He carefully works with Arabic script, turning it into something artistic while still respecting its roots. As he says, “I pour my own heart and story into it, and by making it feel alive in today’s world, in a way people can connect with beyond just reading it.”

This is Aadil Abedi — an artist and creative director. He is of Indian and Pakistani heritage but was born in the UK.

Did he know as a child, or even as a teenager, that he would dedicate his life to calligraphy? That he would collaborate with Disney and Apple through calligraphy? Or that one day he would create an enormous artwork for Jada Pinkett Smith? No, he didn’t. He worked in TV production before realising that it wasn’t what he truly wanted to do.

So how did it happen? What stories does he tell through his art? And why was it scary for him to start working with the Arabic script? Let’s ask him.

— Aadil, first, could you please tell me what family you come from?

— I come from a very traditional South Asian family. My parents are originally from India and Pakistan, but they met in the UK and got married there in the 70s. Neither of them had anything to do with the creative world. My father was an accountant, and my mother worked in the civil service. So for me, stepping into the arts was completely uncharted territory.

There wasn’t really a blueprint in front of me. It made the journey both terrifying and exciting. On one hand, I had to figure everything out from scratch, but on the other hand, it gave me the freedom to really carve my own path, without anyone telling me “this is how it should be done.”

— You once said that art started as a hobby for you while you were pursuing a career in television production. Could you take me back to that time? How did you start a career in TV production, and why did you decide to quit it in 2014? And was that a difficult decision?

— Back then, I was working in television production for the BBC and Channel 4 in the UK, which on paper seemed like the perfect creative career. I loved storytelling, I loved visuals, and TV gave me a way to be around that energy. But very quickly, I realised how structured and hierarchical that world was. You are part of a big machine, and while it is exciting in some ways, I started to feel like I had very little control over what I was actually working on and creating.

At the same time, I had this little side hobby of painting and experimenting with calligraphy in my free time. It was never “the plan,” just something that made me feel more alive. And over time, I began to notice that the hours I spent doing that gave me a sense of freedom that I wasn’t finding at work.

By 2014, the imbalance was too loud to ignore. I knew I wanted a career where I could have independence, where my voice wasn’t lost in a chain of approvals, and where I could build something that was truly mine. Quitting TV wasn’t easy, and leaving a steady paycheck, but deep down I knew I couldn’t keep compromising on what I really wanted. It was less about leaving television and more about choosing myself. And that decision has shaped everything I have done since.

And coming from a South Asian family with no creative background, that choice was even scarier. There wasn’t a roadmap or an example I could point to and say, “look, it worked for them.” It felt like I was breaking a cultural script and stepping away from stability into something no one could quite understand at the time. But that leap into the unknown is exactly what made it mine.

— You wrote that, at the start of your career, you were always a bit nervous about manipulating the Arabic script and turning it into something more “artsy.” Why was that? Could you elaborate?

— In the beginning, I was nervous because Arabic isn’t just any script. It is sacred. It carries so much history and spirituality. Growing up, I had this deep respect for it, and the last thing I wanted was for my work to come across as careless or disrespectful. So when I started experimenting, bending and stretching the script into something more fluid or abstract, there was always that little voice in my head asking: “Am I allowed to do this?”

It took me time to understand that honouring the script doesn’t have to mean keeping it frozen in tradition. My way of respecting it was by pouring my own heart and story into it and by making it feel alive in today’s world, in a way people could connect with beyond just reading it. So yes, I was cautious at first, but I think that nervousness actually shaped my style. It made me intentional. Every line I drew had to carry both beauty and meaning.

— I once saw negative comments under your work, saying things like: “Do not disrespect Qur’anic words for the sake of art.” How did you react to that? Do such comments affect you in any way?

— I have definitely seen comments like that over the years, but very few now. And honestly, I understand where they come from. The Qur’an is sacred, and Arabic calligraphy carries a lot of spiritual weight. When someone sees it being presented differently than they are used to, especially in an “artsy” or experimental way, it can trigger a strong emotional response.

At first, those comments did sting. I’m human. You put so much of yourself into something, and it is hard not to take criticism personally. But over time, I have learned to take them as a reminder of the responsibility I carry. I never approach the script carelessly; every line I draw comes from a place of respect, even when I’m pushing the boundaries of form.

Now, instead of letting negative comments shut me down, I let them ground me. They make me pause, reflect, and double-check my intention. And at the end of the day, if my work sparks a conversation, even a hard one, then it is doing what art is supposed to do: make people feel, think, and engage.

— You have been practising calligraphy for more than 10 years, if I am not mistaken. How would you say your style has evolved over time?

— You are right, it has been over a decade now, which feels wild to even say out loud. In the beginning, my work was very literal and traditional. I was focused on getting the script “right,” almost like I had to prove to myself that I could master the foundations before I could take any risks.

Over time, though, my style became much more fluid, more abstract, and I started letting the letters breathe, stretch, and interact with each other in ways that felt more like painting than writing. I think that shift came as I got more comfortable with my own voice. I stopped worrying about “Is this correct?” and started asking, “Does this feel true?”

Now, my calligraphy feels less about strict form and more about energy, emotion, and movement. The strokes are bolder, more experimental. I love pouring paint, layering textures, letting accidents become part of the piece. In many ways, the evolution of my style mirrors my own journey; moving from caution to freedom, from imitation to expression.

— Which artwork took you the longest to complete?

— Without a doubt, the 99 Names of Allah painting I created back in 2019. That piece consumed me! It was extremely intricate, layered, and colourful, and every single detail had to be handled with so much care. I spent weeks working on it, sometimes losing track of time completely because I was so immersed in the process. And this was also before I felt confident enough to go straight from paint to brush — back then, I would outline each word in pencil and then fill it in.

What made it special wasn’t just the length of time, but the weight of what it carried. Each name has such depth and meaning, and I felt a huge responsibility to honour that in the way I painted it.

When I finally stepped back and looked at it finished, it almost felt like I had gone through a journey myself. The time it took wasn’t just about technique; it was about patience, reflection, and slowing down enough to really sit with something sacred. That is why it remains one of the most meaningful works I have ever made.

— In 2018, you created an incredible piece dedicated to humanity on a wall in Baltimore. Could you tell me more about it? Was it difficult?

— Yes, that wall in Baltimore will always stay with me. It was actually my second large-scale installation, but it felt like the first time I really understood the impact of taking calligraphy out of a frame and putting it directly into a public space.

I painted the verse from Surah Baqarah: “He made you into nations and tribes so that you may know one another.” That line has always resonated deeply with me as it is such a powerful reminder of our shared humanity. I wanted the wall to carry that message, so that anyone walking by, no matter who they were or where they came from, could feel seen in it.

Was it difficult? Absolutely. The scale alone changes everything as you are no longer just holding a pen, you are holding your whole body against a wall, working with brushes and strokes that need to carry the same fluidity as something much smaller. But that challenge also gave me freedom. Mistakes became part of the texture, and the imperfections actually made it feel alive.

That Baltimore piece taught me a lot about scale, about vulnerability, and about how art can meet people where they are, out in the world, not just inside galleries. And for me, having the words of that verse out there in the open, reminding people of connection instead of division, made it one of the most meaningful works I have ever painted.

— A sudden one: wow, you know Ali Javed — such an amazing photographer! How did you two meet?

— We met through mutual friends back in Dubai in the early part of my career, and he has remained a close friend since. We haven’t actually met in many years, as I haven’t made it back to Dubai for a while, but he captured some beautiful images of me and helped me with my portfolio of work tremendously in the beginning part of my career. Such a talent and genuine human who was, and is, still so giving. I am hoping to make a trip to Dubai in January 2026, so I cannot wait to reconnect with him in real life again and hopefully get behind his lens for a fun shoot.

— Okay, let's get back to your work. In 2019, you had your first collaboration with the clothing line Verona. How did that happen? What were you trying to express with your art in that collection?

— That collaboration with Verona in 2019 was such a turning point for me. Up until then, my work had lived mostly on canvases and walls. When the opportunity came to bring my calligraphy into modest fashion, it felt like a completely new way of letting people wear the art and carry it with them.

The collection had co-ord suits, kimonos, and jumpsuits, and each piece was designed with my signature motif woven in. What I wanted to express was the idea that calligraphy isn’t confined to paper or galleries; it can live in our everyday lives. I loved the thought of someone putting on one of those pieces and feeling a sense of both beauty and empowerment, as if the art was wrapping them in meaning.

It also felt important that my first fashion collaboration was with a modest clothing brand. Modesty, like calligraphy, has its own kind of quiet strength. It is not loud, but it is powerful. And to merge those two worlds was my way of celebrating identity, faith, and creativity all at once.

— I see that you depict dervishes quite often. Is there a reason for that?

— Yes, the dervish appears often in my work. For me, the dervish isn’t just a figure; it is a symbol of surrender, of turning away from the noise of the world and moving closer to the divine. The way they whirl, with one hand reaching up and the other down, has always struck me as this beautiful reminder of balance between heaven and earth, spirit and self.

On a personal level, I think I have always been drawn to that idea of movement. My calligraphy is very fluid, full of sweeps and curves, and the dervish feels like a living embodiment of that energy. Painting them feels almost meditative, as if I’m painting not a person, but a state of being.

So yes, I return to the dervish often because it is a reminder for myself and for others that in the middle of chaos, there is stillness, there is rhythm, and there is a way to find peace by letting go.

— You even created a piece for Jada Pinkett Smith? Whaaat? How did it happen?

— Yes! That was definitely one of those surreal, pinch-me moments. Jada Pinkett Smith had seen some of my work, and through a mutual connection, the opportunity came up to create a piece for her. I still remember thinking, How is this even real? She commissioned a rising Phoenix with the 99 Names of Allah (SWT) inscribed into the silhouette.

What made it special wasn’t just the fact that it was for someone so well-known, but the way she connected to the art itself. It reminded me that calligraphy, even though it is rooted in a specific language and tradition, has this universal energy to it, and people feel something when they see it, even if they don’t understand every word.

That experience gave me a lot of confidence early on. It was a reminder that my work could travel far beyond my own circles, from friends and family to global figures, and still carry the same meaning. And honestly, it is one of those stories I will probably be telling forever.

— And then a collaboration with Disney — wow! How did that come about?

— Yes, that one was huge. Disney reached out to me because, for the very first time, they wanted to create content around Eid. It felt really special to be part of that moment, not just as an artist, but as someone who grew up never seeing a holiday like Eid acknowledged on that scale by a global brand.

I created visuals for them that wove in my calligraphy based on the concept of three wishes from the genie in Aladdin, and the response honestly blew me away. Across all platforms, the campaign ended up being viewed over 90 million times. To see people from all over the world engaging with something that celebrated Eid in such a positive way was incredibly meaningful.

For me, that collaboration wasn’t just about the numbers; it was about visibility. It was a reminder that our traditions, our celebrations, deserve to be seen and shared. And to have Disney take that step, and to be the artist they trusted with it, is something I will always hold close.

— I absolutely love your collection of works inspired by the Earth. Could you tell me more about it? Why did you decide to create it?

— That painting, Deforestation, came from a place of urgency. I wanted to make something that wasn’t just beautiful, but also uncomfortable and something that forced you to pause and think about the damage we are doing to the Earth. The heavy, almost scarred texture was deliberate. I wanted the surface to feel raw, stripped, unsettled; the way the land feels when forests are torn down.

The band of calligraphy cutting through the canvas acts like a wound, but also a reminder. For me, it was about showing that even in destruction, there is still language, history, and spirit left behind, but it is fragile, and if we keep ignoring it, even that could fade.

This whole Earth series was me asking myself: What role does an artist play in these conversations? For me, it was about holding a mirror up and saying, Look, this isn’t separate from us. Faith, creativity, and community are all tied to the ground we walk on. If we don’t protect it, we lose not just trees, but something of our soul.

— In 2024, you created something even more stunning: your first-ever prayer rug. What was the idea behind the design?

— Designing my first-ever prayer rug in 2024 was such a special moment for me. I have always believed that art and spirituality aren’t separate; they are deeply intertwined. The prayer rug felt like the most natural way to bring those two worlds together.

The idea behind the design was to create something that felt both timeless and personal. Prayer is such an intimate act, and I wanted the rug to carry that same sense of intimacy. I used my calligraphy motif in a way that framed the space, almost like it was holding the person in prayer, grounding them while also lifting them.

I was also thinking a lot about legacy; about how these objects live in our homes for years, passed down, becoming part of family rituals. So it wasn’t just about making something visually beautiful; it was about creating a piece that could carry meaning and memory every time someone placed it down. I always add elements of modernity to my pieces, and this rug kept that modern aesthetic alive with the use of the symmetrical calligraphy design, as well as the rich, vibrant, deep red colours embedded into it.

— I am fascinated by your collaboration with Nominal, where you created The Heritage Collection and described it as “Each piece is a love letter to where I come from.” Could you tell me more about these pieces?

— The Heritage Collection with Nominal is really close to my heart. I described it as “a love letter to where I come from” because every single piece carries a thread of my roots, my history, my identity. I didn’t want it to be just jewelry for the sake of jewelry, I wanted it to tell a story.

The designs blend my Arabic calligraphy with motifs inspired by Mughal art, Indian flora and fauna, peacock feathers, and peepal leaves. These are symbols I grew up around, even if unconsciously, in old architecture, in family heirlooms, in the patterns that were just part of the fabric of life. Bringing them together in a modern jewelry collection felt like honouring the past while also creating something new for this generation.

For me, each piece became more than an accessory; it became a bridge. A bridge between cultures, between tradition and modernity, between where I come from and where I am today. And to see people wear them, carry them into their own lives and stories, has been one of the most rewarding parts of the journey.

— You once said about collaborations: ‘When I’m deciding who to collaborate with, I ask myself a few things. Do they genuinely understand the soul of what I’m creating?’ How would you describe that soul?

— For me, the “soul” of what I create is about intention. My work isn’t just decorative or aesthetic; it is rooted in something much deeper. Every stroke of calligraphy carries memory, heritage, spirituality, and emotion. It is about storytelling, about connection, about making people feel something when they stand in front of a piece.

So when I think about the “soul,” it is really that invisible thread. The respect for the Arabic script, the reverence for culture and history, but also the vulnerability of putting my own journey into the work. That is the part I am most protective of.

If I collaborate with someone, I want to know they see and honour that. Because it is easy to look at the gold or the fluid lines and think it is just design. But the soul is the why, the meaning, the faith, the love, the lived experiences behind it. And if a collaborator doesn’t get that, the work won’t carry the same truth.

— Aadil, what is next? What are you working on now?

— What is next is something I have been dreaming about since the very start of my creative journey: launching my own home décor line. It is coming next year, and it feels like a huge milestone for me because this is something I am building completely on my own. For years I have wanted to take my calligraphy into people’s everyday spaces — plates, textiles, objects that aren’t just art on the wall but become part of how families live and gather. To finally bring that to life feels both surreal and incredibly exciting.

At the same time, with the Aadil Abedi brand, I am thinking bigger. I want to push collaborations beyond fashion and jewelry, into spaces like automotive design, larger-scale installations, even restaurant and hotel interiors. I love the idea of my work not just being seen, but being experienced; stepping into a room or a building and feeling the energy of the script woven into it.

So really, what is next is expansion. Not just in scale, but in imagination. The UAE in particular has such a strong relationship with both tradition and innovation, and I would love for my work to play a role in that dialogue.