The People Behind the Patterns

BLOG #6

20 August 2026

By Elnaz

Some histories are woven rather than written

When I was six, my sister and I learned to embroider small animals onto our dolls' clothes. Our mother showed us how.

In my family, making things by hand was simply part of life. The women around me made tomato paste and vinegar, embroidered clothes and worked with textiles. I didn’t think much of it then.

Captured by Zahra Fadaei

It was only later, when I started studying handicrafts at the university, that I began to understand how far back this knowledge went. On my mother's side were miniature painters, musicians, carpet weavers and embroiderers - women whose skill never had an official title. During Nowruz (the Persian New Year) visits, I would listen to their stories and ask about relatives I had never met. Many of them lived modest lives, yet possessed extraordinary knowledge, resilience, and craftsmanship.

YÂR grew, in part, from wanting to know more about these women and the things they made.

Behind every pattern is a person
Through my studies in Isfahan and later in the Netherlands, I kept returning to the women I had grown up around. YÂR became a way to look more closely at the people behind the carpets, textiles and patterns I had known all my life.

Over the years, I began recording their stories. My mother helped me find women to speak with, translate conversations, and remember details I would otherwise have missed. What follows are some of those conversations.

YÂR is, in many ways, a tribute to them. It is the story behind the symbols, arabesques, botehs, Shah Abbasi motifs, hearts, and countless other patterns that appear throughout Persian craft traditions. Over the years, I began recording their stories. My mother helped me find women to speak with, translate conversations and remember details I would otherwise have missed. What follows are some of those conversations.

^{zShahabassi pattern}

^TaherehTahereh prefers not to use her full name. She rarely talks about her years as a carpet weaver, although the work supported her family for much of her life.

"I didn't really like weaving as a child," she says. "But when I was around ten, my older sister got married, and I decided to learn. She taught me how to weave."

Tahereh went on to weave silk carpets for many years, working in several workshops in Isfahan, including Habibollahi and Seyrafian. Later, a master weaver she knew as Mr Saeed helped set up a loom in her home, allowing her to work independently. The money she earned made a tangible difference to her family's well-being.

"We lived in a very small house," she remembers. "The kitchen had no cabinets or tiles, and there were gaps in the brick walls. I sold a carpet I had woven myself for 11,000 tomans [around 3,600 euros]. With that money, we added another room and improved the kitchen and bathroom." Her weaving also helped pay for part of her daughter's jahizieh* (dowry) when she married.

Eventually, health problems and chronic pain in her back and legs made it impossible for Tahereh to continue. Without insurance, treatment was expensive. She stopped weaving almost five years ago. "I can’t work anymore, but being in the workshop and spending time with other weavers always gave me energy. It helped me through difficult periods in my life."

*Jahizieh refers to the household goods traditionally provided by a bride's family when she establishes a new home.

Mrs Amini Mrs Amini began weaving carpets when she was nine. Her father worked with carpet patterns (نقشه فرش), and she and her sisters learned to read the design and weave from an early age. The money she earned helped pay for her jahizieh and also supported her parents in purchasing a family home.

One carpet, however, stayed with her for a different reason. She had woven the names of her husband and son into the design and hoped to keep it within the family. Eventually it was sold to another family member. "I still think about that carpet," she says. "It carried the names of the people closest to me."

When Mrs Amini talks about her years of weaving, she also talks about recognition. She and her sisters contributed to the household for years, but she felt their work was often treated as something expected of them rather than something of value.

This became particularly clear to her after her father died. Under Iranian inheritance law, her brothers were entitled to a larger share of the estate than she and her sisters, regardless of what each had contributed to the family over the years.

“Women worked just as hard,” she says. “But often their work was seen as something expected, rather than something valuable.”

Tayebeh Tayebeh was six years old when she first sat behind a loom. Her mother was a weaver and taught her the first knots and patterns. More than fifty years later, weaving remains at the centre of her life.

Over the years, she worked on carpets from different traditions, including Isfahan, Naeen, and Kashan. Twelve years ago, she opened her own workshop and taught young women how to weave.

Having spent most of her life in the profession, Tayebeh has also seen how difficult it can be for weavers to earn a fair income from their work. The biggest challenge facing weavers today is not the work itself but the economics behind it.

"The people who finance the carpets often earn much more than the people who weave them," she says.

The cost of wool, silk and other materials makes it difficult for many weavers to work independently. Instead, they rely on workshop owners or investors to provide the materials and designs, leaving them with little control over what they are paid.

Despite these challenges, Tayebeh remained committed to weaving for many years. Eventually, however, she decided to stop working independently and teaching in her workshop. Her family, particularly her oldest son, became increasingly concerned about the physical demands of the work and the difficult economic situation surrounding the profession and didn't let her work anymore.

When I think back to learning embroidery from my mother, I realise now that those small animals I embroidered onto my dolls’ clothes were more than a childhood activity. They were my first connection to a knowledge that had travelled through generations of women before me.

The stories of Tahereh, Mrs Amini and Tayebeh are different, but they share something: weaving was never separate from life. It helped build homes, support families, connect generations, etc.

These are the stories I want YÂR to make room for. Not to speak on behalf of the women who made these carpets, but to make sure their work is not separated from the people behind it.

There are many more stories to tell; these are the first.