t use carpet maps when she wove; she created everything from memory and instinct.

When I met her, she was an older woman, maybe in her late sixties or early seventies, and she was still weaving. It was incredible. I really hope to see her again.

That experience of visiting the weavers was truly special and so refreshing for me. It felt like stepping into a completely different world.

— I think my next question might be difficult to answer. When I look at your artworks, I feel like you truly capture and convey the essence of the carpet. How do you do that?

— Honestly, that is the best compliment I could get, because that is really what I strive for.

For me, my works always come back to feeling — the emotional connection I have to them.

My works are about the process. I still make every painting entirely by hand. That is important to me — to be physically and emotionally present through the whole process, whether it takes a month or six. My soul is just embedded in the work. You can feel it.

From a design standpoint, I also try to go beyond just recreating patterns. I look at colours, gradients, and textures. It is all about honouring tradition but pushing it forward — not just adding colour for the sake of being different, like using neon yellow just because I can. It is about doing it tastefully, so it still carries that same emotional resonance.

I am really connected with all of my works. Some were made when I wasn’t in the best headspace, and I can see that when I look back. I know where I was mentally or emotionally with each painting, and what was happening in my life at the time.

— And about seven years ago, you started working with concrete. How did it happen?

— Yeah, it was in 2018, the first time I went to Sharjah for a show.

Sharjah is really interesting because it focuses on culture and preservation. When buildings there get damaged, they don’t just repaint or rebuild them with modern materials. They use this natural sandstone mix, and the government actually has a recipe they follow for the walls.

Through my friend who lived there, I was able to get that recipe — it was this mix of crushed red brick, limestone mortar, and water. I was completely obsessed with the tones, the cracks, the ageing — just the life in those walls.

When I came back home, I started experimenting with making my own slabs using that same formula. The first ones were super brittle, and I worked with my dad, who is a carpenter, to figure it out. He was excited to collaborate, but we went through a lot of trial and error before we got it right.

That whole process was a huge learning curve. It wasn’t something I could “YouTube University” my way through — there is no manual for how to make a concrete painting.

What fascinated me was the contradiction: taking something ornate, precious, and traditionally soft like carpet and translating it onto something raw, porous, and unyielding like concrete.

Over time, my process evolved. I still make concrete works today, and they have actually become some of my most requested pieces from collectors. But they are difficult. The way I describe it is — try drawing a straight line on paper, then try drawing it on asphalt. Which one is cleaner? When you are working on concrete, it is like painting on the street. It’s unpredictable, and that forces me to embrace imperfection.

Concrete made me accept that some things are out of my control: the way it dries, the way it cracks, the tones that emerge as it sets. I don’t buy pre-made panels; I make each slab from scratch. It starts with a bag of cement, a bucket of water, and some wood — literally from nothing. There is an alchemy to it that I love.

On concrete, I can’t paint over mistakes. The raw concrete is the background. Whatever happens, happens.

Working with this material, for me, is about the process more than perfection.

— And I have one last question about your upcoming show, A Place Once Known, in Sharjah. What will we see there?

— I exhibited in Sharjah in 2018, so this show feels a bit like a comeback for me. This time, I am presenting five new paintings: two large pieces and three smaller ones. There is also going to be a wallpaper installation, which adds another layer to the space.

The show’s theme this year is “Lantern.” I started thinking about the light as a symbol: the light of memory, the light of a dream. I often dream in these dimly lit spaces, and I sometimes see myself in third person — watching myself move through the dream. That idea became a foundation for the work.

There will be a wallpaper background built from faded colour palettes — it feels like being in a dreamlike state. On top of that, there will be drywall with broken, revealing parts of the wallpaper underneath. I call these sections “wounds.”

They are kind of like large cubbies built into the walls, these recesses or openings in the space. On the back wall, there will be the two large paintings, and then this partially broken wall in front of them. The idea is to bring the paintings into the space itself — to make you feel like the work is part of the architecture, not just hanging on it.

Even though the canvases themselves aren’t made of concrete or physically broken, the installation gives this sense of peeling back layers — like uncovering memories or fragments of something that once was. That is what A Place Once Known refers to: a memory, a kind of nostalgia.

The space becomes this kind of fragmented room. On one side of the space, there is a broken wall with a mirror behind it. The idea ties back to that dreamlike state — when viewers look into the mirror, they’ll actually see themselves reflected in the work, almost from a third-person perspective.

In this show, I wanted to explore the idea of selective memory — remembering a place that may never have existed exactly as we recall it. I think about how my grandparents, and even my parents, used to talk about where they came from — always through rose-coloured lenses. When people remember the past, it is rarely accurate; it becomes more of an emotional highlight reel. You say, “Oh, high school was the best,” but when you were actually there, maybe it wasn’t. Time and distance have a way of softening things.