Heritage and art rarely intertwine so seamlessly, but for Iranian artist Taher Asad-Bakhtiari, they have gone hand in hand from the start.

Coming from the Bakhtiari tribe, that identity has been a strong part of his everyday life since early childhood. And unlike the more familiar story of artists rebelling against their families to pursue art, Taher was gently introduced to it at the age of 12 and has never really strayed from that path since. Over time, these two core elements in his life merged — and the result speaks for itself: multiple exhibitions across the globe, and a name that resonates not only in the Middle Eastern art world, but also in the United States, with collectors worldwide seeking his pieces.

To understand the key to this success, we are stepping inside to see how those signature patterns were born, how the weavers bring Taher’s vision to life, and which piece he holds closest.

All that (and more) below.

— Let’s start from the beginning. Have you always been a creative person? What was your childhood like?

— I think I have always been quite creative, though maybe I shouldn’t say that too confidently! I grew up in a creative family. On my mum’s side, there’s a strong artistic influence — her aunt, Monir, is an artist, so art was always part of my world. On my dad’s side, we come from a tribal background — he was one of the leaders — so I was surrounded by tribal jewellery, weaving, fabrics, and sewing from a young age.

When I was 12, we moved to Vancouver. At school, I studied painting, sculpture, woodworking, ceramics — all sorts.

After that, I came back and started an events and catering company. It was quite a creative job — working with food, service, and creating atmospheres — but at some point, I wanted to move from services to products. That is when I began thinking about launching a lifestyle line, collaborating with craftsmen. I quickly realised this kind of production requires many skilled hands. While we have incredible artisans, a lot of the design approaches felt a bit traditional or outdated. So I decided to start with rugs — they felt personal, accessible, and it was something my mum gently encouraged me towards.

She introduced me to some artist friends, including Parviz Tanavoli, a contemporary Iranian artist, who connected me with a family of weavers in Iran. I began working with them, learning the techniques and the many layers involved in tapestry weaving. Since then, I have kept going, exploring different colours and types of knots.

— Earlier you mentioned your roots in the Bakhtiari tribe. Could you explain what the Bakhtiari tribe is, and how it connects to your work today?

— The Bakhtiari are one of Iran’s nomadic tribes — traditionally moving with the seasons. They come from a region in the northwest called Chaharmahal and Bakhtiari, and have their own language and culture.

Today, only a small number still live nomadically, as most have moved to cities and that lifestyle is slowly disappearing. But in my family, the connection to the tribe was always strong and very present. One of our prominent ancestors — my great-great-grandfather — was a revolutionary. He went to Tehran to help lead the push for a constitution, so people could vote rather than live under a monarchy.

At home, that tribal identity was very much part of everyday life. I was constantly reminded of who we were. Our house was filled with antiques — silk rugs, heavy traditional pieces. I appreciated them, but I was more drawn to minimalism. That is why I started exploring tribal weaving from a different angle. Interestingly, a lot of authentic tribal rugs are quite minimal — stripped back, simple patterns, very few decorative elements. They reflect a life of simplicity, which really resonated with me and continues to shape how I work today.

— I noticed that many of your works feature repeated triangle patterns. Why triangles, specifically?

— Triangles became a way for me to bring structure into the weaves. When I started exposing the warp threads — the skeleton of the tapestry — everything felt looser and more open. I wanted to add a shape that could hold it all together, so I placed a triangle in the centre, with lines on either side. That became the foundation.

It is now a recurring element — you will see it across both long and short tapestries — and over time I have developed it further.

— Another popular shape that comes up quite often is the arrow. What does that symbol mean to you?

— Arrows came to me quite naturally. I am a Sagittarius — half-man, half-horse, with a bow and arrow — and that links back to my Bakhtiari roots as well. They were warriors, always on horseback, with rifles or bows.

So symbolically, it made sense. The triangle shape gradually evolved into an arrow, and I even gave it a tail. I took this further in a collection I created for a Milanese company. Each arrow in that series has its own name and story — one is The Centaur, another is Protector — and they all carry their own narrative. I also love what the arrow represents metaphorically: you aim high, but you never quite know where it will land. That momentum has a story of its own.

— Were you always drawn to geometry, or did that develop over time?

— I wasn’t drawn to geometry in the beginning. Quite the opposite, actually — I used to sketch figures and landscapes. That started to shift when I was studying graphic design and multimedia, where geometric forms naturally became part of the process.

What really sparked my interest, though, was studying my great-aunt’s work. She worked with mirrors, mosaics, and geometry, and I remember seeing how she could take a single triangle and expand it into endless variations. That opened something up for me. I began to see how much meaning and symbolism a shape like a triangle could hold.

From there, I started experimenting — developing drawings, playing with colour palettes and patterns. My great-aunt Monir also shared visual references with me: books from her time, full of influences from movements like Art Deco and Bauhaus. She would say, "Pull that book out, look at this," and those images stayed with me. But it wasn’t about copying — the real creative shift happened when I began blending different influences and turning them into something personal.

— You work with weavers from different countries. I imagine their processes vary quite a bit, right?

— Yes, completely. I work with Iran, Afghanistan, and with cc-tapis — an Italian rug maker that produces in Nepal. Each place I work with has its own character; they feel like completely different personalities.

In Iran, I work with a family where each woman weaves from her own home. They set up looms inside their houses, and all the weavers are women — deeply traditional, wearing hijabs, and passing the craft down through generations. This technique is slowly disappearing; it is time-consuming, physically demanding, and not very profitable.

For example, a single rug — one metre by three — can take one weaver two to three months to complete. But it is important to me that these rugs stay in the hands of tribal artisans. Once production moves to big factories, the authenticity begins to fade. So Iran is where I focus on raw, tribal, more primitive weaves.

In Afghanistan, I collaborate with FBMI — a foundation started by the Sheikha Fatima Bint Mohamed Bin Zayed to support Afghan women. They have built proper weaving warehouses, so the process is more structured and efficient. I recently did a show with Nilufar Gallery in Milan, and we worked with Afghan weavers for that collection. These rugs are more like jewellery pieces — really intricate and unique.

With cc-tapis in Nepal, I am not involved in the production itself. I designed for them a few years ago — I submit the designs, and they handle the rest through their global network of distributors. Their atelier in Nepal is incredibly advanced, with some of the most skilled weavers and collaborations with top designers from around the world.

— Tell me more about your process. Do you start with a sketch?

— Yes, I always begin with sketches — whether it is for a gallery, a client, or a special commission. My patterns tend to be quite monotone, so the structure is usually clear from the start, but we still go through everything in detail: colour, texture, pile height, size — all of it.

I start by sketching by hand, then transfer it to the computer where I add texture and detail. That version is sent to the client or gallery for review. Once we agree on everything, we move into production.

Different countries use different weaving techniques. For example, both Iran and Afghanistan produce gabbeh rugs — but their approaches are completely different. When clients see samples from both, they usually know which style they prefer, and that tells me where it should be produced.

There are also practical limitations. In Afghanistan, thanks to the warehouse setup, we can work in almost any size. But in Iran, since the looms are set up in people’s homes, we are more restricted when it comes to scale.

— And what about the very beginning? What do you do on days when inspiration doesn’t come easily?

— Honestly, I am always inspired. It feels quite natural — I find inspiration in everything around me: cities, the change of seasons, emotions. Even walking through the streets — I notice doors, walls, facades, bits of street art, architecture. Colours, textures — it all catches my eye.

I also spend time on Pinterest, looking at interiors, objects, fabrics, fashion, art — all of that sparks ideas. So for me, it is not really about searching for inspiration — it is usually there. It is more about whether I choose to act on it.

That said, I try not to overdo it. I prefer to develop a few clear lines of work and evolve them slowly. I believe in slow progress — I don’t like to rush or change direction too quickly. I want things to unfold in an organic way.

— Once the final piece arrives, are there specific details you check — things that an ordinary person might miss, like the texture or structure?

— Not particularly — the people I work with are masters. There is usually a head weaver overseeing everything: the team has women who do the actual weaving on the loom, and a man who handles the structure, making sure everything is straight and properly aligned. So it is all in very good hands.

That said, I still keep an eye on the process. I ask the team to send me regular photos and videos — mainly to track progress and timing, to make sure we are on schedule. And of course, I do a final check myself. Most of the time, everything is spot on. Occasionally, a triangle might not be perfectly straight, or a line slightly off — but I actually love that, especially with the Iranian weaves. Iranian weavers don’t follow a map — they work by instinct. That is what makes their work feel so raw and expressive. In contrast, Afghan weavers do use maps, so their approach is much more structured and precise.

— I see your work isn’t only about rugs — I also came across your project involving battered oil barrels. What is the story behind that, and how did it come to life?

— It started with a broader reflection on Iran itself — we are an oil-rich country, but our currency holds little value internationally. So even though we have vast resources, that wealth doesn’t always translate into everyday life. Much of the region’s conflict has been tied to oil, power, and territory — and for me, the barrels symbolise that contradiction.

Originally, they are made to carry oil, but they often end up on construction sites, where workers repurpose them: for mixing plaster, storing paint, lighting fires, or even standing on them to reach high walls. They become humble, multifunctional tools — and I find them beautiful in their own way. They are beaten, bruised, layered in faded, patina-like colours — full of history and character.

What I do is scale them down — I don’t distort the form, just reduce the size. I give them to a metalworker, who carefully seals and reshapes them, closing off any open areas. Then they go to my resin guy, who sculpts each one using resin. Each piece gets its own mould, so no two are ever the same.

For me, the meaning is powerful: it is about being broken, used, overlooked — and then transformed. These barrels are often so damaged they can’t serve their original purpose anymore. But I take them, upcycle them, and turn them into sculptural pieces. There is an environmental element — but it is also symbolic. It is like finding someone forgotten on a building site and turning them into a model who ends up on a catwalk in Milan.

And I think that message resonates — people really connect with the story and the value behind it. The pieces are doing well, especially in the US. Beyoncé even owns one.

— I know you move between Iran, the UAE, and the United States. How does your creative process shift in these different places?

— It is very different — but I feel like I need all three.

Iran is where I come from. Dubai is where I learned how to fly, in terms of my career. And the United States gave me a kind of breath of fresh air. It was new and free — I was on my own, and able to shape myself as a person.

Each place plays its part. Sometimes I am in Iran and feel like I have to get out — it can feel heavy. But looking back, I always realise I needed that time. The same goes for Dubai and the United States. Each one pushes me in a different way. And yet, I can stay in one place for a while too — it just depends on where I am at in the moment.

— One last question: you have seen so many designs and created so many works. What is something you have chosen for yourself, for your own space?

— The thing from Barbatata collection — the pink table, the one with the girl with green hair sitting on it in the promotional photoshoot. I love it because it is playful and childlike. The texture is rubber, so when you touch it, it feels like a toy — it reminds me of childhood.

It is one of my latest experiments, but I haven’t marketed it or placed it in galleries yet — I still need to develop it more.