about
I was born in Sirjan, a land of mountains and deserts in the province of Kerman — in the year 1956.
A place where the wind narrated the story of the earth, and ancient trees held the memory of the land
From my teenage years, concerns such as freedom, justice, and truth led me to reflection, writing, and eventually, creating. Over time, these concerns—shaped by personal, social, and lived experiences—evolved into deeper layers of inquiry and expression.
Living within society—through work, observation, silence, and witnessing the pain of others—drew me toward making; not just making with tools, but with hands that carve and a heart that does not speak, but shows.
Before I became acquainted with wood and form, I held a camera in my hands.
I lived for years in the world of images—through light and shadow, I tried to extract intimate narratives of people and life.
Photography taught me that seeing is a practice of listening, and that silence is part of the story.
Over time, that inner urge to express and reflect shifted from image to form.
Sculpture, for me, is not a profession—it is a continuation of that same path: of watching, understanding, and telling.
I do not create sculptures in the conventional sense; I create states of being—born from human experience, collective memory, and personal contemplation.
Forms that resemble a body, a cry, or even a fading memory.
Wood, to me, is not merely a material—it is memory.
A piece of wood that has grown, been damaged, burned, dried, or twisted holds within it a history of endurance.
When I pick up such a piece, I first try to listen—to its texture, its knots, its wounds, its natural shape.
Many of my works begin in that moment of encounter—when the material itself reveals the path forward.
Sometimes I pursue it, and sometimes it finds me and urges me to create.
The themes in my work often revolve around the human condition: solitude, forgetting, oppression, silence, limitation, questioning.
Each sculpture or object I create reflects a part of myself, or my social experience.
I speak less through words—and more through wood, form, volume, chains, ropes, stones, and sometimes, light.
My works are not necessarily beautiful—but they are honest.
Not meant for decoration, but to invite a pause, a moment of reflection in front of what is unseen, yet deeply felt.
Alongside creating, the experience of living deeply matters to me.
I have spent years teaching, writing, working—and now, in the silence of my workshop, with pieces of wood others have cast aside, I build a new world.
A world that may make no claim, but has roots—in pain, in kindness, and in memor
