What is your required setup when you are planning to create? Good light? Inspiration? For Noor Abuissa, that essential element is simple but non-negotiable: a good mood. Without it, there is no room for anything negative — she simply won't allow it to touch her artwork.

Noor is a Qatari multidisciplinary artist working within the sphere of Islamic geometry. Born in the UAE and raised between Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Riyadh, and Jordan, she grew up in a family of pure artistic souls, leaving her with little choice but to become an artist herself. And so she did. Today, her work reflects the inspiration passed down through the generations of her family, which she is now sharing with her own children.

With Noor, we talk about her artistic roots, her most memorable exhibitions, her creative process, and the projects closest to her heart.

— Where do you think your love of art comes from?

— I grew up in a lively household with four children, so there was always a certain amount of chaos. Looking back, I think making art became my way of making sense of it all — of bringing a little order to everything happening around me.

Creativity was simply woven into everyday life. My parents have always loved art, and whenever we travelled, museums, exhibitions, ballet performances and local traditions were just as much a part of the journey as the destination itself. They taught us to appreciate beauty in all its forms.

My grandfather probably had the greatest influence on me. He was the first official photographer to the Qatari royal family and documented Doha as it evolved over the years. Today, his archive is preserved at the National Museum of Qatar. Watching the world through his photographs taught me that photography isn't really about taking pictures — it is about paying attention.

That way of seeing the world naturally became part of our family. As we grew up, we were all given cameras, so observing people, places and small details became second nature. My mother, who is a graphic designer, nurtured that creative side even further, making art feel like an entirely natural part of everyday life rather than something extraordinary.

With that kind of upbringing, I always knew my family would support my decision to become an artist. The only surprise was my father's reaction. As a businessman, I had expected him to steer me towards a more conventional career. Instead, he supported me immediately. He told me that becoming an artist had always been his own dream, but life had taken him in a different direction. Knowing that gave me the confidence to follow my own path.

— What was it about art that made you want to pursue it professionally?

— I was actually very academic, so art didn't seem like the obvious path for me for a long time. I only started studying it in high school, almost out of curiosity.

What caught me off guard was that, for the first time, there wasn't a right answer. Every other subject seemed to have a formula: if you followed the steps correctly, you reached the solution. Art didn't work like that. Two people could approach the same brief in completely different ways and both be right. It forced me to think differently, trust my own judgement and become comfortable with uncertainty instead of searching for the 'correct' answer.

I had never really experienced anything like that before, and I realised I loved being challenged in that way. Even then, I still assumed art would remain something I studied before moving into a more conventional career, because becoming an artist didn't feel like a realistic option. But the more I immersed myself in it, the more that idea faded away. At some point, without really noticing, art stopped being the hobby and became the plan.

— You worked at Qatar Museums before becoming a full-time artist. How did that experience shape your own career?

— I moved to Doha in 2012, at a time when Qatar's cultural scene was really beginning to gather momentum. Many of the institutions that now define it were only just getting started, and I joined the Fire Station as part of a small team bringing the project to life.

Because so many of us were artists ourselves, we weren't simply designing a residency programme — we were imagining the sort of place we would have wanted at that stage in our own careers. We watched the building transform from a former fire station into a creative hub, shaping the programme alongside it.

Somewhere in that process, I realised I no longer wanted to be the person creating opportunities for artists — I wanted to be the artist making the most of them. So when the residency finally opened, I resigned from my role and applied myself. I was accepted and spent the next nine months there as an artist-in-residence.

— Have you ever felt that being an Arab woman made it harder to build a career as an artist?

— Not at all. I actually think that is a perception often projected onto the Arab world from the outside. In my experience, the arts are largely female-dominated — if anything, men often have a harder time entering the field.

That doesn't mean becoming an artist is always easy, though. The biggest challenge isn't gender but the profession itself. An artistic career rarely comes with a clear or guaranteed path, so it is understandable that some families have reservations when their children decide to pursue it. So I don't see that as a question of being a man or a woman — it is simply the uncertainty that comes with choosing a creative career.

— Your work is rooted in Islamic geometry. How would you explain it to someone discovering it for the first time? And what first drew you to it?

— Islamic geometry is the visual language that has shaped Islamic architecture for centuries. A mosque is probably the easiest way in. From the architecture itself down to the smallest decorative flourish, everything is built around geometric principles — you will spot these intricate patterns in the tilework, woven around the calligraphy, running right through the whole space.

I am drawn to that visual language, but I interpret it through my own intuition. What I am really interested in is the feeling it creates, rather than the patterns themselves.

Traditionally, you will find these forms in architecture, woodwork, tilework and calligraphy. I wanted to take them somewhere people wouldn't necessarily expect — into contemporary painting and sculpture. My hope is that someone first clocks this visual language in a gallery or public space, and then, next time they step into a mosque, they see it in a completely different light. Rather than fading into the background, it suddenly becomes something they are properly looking at.

— Islamic geometry is deeply mathematical. How much of your work follows those traditional principles, and where does intuition take over?

— Geometry itself is built on very simple elements: a point, a line and a plane. That is true of any drawing. In Islamic geometry, everything begins with a single point. You draw a circle around it, then bring in another shape, say a square, followed by more circles. The intersections between those circles decide where the lines go, creating these beautifully balanced, endlessly repeating patterns. They can carry on infinitely — it is really up to you where you decide to stop.

I usually start from a similar foundation, but then I let the work turn much more intuitive and abstract. Once the structure is in place, I let it evolve naturally rather than following the traditional system to the letter. That is where the work becomes properly mine.

What has always fascinated me isn't so much the maths behind it as the feeling it creates. Whenever I walk into a mosque, there is an immediate sense of calm — almost as though your chest opens up and you are reminded you are part of something far bigger than yourself. That is what I am trying to recreate in my own work.

— Could you walk us through your creative process? How do your ideas take shape, and how do they eventually become finished works?

— Every piece begins with a drawing. I sketch the composition first and then prime the surface, so the lines become faint shadows that guide me. They are no longer visible to the viewer, but I know exactly where each line begins and ends. From there, it is really muscle memory. Years of repetition have trained my hand to paint those straight, precise lines without relying on a ruler.

The ideas themselves, though, rarely arrive in such an orderly way. My mind is always full of them. They can appear while I am driving, talking to someone or simply observing the world around me. Something catches my attention, sparks an idea, and I make a note of it. Usually, I have several projects sitting in the back of my mind at once, which is probably why my work often takes quite a long time.

Quite often, it is a challenge that gives an idea its purpose. That is actually what happened with one of my most popular series.

A client once asked me to create a very large artwork but said, "Do whatever you want." Ironically, that is one of the hardest briefs — the possibilities are endless, so you have got nothing to push against. I kept asking whether there were any practical requirements, and eventually they mentioned they might move house one day and wanted the artwork to adapt to different spaces.

That immediately brought to mind a series of geometric drawings I had made years earlier. I had started cutting individual shapes out of them and arranging them into collages, but for almost ten years they simply travelled with me from one studio to the next. I was fascinated by them, yet I never quite knew what they were for.

The moment the client mentioned wanting something modular, everything clicked. I turned those paper cut-outs into wooden forms that could be rearranged into different configurations — so the same set of pieces could be reshuffled to suit any room. An idea that had been sitting quietly for nearly a decade suddenly found its purpose.

Today, that series has become one of my most recognised bodies of work. Every installation is unique, because the shapes, colours and arrangement are designed specifically for each space. Even when a collector moves house, the artwork moves with them and gets rearranged to fit the new place — so every installation becomes something new all over again.

That project reinforced something I have always believed: ideas often need time. I keep them in notebooks, on scraps of paper or in the Notes app on my phone, and eventually the right project, material or challenge comes along. My job is simply to stay curious.

— Has becoming a mother changed the way you approach art?

— Absolutely. If anything, my children have made me a better artist. Watching a small child paint is fascinating because they create without overthinking. They aren't trying to make something perfect or recognisable — they just enjoy the process.

Art is simply part of everyday life in our house. There is always painting, colouring or making something together. I even frame their paintings, and they love seeing their work up on the wall.

At the moment they both say they want to be artists when they grow up. Whether they do or not doesn't really matter. What matters is that they grow up knowing they don't have to fit into one box — they can follow whatever they are passionate about.

— Alongside your wall sculptures, you have also created large-scale commissions, including the Red Bull boat installation. What was that project like?

— I do love a project that shoves me well outside my comfort zone.

It wasn't the first large-scale thing I had tackled. Before that, I designed the exterior of my cousin's Mini for the Dakar Rally. He wanted something that captured both our shared identity and his spirit as a racing driver, and watching it tear through the dunes was properly rewarding.

The Red Bull boat, though, was an entirely different beast. I normally paint on flat wooden panels — I won't even touch canvas because it stretches. Suddenly I am faced with all these curves, and my first reaction was, "Right, what on earth do I do with all these imperfections?"

In the end, that turned out to be the biggest lesson the project taught me. Instead of trying to force one of my intricate geometric patterns onto the surface, I let go of that idea and focused on capturing the feeling of the water and the movement of the boat itself. Once I stopped chasing perfection, the work became far more natural.

— I would love to look a little closer at some of your other works. One piece that particularly caught my attention was Building Reality. Could you tell me the story behind it?

— Building Reality was really an experiment. My work is usually built around geometry and structure, but with this piece I wanted to let go of that framework and simply enjoy painting. I wanted to explore colour, texture and see where the process would take me.

I have always loved landscapes, so in many ways it became my own abstract landscape. I placed it within two circles, then interrupted that perfect form by splitting them apart slightly. That small disruption became part of the work itself.

— Is there one project you are particularly proud of?

— That is a tricky one, because I love working across so many mediums — paintings, wall sculptures, textiles, ceramics — and each project means something different to me.

But if I had to pick, it would probably be designing the inaugural Doha Forum Award. It was the first award of its kind, and knowing it would be presented by the Emir of Qatar made it a genuinely special one to be part of.

I was lucky enough to attend the ceremony and watch it handed over, which felt quite surreal. Watching something that started life as an idea in my studio become part of such a significant occasion is a moment I will never forget.

— Your series An Expression of Now felt very different from a traditional gallery exhibition. What was the idea behind it?

— It was my first solo exhibition, which already made it special. It took place at Qatar Foundation's Student Center, a beautiful gallery with high ceilings and incredible natural light. What I loved most was that the space kept changing throughout the day as the light moved, so I wanted the exhibition to change with it.

For the first time, I decided to leave colour out of my work completely, and that was a big step for me because colour had always been such an important part of my practice. Instead, I created monochromatic wall sculptures that caught the sunlight, allowing the shadows to become part of the artwork. As the day went on, the work kept changing too.

I also wanted people to slow down. The sculptures were hung quite high, so you couldn't just walk in, glance at them and leave. You had to stop, spend a bit of time in space and really look. I liked the idea that the work didn't reveal itself all at once.

The paintings came from the same mindset. I am a recovering perfectionist, and I didn't want to overthink the exhibition. So I gave myself one simple rule: just keep painting. An Expression of Now was about being present instead of constantly thinking about what came next.

— On your website, you describe your work as an examination of your own life. What do you mean by that?

— My work is deeply personal because the values that shape my art are the same ones that shape my life. Art taught me very early on to keep pushing boundaries, stay curious and never stop evolving. Those qualities aren't just important in the studio — they are how I try to live as well.

For me, creativity isn't only about making artworks. It is about learning to approach challenges from different angles, staying open to new ideas and always moving forward. My work has become a constant reminder of that way of thinking. Every piece reflects those values, even if it isn't telling a literal story about my life.

— Would someone looking at your work be able to trace the happiest or most difficult periods of your life then?

— Not really. If anything, it is the opposite. I can't make art when I am not feeling well. If I am upset, anxious or carrying negative energy, I simply don't go into the studio. Sometimes that means apologising to clients and delaying a project until I feel ready again.

I realised quite early on that I never wanted my work to absorb those emotions. Sadness is part of life and it will always be there, but I don't want my paintings to become a record of it. Instead, I want them to carry the feeling I would like to share with others: calm, joy and a sense of peace.

So the healing happens before the painting begins, not through the painting itself. Sometimes that means taking a break, travelling or simply giving myself time. By the time I return to the studio, creating feels less like an escape and more like a celebration.

— You have exhibited your work many times over the years. What role do exhibitions play in an artist's career, and is there one that stands out in your memory?

— I once heard someone say that art doesn't really exist until it is seen, and I have always loved that idea. There is the artist, the artwork and the viewer — and it is only when those three come together that the piece really comes to life.

So, of course, exhibitions matter professionally, but they are also the moment when the work begins a life of its own beyond the studio. That is why certain exhibitions stay with you long after they are over.

The one I will probably always remember was my very first one. I was still working at Qatar Museum when I was invited to take part in the Qatar–Brazil Year of Culture alongside a group of contemporary Brazilian artists and several emerging Qatari artists.

For the show, I created two paintings, each measuring two and a half metres square, as well as a large sculpture. At the time, they were the biggest works I had ever made, filling my studio for months. I remember thinking they were absolutely enormous, only to install them in the gallery and realise they suddenly seemed tiny within the space.

This show felt like the beginning of something much bigger. Many of the young Qatari artists who exhibited alongside me have since become well established, and there was a real sense that we were all taking those first steps together.

— You have been part of Qatar's art scene for quite a long time. How has it changed over the past decade?

— I think it is important to say that Qatar has always had an art scene. It may not have been as visible as it is today, but it has always been there, with remarkable artists like Yousef Ahmad and Ali Hassan shaping the country's cultural identity.

What has changed over the past decade is the pace. Programmes like the Fire Station Artist in Residence gave many artists a real head start, followed by new museums, cultural initiatives and international events such as Art Basel Qatar. Suddenly, everything began moving very quickly.

What I admire most about Her Excellency Sheikha Al Mayassa's vision is that it goes far beyond art. It is about celebrating culture, creating meaningful exchange and giving Qatari artists a platform while welcoming the world in. It feels like an entire creative ecosystem is growing, and I feel incredibly lucky to witness it. Every new project feels like another step forward.

— Your work has such a recognisable language. What would you say to young artists who are still trying to find their own voice?

— I think everyone already has their own voice. The difficult part isn't finding it — it is giving it the space to come through. And that only happens by making work.

The more you create, the more naturally your style begins to emerge. I make paintings, sculptures, vases and chairs, but they all feel like they are part of the same conversation. It isn't about fitting yourself into one category; it is about allowing yourself to experiment and staying curious.

I think we put too much pressure on ourselves to have everything figured out straight away. Creativity doesn't work like that. Sometimes the best thing you can do is stay open and let the work surprise you.

For me, making art has always been a conversation between myself and the artwork. You create something, it gives something back, and each piece teaches you a little more about your own voice. The more conversations you have, the clearer that voice becomes.