We are all, in one way or another, chasing inspiration — in work, in life, in those random late-night thoughts. For artists and creatives, that chase is almost the whole point.

Sometimes it leans into the big themes — identity, belonging, grief. And sometimes, it lands somewhere much simpler. Like animals.

Familiar, instinctive, quietly symbolic. For some artists, they hold memories of childhood and a sense of home. For others, they become stand-ins for social and political realities — a softer way of saying something sharper.

Either way, they keep coming back.

So, let’s get into it — the Middle Eastern artists who, occasionally or consistently, find their inspiration in the animal world.

Aude Abou Nasr is a French-Lebanese illustrator and animator based in Beirut. In her work, she brings out big themes — identity, belonging, displacement, memory and more — but places them inside these almost magical, dreamlike worlds, where animals play an important role. While the main focus is often on fairytale-like human figures, the animals don’t feel separate — they exist within the same emotional space.

To make this feel a little less abstract, here is an example. In her Daydreams and Nightscapes series, animals quietly act as “guardians and mirrors of what we cannot speak.” They aren't the main characters — more like quiet companions, always there, always watching, but at the same time (and this is probably the main point) reflecting hidden emotions.

And there is one more thing worth paying attention to — which animal appears in the drawing. That part is never random. In the same project, for example, you often see foxes. Why? As she puts it, the fox has always been about survival through wit. When foxes sound off in the dark, it feels like a warning — move, shift, adapt. Even in old dream readings, seeing a fox is about relying on your mind when strength isn't enough.

Hamid Naderi Yeganeh is a mathematical artist — and if that sounds a bit confusing, his work explains it better than any definition. He doesn’t draw in the traditional sense. Instead, he creates images entirely through mathematical formulas, using functions, lines and equations to generate visuals.

If you look through his works, the first thing you notice is how precise — though slightly strange — they are, and there is a reason for that. None of them are drawn by hand. They are calculated.

Take, for example, A Bird in Flight. It is made from hundreds of carefully calculated line segments — yet it still feels light, almost effortless.

A small trick: zoom into any of his works. That is when it really becomes clear. What looks like a fluid image from afar is actually built from circles, lines and repeated patterns. So the animal itself becomes a kind of illusion — something that looks organic, but is entirely constructed through logic.

Maya Fidawi is a Lebanese illustrator, best known for her work in children’s books. While animals aren't always the central figures in her stories — she tends to focus more on everyday human moments — they appear frequently, sometimes even taking centre stage.

Her work doesn’t lean into heavy themes like grief or displacement. Instead, it feels light, warm and full of love for life — especially its small moments, the ones we often overlook but probably need the most.

And while most of her work carries that sense of joy and calm, there is one piece that stands out — not because of its theme, but because of what it meant for her personally. It is Sultana, a black cat sitting on an Arabic carpet. What makes it so important? It was one of the first works that marked her shift into digital art.

She has spoken about how she once resisted digital work, believing that if you couldn’t physically touch an artwork, it wasn’t “real”. Over time, she outgrew that idea — and Sultana became part of that transition. The piece quickly gained wide attention and, as often happens, was copied and reproduced without her consent — appearing on coasters, phone cases and other products across different countries.

Fatima Mohammed is a contemporary artist based in Qatar, and in her artistic framework, animals play a completely different role. They feel intentional, constructed — almost like elements placed within a system. But let me give you a bit more context.

If you look through her works, the figures feel almost entirely human — the clothing, the body, the posture. Everything checks out. But then you get to the face, and that is where it shifts. Instead of a human face, you often see an animal, most commonly a bird.

What is important here is this: by removing the human face, she removes individuality. The person stops being someone specific and becomes more like an idea, a role, or a condition. So instead of clearly showing emotion, the work makes you sense it.

And this is where her work expands further. It can be political, even historical. For example, Sorry, No Gas refers to the 1973 oil crisis, when the American decision to supply Israel during the Yom Kippur War led Arab OPEC countries to impose an oil embargo. Other works feel more social, sometimes even personal — but they all carry that same constructed, intentional language.

Amer Alobaidi is an Iraqi artist whose work moves between painting and sculpture — and he feels like a perfect closing note for this selection. Because while his work includes different figures and elements, at its core there is one presence you keep coming back to: the horse.

And once you notice it — especially if you know even a little about the role of the horse in Arab culture — everything starts to fall into place. His work quietly circles around identity and heritage, without over-explaining it.

Over more than two decades of practice, he hasn’t treated the horse as an allegory or just a companion figure. Instead, he gives it the full presence it deserves — placing it right at the centre. Through his surreal style, the horse carries strength, freedom, and that deep, almost instinctive connection to Arab identity.