There is a Persian saying that “Isfahan nesf-e jahan” – Isfahan is half the world. As I walked through the turquoise-domed mosques and across the ancient bridges spanning the Zayandeh River, I understood this sentiment in its fullness. I am Iranian, and Isfahan flows through my veins as surely as the threads of silk flow through my designs. The city is not merely a geographical location; it is a tapestry of history, culture, and artistic expression that has influenced generations of Iranian artists and designers, myself included.
The morning light in Isfahan has a quality unlike anywhere else in the world. It filters through the intricate lattice work of ancient windows, casting geometric shadows that dance across the floors of historic buildings. This interplay of light and shadow has informed my understanding of contrast and pattern in fabric design since I first began to study textiles.
As I made my way through the winding streets toward Naqsh-e Jahan Square, I was struck anew by the gentle harmony of the city’s architecture. The square itself, constructed during the Safavid era in the early 17th century, is a masterclass in urban design. Known also as Imam Square, this UNESCO World Heritage site is among the largest city squares in the world, a testament to the vision of Shah Abbas I who sought to showcase the grandeur of his capital. The square is framed by some of the most magnificent examples of Islamic architecture: the Shah Mosque (now Imam Mosque) to the south, the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque to the east, the Ali Qapu Palace to the west, and the entrance to the Imperial Bazaar to the north.
Standing in the center of this vast space, I felt the weight of history and the brilliance of Persian design sensibility. The symmetry and proportion of the buildings surrounding the square speak to a sophisticated understanding of mathematics and aesthetics that has influenced my approach to garment construction. The perfect arches, the balanced dimensions, the thoughtful use of space – these elements find their way into my collections season after season.
The Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, in particular, holds a special place in my heart. Unlike many other mosques, it was built as a private mosque for the royal family and does not have minarets. Its dome is a masterpiece of tilework, with a creamy backdrop adorned with intricate blue and turquoise arabesques. Inside, the interplay of natural light through the small perforations in the dome creates an ever-changing pattern on the prayer hall floor. I have spent countless hours sketching these patterns, attempting to capture their ephemeral beauty for translation into textile designs.
My fascination with the mosque’s aesthetics is not merely as a tourist but as a student of design. The manner in which the architects and tile workers of the 17th century understood color theory and optical effects remains relevant to contemporary fashion design. The gradual shift in hue from the base of the dome to its apex – from dark blue to a light turquoise – creates an illusion of uniform lighting despite the natural shadows that would otherwise form. This technique of color gradation is one I have employed in fabric treatments, particularly in my collections that draw heavily from traditional Persian motifs.
The bazaars of Isfahan are a sensory voyage unto themselves. The Grand Bazaar, extending from Naqsh-e Jahan Square, is a labyrinthine network of vaulted passageways, caravanserais, and timchehs (small arcaded courtyards often dedicated to a particular trade). Here, the air is heavy with the scent of spices, perfumes, and freshly dyed textiles. The sound of coppersmiths’ hammers creates a rhythmic backdrop to the hushed negotiations taking place over bolts of fabric, handcrafted jewelry, and intricately designed carpets.
For a fashion designer, the textile section of the bazaar is nothing short of paradise. Isfahan has long been renowned for its fine fabrics, and the tradition continues to this day. The city’s textile heritage is visible in the abundance of shops selling ghalamkar (hand-printed calico), termeh (fine hand-woven woolen cloth often with cashmere), and various forms of silk brocade. The craftsmanship on display is humbling – patterns and techniques that have been perfected over centuries of practice, passed down through generations of artisans.
I traveled many times to Isfahan, but that time that i was spending times into fabric print-makings houses was different, I spent several days moving from stall to stall, engaging with the master craftsmen who still practice traditional techniques. One elderly gentleman, whose hands were stained with natural dyes in various hues of indigo and madder root, showed me his workshop where he practiced the art of ghalamkar. Using wooden blocks carved with intricate patterns, he stamped natural cotton fabric with layer upon layer of color, building complex designs inspired by the flora and fauna of Persian gardens. The precision required is extraordinary, as each block must align perfectly with the previous impression.
“The soul of Iran is in these patterns,” he told me as he held up a finished piece depicting a scene of nightingales among flowering branches. “When you wear ghalamkar, you wear our stories, our poetry, our history.”
His words resonated deeply with me. As a designer working in the contemporary fashion industry, I have always sought to incorporate elements of my Iranian heritage into my collections. There is a richness in our traditional textiles that speaks to both our history and our collective aesthetic sensibility. The challenge lies in translating these elements into pieces that feel relevant to modern wardrobes while honoring the integrity of the craft traditions. And finally i end up the prints i made myself in Daniel Lismore exhibition sustainable show.
Another day found me in the workshop of a master termeh weaver. Termeh is perhaps one of the most luxurious textiles produced in Iran, a fine wool fabric often interwoven with silk threads and adorned with metallic brocade. The patterns are complex and symbolic, with the boteh (paisley) motif appearing frequently. This teardrop-shaped motif, which later became popular in Western fashion through imports to Europe, is said to represent a cypress tree bending in the wind – a symbol of humility and resistance.
The weaver worked on a traditional loom, his movements precise and rhythmic. He explained that a single shawl of the finest quality termeh might take several months to complete. The patterns were not marked on any template but existed in his memory, having been learned through years of apprenticeship. As I watched him work, I was struck by the meditative quality of his craft – the steady click of the shuttle, the gradual emergence of pattern from seeming chaos, the pursuit of perfection in each thread’s placement.
This dedication to craft excellence is something I strive to embody in my own design practice. In a world of fast fashion and mass production, there is profound value in slow, thoughtful creation. My time in Isfahan’s textile workshops reinforced my commitment to preserving and celebrating traditional techniques within contemporary design contexts. So i made Termeh myself so hardly for my Golha collection and mix and match it with denim.
The influence of other cultures on Isfahan’s art and craft traditions is evident throughout the city. Situated at the crossroads of ancient trade routes, Isfahan has absorbed and reinterpreted aesthetic elements from various civilizations. Chinese influences are apparent in some of the porcelain designs and textile patterns, a result of active trade along the Silk Road. Indian motifs found their way into Persian textile designs, particularly during the Safavid period when cultural exchange between the Persian and Mughal courts was at its height.
Even European influences can be detected, especially in the architectural elements added during the 19th century when Western diplomatic missions established a presence in Iran. This cross-cultural pollination of ideas has always been a strength of Persian design – the ability to absorb external influences while maintaining a distinct cultural identity.
This syncretism is something I explore regularly in my collections. Fashion, at its most interesting, exists at the intersection of various cultural references. My work often juxtaposes traditional Persian elements with contemporary Western silhouettes, creating a dialogue between past and present, East and West. The geometric patterns that adorn the walls of Isfahan’s mosques might find new life in the cut of a jacket or the print of a silk scarf in my atelier.
Beyond textiles and architecture, Isfahan’s culinary heritage offers another dimension of sensory exploration. The food of Isfahan is as refined and complex as its architectural achievements. One evening, I dined at a traditional restaurant housed in a restored hammam (bathhouse) from the Safavid era. The vaulted ceilings, adorned with muqarnas (ornamental vaulting), created an atmosphere of historic grandeur as I savored local specialties.
Beryani, a dish unique to Isfahan, consists of minced lamb mixed with almond slivers, cooked with a special blend of spices and served with bread. Khoresht-e mast, another local delicacy, is a yogurt stew with saffron, sugar, and meat that perfectly balances sweet and savory notes. And of course, no meal in Isfahan would be complete without fesenjan, a pomegranate and walnut stew with a complex, tangy flavor profile that develops over hours of slow cooking.
The presentation of these dishes reflects the same attention to aesthetics that characterizes Isfahan’s visual arts. Food is arranged with consideration for color contrast and geometric harmony, often served on hand-painted ceramic plates that are themselves works of art. This holistic approach to beauty – where every aspect of life from architecture to clothing to cuisine is treated as an opportunity for artistic expression – is deeply characteristic of Persian culture.
As a fashion designer, I find inspiration in this comprehensive aesthetic philosophy. Clothing is not separate from other aspects of cultural expression but exists in conversation with architecture, cuisine, literature, and music. The same principles of harmony, proportion, and symbolic meaning that govern the design of a mosque dome can inform the cut of a garment or the pattern of a textile.
The literary heritage of Isfahan is equally rich and has profoundly influenced my understanding of beauty and its expression. The city has been home to numerous poets and philosophers over the centuries, including the renowned Hakim Abolqasem Ferdowsi, whose epic poem “Shahnameh” (Book of Kings) is a cornerstone of Persian cultural identity. Walking through the gardens of Isfahan, I often found myself recalling verses from classical Persian poetry that celebrate the beauty of the natural world and its reflection in human artistry.
One afternoon, I visited the house of a calligrapher who specialized in transcribing classical Persian poetry onto handmade paper. His studio was a model of minimalist elegance – bare walls painted a soft white, a low table where he sat cross-legged with his reed pens and inkpots, and a single vase containing a branch of cherry blossoms. The atmosphere was one of concentrated tranquility as he demonstrated his art, his brush moving across the page with fluid precision.
He showed me examples of nastaliq script, a flowing calligraphic style developed in Iran that remains one of the most sophisticated forms of Persian calligraphy. The letters seemed to dance across the page, each word a visual poem unto itself. He had transcribed a verse from the 14th-century poet Hafez:
“If a lover’s heart falls into your hands
Hold it gently, it is delicate
And if you break it, know
That like glass, once broken
It can never be whole again.”
The calligrapher explained that in Persian artistic tradition, the visual form of the poem is as important as its semantic content. The rhythm of the lines, the balance of positive and negative space, the dynamic tension between different elements of the composition – all contribute to the overall effect of the work.
This integration of form and content is something I strive for in my design practice. A garment should not merely adorn the body but should speak to deeper cultural narratives and personal expressions. The way a sleeve falls, the drape of a fabric, the placement of a decorative motif – these elements can communicate as eloquently as written text when executed with intention and understanding.
Isfahan’s fabric heritage extends beyond the well-known silk and wool traditions. The city also has a rich history of feltmaking, a non-woven textile created by matting, condensing, and pressing wool fibers. Traditional feltmakers in Isfahan produce namad, a thick felt used for floor coverings, saddle pads, and winter cloaks. The patterns pressed into these felts often echo the same botanical and geometric motifs found in other forms of Persian decorative arts.
I visited a feltmaking workshop on the outskirts of the city, where the air was thick with the lanolin scent of raw wool. The master artisan explained that the process begins with cleaning and carding the wool, then laying it out in the desired pattern. Different colored wools are arranged to create designs before the application of hot water and soap, followed by hours of rolling and pressing to bind the fibers together. The physical labor involved is intensive, yet the results have a rustic elegance that machine-made textiles cannot replicate.
What struck me most about this traditional craft was its sustainability. Feltmaking uses natural fibers, requires no loom or frame, and the finished product is biodegradable. In an age of increasing environmental consciousness within the fashion industry, these ancient techniques offer valuable lessons in sustainable production methods.
I have incorporated elements of felt in several of my collections, particularly for winter wear. The textural contrast between sleek silk and nubbly felt creates a visual and tactile interest that speaks to the diversity of Iran’s textile traditions. By bringing these different materials together in contemporary designs, I hope to showcase the versatility and ongoing relevance of our craft heritage.
The metalwork of Isfahan represents another aspect of the city’s craft tradition that has influenced my approach to fashion accessories. The bazaar echoes with the tapping of metal workers creating intricate objects from copper, brass, and silver. These artisans employ techniques such as ghalamazani (embossing and engraving), minakari (enameling), and khatamkari (inlaying) to create items of extraordinary beauty and precision.
I spent an afternoon with a master of minakari, watching as he applied colorful enamels to copper plates in intricate patterns. The process requires multiple firings in a kiln, with each color added separately. The risk of failure is high – a single mistake can ruin days of work – yet the artisan worked with a calm confidence born of decades of practice.
“Each piece carries my energy,” he told me. “If I am agitated, the enamel will not settle properly. If I am at peace, the colors flow as they should.”
His philosophy resonated with my own experience of design. Creative work is not merely technical execution but a transmission of energy and intention. The state of mind of the maker inevitably influences the final product, whether it’s an enameled plate or a couture gown.
I have collaborated with metalworkers from Isfahan to create buttons, clasps, and decorative elements for my garments. These metal accents provide both functional and aesthetic value, adding a dimension of traditional craftsmanship to contemporary silhouettes. The dialogue between textile and metal, between soft and hard elements, creates a balanced tension in the finished pieces that reflects the harmonious contrasts so evident in Isfahan’s architectural spaces.
As the sun set over the city, I often found myself drawn to the ancient bridges that span the Zayandeh River. These structures – Pol-e Khaju, Si-o-se Pol (the Bridge of 33 Arches), and others – are not merely functional crossings but social spaces and architectural marvels. In the evening light, locals gather on the steps that descend to water level, drinking tea, singing traditional songs, and enjoying the cooler air.
Si-o-se Pol, built in 1602 during the reign of Shah Abbas I, extends more than 300 meters across the river. Its 33 perfectly proportioned arches create a rhythmic visual progression that is both mathematically precise and aesthetically pleasing. The reflection of these arches in the water below doubles the visual impact, creating a mirrored geometry that seems to extend into infinity.
This bridge exemplifies a principle that I have always found compelling in Persian design: the creation of visual rhythm through repetition and subtle variation. The arches of Si-o-se Pol are identical in their basic form, yet each one’s relationship to the viewer changes depending on perspective. This same principle can be applied to textile design – the repetition of a motif across fabric creates a visual rhythm, while subtle variations or gradations prevent monotony.
Pol-e Khaju, built in 1650, functions as both bridge and dam, with sluice gates that regulate water flow. The pavilion at its center was once a place where the Shah would stop to admire the view of the river and surrounding landscape. The bridge is adorned with tilework and original paintings, though many have faded over the centuries. The remaining fragments suggest scenes of court life and natural imagery that must have been breathtaking in their original state.
What fascinates me about these bridges is their multifunctionality. They serve as practical crossings, social gathering spaces, aesthetic objects, and in some cases, water management systems. This integration of practical utility and aesthetic beauty is a hallmark of Persian design philosophy and one that I strive to embody in my work. A garment should not merely look beautiful; it should function well, move with the body, and serve the needs of the wearer while also communicating cultural narratives and personal expression.
This balance of tradition and innovation is central to my own design philosophy. I believe that true originality does not emerge from rejecting the past but from deep engagement with cultural heritage combined with critical questioning and contemporary reinterpretation. My collections often feature silhouettes and construction techniques drawn from Western fashion traditions while incorporating textiles, patterns, and decorative elements rooted in Persian aesthetics.
While exploring the historic neighborhoods of Isfahan, I encountered another textile tradition that has influenced my work: qalamkari, or pen-drawn fabric. Unlike block-printed textiles, qalamkari involves the direct application of dyes to fabric using pen-like tools made from bamboo or other materials. The artisan works freehand or follows a lightly traced design, creating fluid lines and subtle gradations of color that are impossible to achieve with block printing.
I visited the studio of a qalamkar artist who specialized in narrative scenes inspired by Persian miniature paintings. Her work depicted stories from classical Persian literature – tales from the Shahnameh, poems by Rumi and Hafez, and folk narratives passed down through generations. Using natural dyes derived from plants, minerals, and insects, she created vibrant tableaux on cotton and silk.
The process is painstaking. First, the fabric is prepared with mordants that will help the dyes adhere and achieve the desired color. Then, using her pen-like tools, the artist applies different dyes in a specific sequence, building up layers of color and detail. The finished pieces are then steamed to set the dyes before being washed to remove excess color and mordants.
What struck me about this technique was its expressive potential. Unlike the more geometric patterns of block printing, qalamkari allows for a painterly quality, with variations in line weight and color intensity that give the work a unique character. This expressiveness has influenced my approach to print design, particularly for limited edition pieces where I collaborate with artists to create hand-painted elements that are later digitized for production.
The gardens of Isfahan represent another source of inspiration for textile and fashion design. Persian garden design, with its emphasis on geometric order, water features, and symbolic plantings, has influenced artistic representation for centuries. The Chehel Sotoun Garden (Garden of Forty Columns), built in the 17th century as a reception hall for Shah Abbas II, exemplifies this tradition.
The palace at the center of the garden features a columned porch reflected in a long pool – the forty columns of its name are actually twenty physical columns plus their reflections in the water. This play of reality and illusion, of the material and the reflected image, speaks to the Persian aesthetic appreciation for layers of meaning and visual complexity.
Walking through the garden’s orderly pathways, lined with cypress trees and flowering plants, I was struck by the careful balance of natural and human-made elements. Persian gardens are not attempts to recreate wilderness but rather to present an idealized version of nature – one that reflects divine order and human understanding of beauty. This philosophy extends to textile design, where natural elements like flowers, birds, and trees are not depicted with photographic realism but are stylized and arranged according to principles of balance and harmony.
The walls of Chehel Sotoun Palace are adorned with frescoes depicting historical events and court life. These paintings provide valuable documentation of historical Persian clothing and textiles. Looking at these images, I could identify garments like the balapoosh (a type of overcoat), the arkhalig (a fitted, knee-length garment worn by men), and various styles of headdress that indicated social status and regional identity. The textiles depicted show complex patterns including boteh, islimi (floral arabesques), and toranj (medallion designs) that continue to influence contemporary textile design.
For a fashion designer, these historical references are invaluable. They connect contemporary design practices to centuries of tradition while providing a visual vocabulary that can be reinterpreted for modern wardrobes. I have often incorporated elements from these historical garments into my collections – the proportions of an arkhalig might inspire the cut of a jacket, or the layering techniques visible in historical paintings might inform a contemporary approach to winter dressing.
The music and ceremonial traditions of Isfahan provide yet another dimension of cultural influence on my work. One evening, I attended a performance of traditional Persian music in a restored caravanserai. The musicians played instruments including the tar (a long-necked lute), kamancheh (a bowed string instrument), and daf (a frame drum), creating complex rhythmic and melodic patterns that seemed to echo the geometric complexity of the architectural space.
The lead vocalist performed in the traditional style of āvāz, his voice rising and falling in elaborate ornamentations that followed the modal system of Persian classical music. As I listened, I found myself thinking about the parallels between musical structure and visual design. Both rely on established patterns and frameworks (the dastgah system in music, proportion and geometric principles in visual arts) while allowing for individual interpretation and ornamentation within those frameworks.
The rhythmic structure of Persian music – with its alternation of fixed patterns and improvised passages – offers a metaphor for my approach to collection design. There are elements that provide continuity and recognition (a silhouette or color palette that defines the season’s aesthetic), while other aspects allow for creative variation and personal expression (the specific application of decorative elements or the styling of individual looks).
After the performance, I spoke with one of the musicians about the symbolism of different musical modes and their emotional associations. He explained that each dastgah (modal system) is traditionally associated with a particular time of day, season, or emotional state. This temporal and emotional specificity resonated with my understanding of fashion design as a practice that should be responsive to context – creating garments appropriate to particular occasions, seasons, and emotional needs.
The spiritual traditions of Isfahan, with their emphasis on inner meaning and symbolic expression, have also influenced my understanding of design. The city is home to numerous Sufi traditions, mystical approaches to Islam that emphasize direct experience of the divine through practices including meditation, poetry, music, and dance.
I visited a khanqah (Sufi gathering place) where dervishes meet for zikr ceremonies, ritualized remembrance of God through music, movement, and rhythmic breathing. The space was simple but beautiful, with calligraphic inscriptions on the walls and geometric patterns in the tilework that seemed to suggest infinite expansion – a visual representation of the divine unity that Sufis seek to experience.
The whirling dance of the Mevlevi dervishes, though more commonly associated with Turkey, has historical connections to Persian Sufi traditions as well. The circular movement of the dancers, with one hand raised toward heaven and the other pointing toward earth, symbolizes the mystic as a channel between divine and earthly realms. This image of the human as connector between different states of being has informed my understanding of clothing’s symbolic function – garments as mediators between the individual body and the social world, between personal identity and cultural context.
Sufi philosophy emphasizes the stripping away of the ego and worldly attachments to reveal the essential self. This process of refinement and distillation has parallels in my design approach, particularly in collections where I work toward simplicity and essential forms. Sometimes the most powerful design statement comes not from addition but from subtraction – removing unnecessary elements until only what is vital remains.
The spiritual dimension of Iranian culture is inseparable from its material and artistic expressions. This integration of the spiritual and the aesthetic is evident in the traditional craft of mirror work (āina-kāri) that adorns many religious and secular buildings in Isfahan. Small pieces of mirror are cut into geometric shapes and embedded in plaster, creating surfaces that fragment and multiply reflected light.
I visited the Imamzadeh Ahmad Mausoleum, where mirror work covers the interior dome and walls, transforming the space into a kaleidoscope of fractured light. The effect is both disorienting and transcendent – the solid architecture seems to dissolve into pure light, creating an environment that encourages contemplation of the ephemeral nature of physical reality.
This play of light and reflection has inspired several of my evening wear collections, where I have incorporated materials like sequins, metallic threads, and small mirrored embellishments to create garments that change appearance as the wearer moves. The dynamic quality of these pieces – their ability to transform under different lighting conditions and from different viewing angles – references the perceptual complexity of Isfahan’s mirrored interiors.
The contemporary art scene in Isfahan provides yet another layer of cultural influence. I visited several galleries showcasing the work of modern Iranian artists who engage with traditional forms and concepts while addressing contemporary realities. One exhibition featured textile-based installations that referenced traditional Persian carpet designs but deconstructed and reassembled them in ways that questioned notions of cultural authenticity and heritage.
Another artist was creating digital works that transformed architectural elements from Isfahan’s historic buildings into abstract compositions. By isolating details of muqarnas vaults or tile patterns and manipulating them digitally, she created images that hovered between representation and abstraction, tradition and innovation.
These encounters with contemporary Iranian art reinforced my belief in the importance of critical engagement with cultural heritage. Tradition remains vital only when it is not treated as a static repository of forms to be preserved unchanged but as a living resource that can be questioned, reinterpreted, and transformed to address current concerns and aesthetics.
My own design practice exists in this space of critical engagement. I draw deeply from Iranian textile and clothing traditions while acknowledging that these traditions themselves are the products of historical processes of cultural exchange, adaptation, and innovation. The “traditional” patterns and techniques I reference have their own complex histories of development and change.
As my time in Isfahan drew to a close, I found myself reflecting on the layers of history visible in the city’s urban fabric. Walking through the Armenian quarter of Jolfa, established in the early 17th century when Shah Abbas I resettled Armenian craftspeople from the northern city of Jolfa, I was reminded of the multicultural history of Isfahan. The Armenian Cathedral of Vank stands as a testament to the religious diversity that has characterized the city at various points in its history. The exterior of the cathedral conforms to Persian Islamic architectural norms, with its brown brick facade and modest dome. The interior, however, is adorned with elaborate frescoes in the Armenian Christian tradition, creating a fascinating hybrid of Persian and Armenian aesthetic elements.
This cultural hybridity is evident in the textiles produced by Armenian workshops in Isfahan. Armenian weavers brought their own motifs and techniques, which gradually merged with Persian traditions to create distinctive styles. The exchange was multidirectional – Persian motifs also found their way into Armenian religious textiles, creating visual expressions of cultural dialogue and coexistence.
As a designer working in the 21st century global fashion industry, I find these historical examples of cultural exchange particularly relevant. Fashion has always operated across cultural boundaries, adapting and transforming elements from diverse traditions. The challenge lies in approaching this exchange with knowledge, respect, and critical awareness – understanding the historical and cultural significance of the elements one incorporates while creating something that speaks to contemporary conditions and aesthetics.
My final day in Isfahan was spent in contemplative wandering. I revisited favorite spots – the vast expanse of Naqsh-e Jahan Square in the golden light of late afternoon, the cool interior of Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque with its spiraling patterns of light, the bustling atmosphere of the textile bazaar with its rainbow of fabrics. Each space seemed to offer different lessons in beauty, proportion, and harmony that I would carry back to my design studio.
As I sat by the Zayandeh River watching the light change on the waters, I thought about the Persian concept of “ta’arof” – a complex system of ritual courtesy that emphasizes harmony in social interactions. Ta’arof manifests in elaborate verbal exchanges but also extends to visual and material culture. There is a desire for balance, for giving appropriate weight to each element, for creating environments where nothing dominates inappropriately and all parts contribute to the whole.
This principle applies equally to garden design, architecture, poetry, and clothing. A well-designed garment, like a well-designed building or poem, achieves balance between its constituent elements. It neither overwhelms the wearer nor disappears entirely; it makes a statement while remaining in harmonious relationship with the body it adorns and the social context in which it appears.
Isfahan embodies this principle of balance in its urban design, in the relationship of buildings to open spaces, in the integration of natural and built environments. The city offers a model of harmony that extends beyond aesthetics to suggest an ethical approach to creation – one that values relationship, context, and proportion.
As a fashion designer returning to my studio after immersion in Isfahan’s visual and cultural landscape, I carry with me not just specific motifs or techniques but a deeper understanding of design as a practice that connects individuals to collective histories and identities. The textiles and garments I create are not merely products but cultural expressions that participate in ongoing conversations about beauty, tradition, and identity.
Isfahan remains “half the world” to me – a microcosm of artistic possibility and cultural richness that continues to inform my creative vision. The city’s fabrics, architecture, poetry, and music weave together to create a tapestry of influence that extends far beyond geographical boundaries. In my work, I hope to honor this heritage while contributing to its ongoing evolution – adding my own thread to the centuries-long narrative of Persian design.
As the poet Rumi wrote: “Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, ‘You owe me.’ Look what happens with a love like that – it lights the whole sky.” The generosity of Isfahan’s beauty, freely offering its lessons to those who approach with open eyes and hearts, lights the sky of my creative practice. I can only hope to return this generosity through designs that honor the depth and sophistication of Persian aesthetic traditions while speaking to contemporary experiences and needs.
In the intricate patterns of Isfahan’s architecture and textiles, in the balanced proportions of its urban spaces, in the harmonious relationship between function and beauty evident throughout the city, there lies a wisdom about design that transcends time and cultural boundaries. It is a wisdom I carry with me as I create collections that seek to bridge past and present, East and West, tradition and innovation – not as opposing forces but as elements in an ongoing dialogue about human creativity and expression.
Standing on the banks of the Zayandeh River as the setting sun illuminated the arches of Si-o-se Pol, I found myself recalling lines from the 13th-century poet Rumi: “Let the beauty we love be what we do. There are hundreds of ways to kneel and kiss the ground.” For me, design is one such way – a practice of love and reverence that connects me to cultural heritage while allowing for personal expression and innovation.
Isfahan taught me anew that beauty is not frivolous but essential – a value worth preserving and creating even (or especially) in challenging times. The master craftspeople who continue to practice traditional arts in the workshops of Isfahan understand this. Their dedication to excellence and their commitment to passing on their knowledge to new generations speaks to the enduring importance of beauty in human experience.
As I prepared to leave the city, I made one final visit to the textile bazaar to purchase lengths of handwoven silk and cotton to take back to my studio. Running my fingers over these fabrics – feeling the slight irregularities that mark them as products of human hands rather than machines – I felt a profound connection to the centuries of artisans who have worked with these materials before me. Their knowledge lives on in these textiles, in the particular ways the threads are spun and woven, in the natural dyes that give them their luminous colors, in the patterns that have evolved over generations of creative adaptation and refinement.
This sense of connection – to history, to culture, to a community of practitioners past and present – is what gives meaning to my work as a designer. Fashion at its best is not merely about novelty or commercial trends but about creating objects of beauty and significance that enhance human experience and express cultural values. Isfahan, with its layered history and living traditions of craft excellence, offers a powerful reminder of this deeper purpose of design.
As my plane lifted off from Isfahan, I carried with me not just physical souvenirs but a renewed vision of what fashion design can be when rooted in cultural depth and craft tradition while remaining open to contemporary influences and innovations. The city had reminded me why I became a designer in the first place – not merely to create commodities but to participate in the ongoing human conversation about beauty, identity, and meaning expressed through material culture.
From the vantage point of altitude, I could see the distinctive turquoise domes of Isfahan’s mosques standing out against the brown landscape – jewel-like focal points in the urban fabric. This image seemed an apt metaphor for the role of beauty in human life – points of intensity and meaning that orient us within a larger context, that remind us of possibilities beyond the merely functional or pragmatic.
In my collections following this journey, I would seek to create such points of beauty and meaning – garments that don’t merely clothe the body but speak to deeper aspects of human experience and cultural identity. Isfahan had reminded me that this is not only possible but necessary – that beauty is not a luxury but a vital dimension of human flourishing.
The elegance of Isfahan’s architecture, the refinement of its decorative arts, the sophistication of its urban design – these achievements arose not from abundance but often from constraint. Working within the limitations of available materials, climate conditions, and cultural parameters, the architects and artisans of historical Isfahan created works of enduring beauty and significance. This lesson in creating excellence within constraints resonates strongly in contemporary fashion design, where concerns about environmental impact and ethical production increasingly shape creative decisions.
As my career has evolved, I have become increasingly committed to sustainable design practices – working with natural fibers, traditional production techniques, and local artisan communities. My experience in Isfahan reinforced this commitment by demonstrating the deep sustainability of traditional craft practices. The handwoven textiles, natural dyes, and labor-intensive production methods of Isfahan’s workshops represent not just cultural heritage but viable alternatives to environmentally damaging mass production.
The legacy of Isfahan’s craft traditions offers valuable lessons for contemporary fashion practice. In these ancient techniques, I find not only aesthetic inspiration but practical wisdom about creating beauty that respects both human communities and natural environments. The textile artisans of Isfahan work primarily with natural materials – silk, cotton, wool – using techniques that have evolved over centuries to minimize waste and maximize durability. Their creations are not disposable fashion but heirlooms meant to last for generations.
This longevity represents a profound challenge to contemporary fashion’s obsession with novelty and planned obsolescence. In my own practice, I have increasingly focused on creating “slow fashion” – pieces designed to transcend seasonal trends, made with materials and construction techniques that ensure durability. This approach draws directly from Isfahan’s craft traditions, where quality and timelessness take precedence over novelty and planned obsolescence.
The collaborative nature of traditional craft production in Isfahan also offers an alternative model to the individualistic mythology that often surrounds fashion design. While individual master craftspeople are recognized and respected, most traditional textile production involves collaboration among specialists – from those who spin thread to those who dye it, weave it, print it, and finally fashion it into garments or other objects. This collaborative model acknowledges the impossibility of any single individual mastering all aspects of textile production and celebrates the contributions of many hands to the creation of beauty.
In my own studio, I have sought to create a similar spirit of collaboration, working closely with weavers, embroiderers, printers, and tailors who bring specialized expertise to different aspects of garment creation. This approach not only produces better results than attempting to control every aspect of production personally but also sustains communities of practice that keep traditional skills alive.
The mathematical precision evident in Isfahan’s architectural and decorative arts – the careful geometric constructions, the proportional relationships, the systematic variations on foundational patterns – has profoundly influenced my approach to garment construction. I often begin the design process not with sketches but with geometric explorations, searching for proportional relationships that will create harmony between garment and body, between solid areas and openings, between decorated and plain surfaces.
This mathematical approach connects my work to a long tradition of design thinking that stretches back through Isfahan’s golden age to ancient Persian, Greek, and Egyptian understandings of proportion and harmony. It offers an alternative to purely intuitive or trend-driven design methods, grounding creative decisions in principles that have stood the test of time while still allowing for innovation and personal expression.
As I integrate the lessons of Isfahan into my design practice, I am conscious of my role not just as a creator of new objects but as a custodian of cultural heritage. The knowledge embedded in traditional textile practices represents centuries of accumulated wisdom about materials, techniques, and aesthetic principles. When these traditions are lost – whether through economic pressures, cultural disruption, or simple neglect – something irreplaceable disappears from human cultural memory.
Fashion designers working with traditional crafts have a responsibility to approach this heritage with both respect and creativity – understanding its historical and cultural significance while finding ways to keep it vital and relevant in contemporary contexts. This is not about freezing traditions in museum-like preservation but about engaging with them as living practices capable of evolution and adaptation.
My journey through Isfahan reinforced my commitment to this dual responsibility of preservation and innovation. In my collections, I seek to create bridges between past and present, tradition and modernity – not by simply appropriating visual motifs from Persian heritage but by deeply engaging with the principles and practices that produced those forms.
This engagement extends beyond aesthetics to encompass the social and ethical dimensions of fashion production. The craft workshops of Isfahan, with their emphasis on fair compensation, humane working conditions, and sustainable practices, offer a model that contrasts sharply with much of contemporary fashion’s global supply chain. As I develop production relationships for my collections, I am guided by the example of these traditional workshops where craft excellence is inseparable from ethical practice.
The ultimate lesson of Isfahan for a fashion designer is perhaps that beauty is not merely decorative but foundational – not an optional addition to functional objects but an essential dimension of human making. The city’s architectural and artistic achievements demonstrate that utility and beauty, function and form, practical need and spiritual aspiration can be integrated rather than opposed.
This integration is what I strive for in my collections – garments that serve practical needs while also engaging the senses, expressing cultural values, and creating moments of aesthetic pleasure in everyday life. Isfahan reminds me that this ambition is not frivolous but connects to one of the deepest human impulses – the desire to imbue our material world with meaning and beauty.
As my plane disappeared into the clouds above the Iranian plateau, leaving the turquoise domes and golden light of Isfahan behind, I carried with me not just memories and inspirations but a renewed sense of purpose. Fashion design at its best is not merely about creating commodities or following trends but about participating in a centuries-long conversation about beauty, identity, and meaning expressed through material culture.
Isfahan had reminded me why I became a designer in the first place – not merely to clothe bodies but to create objects that embody cultural values, express personal vision, and add moments of beauty to human experience. This purpose gives depth and significance to the technical challenges and commercial pressures of contemporary fashion practice, connecting individual creative acts to collective cultural heritage and future possibilities.
The phrase “Isfahan nesf-e jahan” – Isfahan is half the world – took on new meaning for me through this journey. Beyond its historical reference to the city’s size and significance during the Safavid era, it spoke to the way a particular place, with its specific cultural and artistic traditions, can open onto universal human concerns and aspirations. In the particular beauty of Isfahan – its architecture, textiles, poetry, music, cuisine – something universal about human creativity and the search for meaning becomes visible.
As a fashion designer, I work within particular traditions and contexts, creating objects for specific bodies and occasions. Yet through this particular work, I hope to touch on something more universal – the human desire for beauty, the need for cultural expression, the search for harmony between individual identity and collective belonging. Isfahan showed me anew that the path to the universal runs through the particular – that by engaging deeply with specific cultural traditions and practices, we can create works that speak across boundaries of time and place.
This is the aspiration that guides my design practice as it continues to evolve – to create garments that are both culturally specific and universally resonant, both contemporary and connected to tradition, both materially present and symbolically meaningful. Isfahan, with its layered history and living craft traditions, its mathematical precision and sensual beauty, its cultural specificity and universal appeal, remains a touchstone for this aspiration – half the world indeed, containing in its particular excellence a model of what human creativity can achieve.
And so I return to my studio, my drawing table, my collection boards – hands stained with indigo from a workshop visit, mind filled with geometric patterns from mosque domes, heart moved by the poetry recited by an elderly textile merchant. Isfahan travels with me, a city internalized, a tradition embodied, a vision of beauty that continues to unfold in new forms through the work of my hands and imagination. The journey continues, the conversation extends across time and space, and the patterns repeat with endless variation, like the intricate designs on a length of Isfahan silk.