Zayn Qahtani is a Bahraini-Lebanese artist whose works almost pull you in the moment you look at them. The reason? They are layered — and then layered again.

First, there are strong archaeological influences — a fascination that began early, growing up surrounded by a land shaped by thousands of years of civilization.

Second, there are divine and religious motifs — shaped by the time she spent throughout her childhood and teenage years in Bahrain and Georgia, absorbing their visual and spiritual languages along the way.

Third, there is a deep connection to nature — not just as inspiration, but quite literally in the making: many of her colours come from natural pigments, drawn from stones, trees, and whatever the environment quietly offers.

And then there is the more personal layer. At 18, she discovered an eye condition that quite literally shapes the way she sees the world — and, in turn, how that world appears in her work.

So here we go — stepping into it all, properly this time, with Zayn letting us in.

— Let’s start with your childhood. You originally wanted to become an archaeologist — how did that begin, and what led you to shift into becoming an artist?

— It actually started quite simply. As a child, I was completely obsessed with archaeology — mostly because of these toy kits my dad used to bring home. They were little blocks of “stone” with tiny tools, and you would dig out bones or crystals from inside. I knew, of course, what was in there, but that didn’t really matter — it was the feeling of uncovering something hidden that I loved. That sense of discovery stayed with me.

Growing up in Bahrain, that curiosity felt quite natural. You are surrounded by archaeological sites, so there is always this underlying sense that history sits just beneath the surface. It becomes part of how you look at the world without even realising it.

As I got older, though, that idea of “discovery” began to shift. It became less about uncovering physical objects and more about exploring something intangible — something you can’t quite hold onto in the same way.

That is where art came in. I realised that, as an artist, the process of discovery is much more open. You can begin with a single idea, and it can take you somewhere entirely unexpected — shaped by your mood, your surroundings, even the materials you are working with. In a way, I still approach my work like that. It keeps the process alive — as if something is always unfolding, rather than being fixed or fully defined.

— Your parents seem to have played quite a big role in that curiosity. What kind of influence did they have?

— My parents were always very engaged with creativity, and I think that made all the difference. Growing up, I was surrounded by painting, historical documentaries, and conversations that didn’t feel simplified just because I was a child. My parents spoke to me as if I could understand things, which, looking back, really shaped both my confidence and my curiosity.

I still remember being quite young — maybe around seven — sitting with my father while he watched documentaries about archaeological discoveries, like the excavation of Tutankhamun’s tomb. Instead of brushing it off, he would actually bring me into it, explain what was happening, and treat it as something I could be part of.

So when it came to choosing what to study, I was already leaning towards fine art. But at the time in Bahrain, the options were quite limited — there was really only one place offering a fine arts degree, and it just didn’t feel like the right fit for me.

My parents were very supportive of that. They didn’t push me towards something more conventional — instead, they encouraged me to stay within a creative field, which is how I ended up studying fashion. And honestly, that has shaped me a lot.

Working with fabric, construction, and detail really influenced how I think about materials. Even now, especially in my sculptural work, I find myself coming back to that way of thinking — how something sits, how it is built, how it holds itself.

— You work a lot with natural pigments. How did you decide that this should become part of your process?

— It started quite naturally during my studies. I was studying fashion, and in one of my courses learning art history, I became a bit obsessed with how artists used to make their own paints from natural pigments before synthetic paints existed. Whether it was ochre taken straight from the earth in prehistoric cave paintings, or something more intricate like carmine made from crushed insects, there was always this really direct connection between the material and the meaning of the work.

What stayed with me most was the idea that materials already carry their own symbolism. Lapis Lazuli is always the example I come back to — later known as ultramarine. It was incredibly rare and expensive, sourced from Central Asia, and in Renaissance paintings it was reserved for the most important figures, like the Virgin Mary. There is something quite powerful in that — the idea that the material holds meaning even before you begin.

That interest was there for a while, but it became much more hands-on during the pandemic. I ended up spending over a year next to a forest in the south-west of England, in this protected natural area surrounded by old houses. I started collecting whatever I could find — bits of brick, chalk, different clays — and experimenting with their pigments to draw and make art. It became quite obsessive in a way, just testing things, seeing what would happen, slowly learning what each material could do.

— So are you only working with natural pigments now?

— Not entirely anymore.

When I was in China last year, especially in places like Nanjing, I became really interested in how historical sites are preserved. You have these Ming Dynasty temples that are completely intact, with all their natural colours, but inside there are these immersive elements — light, sound, even virtual reality — that bring the space back to life. It isn't just about looking at something old, it is about experiencing it as something present.

That stayed with me quite strongly. So I started introducing fluorescent inks into my work — very bright, synthetic colours — as a kind of contrast to the natural pigments. I don’t use them heavily, more as accents. They help bring out light in certain areas, or echo the iridescence of other materials I work with, like abalone shell.

It feels less like moving away from natural pigments, and more like expanding the language a bit.

— Your work draws a lot from archaeology, but it also feels quite spiritual — even referencing ancient gods or religious imagery. Am I right?

— Yeah, you are definitely right. I think it comes quite naturally from how I grew up. My dad is Bahraini, my mother is of Lebanese, Iranian (and later we found out there is Georgian ancestry), so I was always moving between these different worlds of identity without really separating them — it all just blended together.

In Lebanon, for example, you are surrounded by layers of history — ancient sites, but also very present Christian imagery. And then in Georgia, I spent a lot of summers around monasteries, looking at these incredibly detailed icons — Mary, Christ, all these saints — often covered in metal plates and gemstones. Everything felt very intentional, almost like each material meant something, even if you didn’t fully understand it at the time. I think that feeling really stayed with me.

And then Bahrain adds a completely different layer. Growing up there, you are constantly aware of the burial mounds and the history of the Dilmun civilisation — this ancient culture that existed in the same place thousands of years ago. What I always found fascinating is that, unlike other parts of ancient Sumeria, Dilmun didn’t really leave behind written records — so everything comes through symbols instead.

You see it in things like the seals they used for trade — they are full of imagery: gods, crescent moons, water snakes, pearls. And from that, you start piecing together what their beliefs might have been. It is almost like building a language visually, which is something I really connect with.

So in my work, I don’t really separate these references. I combine them quite freely. It is less about pointing to one specific place, and more about creating a dialogue between them. I like the idea of taking these older visual languages and letting them shift a bit — keeping them alive and generative, rather than treating them as something fixed in the past.

— Let’s talk about specific works. Could you tell me more about In The Beginning? I understand that textiles and antique bells were important elements in that piece.

— Yeah, those were actually not one but two pieces for a group show called Chorus. The whole idea of the exhibition was centred around sound — so things like music, vibration, sonic energy.

At the time, I had actually gone down quite an unexpected path during COVID and ended up completing a diploma in sound healing and sound therapy with the Institute of Traditional Medicine. It wasn’t something I had planned at all, but it became a really important part of how I was thinking and working. I found myself using sound as a way to slow down and enter a more contemplative, almost meditative state — a space where images would start to form quite naturally and intuitively.

That is really where those works began. They are rooted in this idea that the universe was created through sound — through a kind of first vibration. The bells at the bottom of the sculpture come from that thinking — they represent that initial moment, that first resonance. And then you have these two figures, which I tend to return to quite often — almost like the self facing the anti-self, or the conscious and subconscious in conversation, moving together in response to that sound.

At the centre, there is a symbol of creation, inspired by the womb — a kind of origin point. And the wooden frame around it draws from altar or shrine-like structures, which I still find myself using quite a lot. I am quite drawn to that shape — something that feels like a doorway, or a portal — because it contains the work almost like an invitation.

What really interests me is how a form can guide the way we experience something. If something feels like a portal, your brain almost wants to step into it, even if you physically can’t. It creates a different kind of engagement.

— When I look at your work, I sometimes feel like I am seeing your face in it — especially in Even the Set Sun Rises. Do you recognise that?

— Yeah, I do — and it is actually something I have been asked since the very beginning. At first, I probably would have rejected that idea. I was quite focused on creating a character that could move through different narratives — something slightly separate from me, almost like a tool to build these worlds around.

But over time, I think I have softened into it. Even the most abstract works end up being autobiographical in some way. Even the ones without a face still carry something of me.

I think I hesitated at the beginning because I didn’t want it to feel like vanity — like I was just making work about myself. But now I trust the process more. It isn't really about self-portraiture in a literal sense, it is more about using parts of myself to speak about something bigger.

I have drawn other people before, but there is something quite honest about turning that lens onto yourself — even exaggerating things a bit. Making the ears larger, the eyes more alert, the body slightly off. It allows me to express internal patterns in a way that feels visible. And in a way, it is also for me — a way of understanding things as I go.

— What artwork feels the most vulnerable to you?

— Honestly, I think all of them are, in different ways. I have never really made something where I have tried to remove myself emotionally. If anything, if a work doesn’t make me feel slightly uncomfortable to share, I usually think I haven’t gone far enough.

That discomfort is interesting to me, because I don’t think it is something we are born with. It is often something we are taught — that we should hold back certain emotions, like grief, sadness, longing, imperfection. So a lot of the work is about pushing against that a bit.

I often think of it as taking those feelings and placing them somewhere visible — almost like putting them on an altar or a pedestal. Not to dramatise them, but simply to allow them to exist, to be seen as something valid and human.

But the moment you asked that question, I immediately thought back to my first solo show in 2023, Angels in Purgatory. It was the first time I was in a room completely filled with my work — and strangers could just walk into it.

That felt quite strange. You are standing there while people ask very considered, almost professional questions about something that took so much of yourself to make. You have to find a way to contextualise it, but without over-explaining or making it feel too heavy.

That body of work was really about the self and the anti-self — the version of yourself you show to the world, and the one that actually exists internally. So I think, rather than one specific piece, that whole show was probably the most vulnerable moment for me at the time.

— I read that you live with uveitis, a condition that affects your vision and can lead to cataracts. How has that influenced your practice, and does it find its way into your work?

— It isn’t something I can separate from the work, to be honest.

I was diagnosed when I was 18 with an autoimmune condition that gradually affects my eyesight, and I remember the moment quite clearly. I was on a plane, walked back from the bathroom, and suddenly couldn’t find my seat. At first, I thought maybe I was just tired, or it was the air pressure, but then it didn’t pass. I went home, slept, woke up, and I still couldn’t see properly.

And then everything changed quite quickly. At 18, you are just stepping into your life — you have just learnt how to drive, you are starting to go out with friends, you are building that first real sense of freedom. And suddenly, I wasn’t allowed to drive. I couldn’t do a lot of the normal things people around me were doing. I was constantly in hospitals, sometimes twice a week, taking medication and trying not to go blind.

That is a very intense thing to experience so young, because it feels like this life that is almost promised to every young person is suddenly taken away from you, or at least completely reshaped. You have to grow up very fast. Friends don’t always understand why you can’t go to a party, or why certain lights and situations are painful, or why you just can’t do things in the same way.

Materially, it also changed everything. As my eyesight got worse, it became much more natural to move towards something tactile. I started out painting and drawing, but as my vision changed, it felt more natural to move into sculpture — to work with my hands, to feel rather than just observe. That shift opened up an entirely different way of thinking and creating, almost like discovering a new language through the body.

In a way, my practice wouldn’t exist in the same form without this experience. And for that, I feel a certain kind of gratitude. But at the same time, there is still a very human side to it — a sense of ongoing loss, something you have to learn to live with. Making work becomes a way of processing that, of holding it in a space that feels constructive, even healing.

— You once described yourself as a “graveyard girl” — what does that actually mean to you?

— Yeah, I know it sounds a bit intense when you first hear it, but for me it has never felt dark in that way. If anything, it is quite calming.

I think it comes from how I grew up in Bahrain. A lot of the places I would pass every day — even just on the school run — were surrounded by these huge fields of burial mounds. Thousands and thousands of ancient graves. And as a child, I never really saw them as something morbid. They almost felt soft. I used to think of them as the earth holding people, almost like it was going to bring them back in another form. There was something quite comforting in that idea.

And then, as I got older, I started understanding more about Dilmun and its history. It is known as one of the largest ancient burial sites in the world, but at the same time, in Sumerian mythology, it was also seen as this kind of sacred place — almost like a Garden of Eden, a place of purity, even immortality. So there is this duality: death, but also renewal.

That way of thinking really stayed with me. It helped me see things less as endings and more as transformations. Even when something feels lost, it doesn’t fully disappear — it just shifts into something else. And I think that perspective became especially important for me through more intense experiences in life. It gave me a sense of stillness, or trust in the present, even when things felt unstable.

So when I say “graveyard girl”, it isn't about darkness — it is more about being close to that cycle. That constant movement between loss and regeneration, and finding something quite peaceful in it.

— And finally, you have just opened your latest show, Whisperings. What was the idea behind it, and how does it connect to where you are in your practice now?

— Whisperings felt like a quieter shift for me. It is still spiritual, but less confrontational — more about tuning into something subtle. Those moments where you feel like you are receiving something subliminal, even if you can’t quite explain where it is coming from.

The process itself was quite intense. There are 15 works in the show, many made with bioplastic, which is incredibly slow to work with. Even small sections take time, so building larger pieces becomes very repetitive — almost meditative in its own way. I spent most of the past year working through that, so finishing the show brought a real sense of release. And after that kind of pace, you naturally arrive at a certain stillness.

Conceptually, though, it had been forming for a while. Some of the works trace back to 2021 — small drawings of plant-like forms that I never got to show in the physical. They just stayed with me, almost waiting for the right moment.

Then being in China last year helped everything click. I was really struck by how, in places like the Ming Xiaoling Mausoleum, every element carries meaning. You walk along this path called The Spirit Way, lined with these monumental figures — not fully creature, not entirely human — and they seem to mark a kind of progression, almost guiding you through different states of being towards the great beyond.

A lot of the works reflect that: symbolic, almost guardian-like forms, and this idea of nature as something always quietly alive. There is also a central piece — a large portal called ‘To Her We Return’ - about 2,2 metres tall — which was the first time I had the opportunity to work collaboratively with fabricators and other artists. It is referencing a stone archway framed with Dilmun seals, alluding to the cycles of life.

Inside it, there is a moving visual element I developed alongside Connor Campbell, an incredible motion designer — an evolving form inspired by an abalone shell. It slowly shifts and spirals inward, and the way the light moves across it mirrors how it would behave on a real shell. There is a gentle pull to it, like something drawing you in. That idea of the shell became quite central — as a kind of protective space, somewhere something can be held or nurtured. It appears throughout the show in different ways.