Emaho: Ramtin Zad, your journey in art began in Tehran, where you studied graphic design before shifting toward fine arts. Can you share what led you from design to painting and storytelling through visual art?
RZ: At that time, there weren’t any schools that offered visual arts as a field of study, and art schools in general were very limited. That’s why I went to a specialized art high school and studied graphic design. Of course, it was called “graphic design,” but in reality, they taught us all the fundamental principles and techniques related to image-making.
I actually see myself more as a designer than a painter—I believe that drawing is the beginning of everything in the world of art.
From the very start, I only worked with pencil and paper. I used to give my drawings to newspapers and magazines, and they would publish them alongside relevant topics (this was during the same period when I was attending art school). My focus was always on the flow of thought and on drawing as a stream of consciousness.
Through drawing, I reach a kind of freedom—I draw whatever comes to mind on the surface. That’s one of the reasons viewers often find multiple stories within my works.
The same thing happens when I paint: the way I approach the canvas is very similar to how I approach paper when drawing, and that’s where my storytelling through images emerges.
My process is spontaneous and unpremeditated—I work through discovery in the moment, without prior planning or intellectual filtering. This approach naturally leads to the formation of shapes and forms that can be interpreted in many different ways. In art, this method is called “automatism”, or “automatic drawing.”
Emaho: Your work often merges mythical and fictional characters—like Pinocchio, Don Quixote, and even Little Red Riding Hood—with modern settings. How did you start blending myth and reality in your creative process?
RZ: First of all, I should say that I believe art is a fusion of imagination, dreams, and reality.
I paint in order to share my dreams with the viewer.
Heidegger says, “Art does not discover truth—it creates a connection with it.”
I don’t consciously combine things; I neither directly nor indirectly refer to these mythical or literary figures. What I deal with are symbols—signs that we’ve all seen countless times and to which each of us attaches our own meanings.
When I choose a title for one of my paintings—often one that has been created intuitively and without prior intention—that title gently guides your mind toward myths and familiar stories.
I think these myths and stories are the shared language of humanity.
Figures like Pinocchio and Don Quixote, for instance, are among the most complete examples of storytelling, and they share many common traits: even in the color of their clothing—Pinocchio wears green, Rostam wears green, the Hunchback of Notre Dame wears green, Robin Hood wears green—they all go through journeys of transformation to become whole. That’s why, on this symbolic ground, even a single green stain in my painting can lead your mind toward Pinocchio.
Emaho: Much of your art explores timeless ideas such as life, death, and renewal. What draws you to these recurring subjects, and how do you reinterpret them through contemporary symbols?
RZ: Yes — in Islam, there is the concept of “Ma’ad” (Resurrection).
Because nature is my main concern, I see it as the most visible reflection of that idea.
The clearest lesson nature gives us is a miniature display of resurrection and renewal. In a broader sense, resurrection and nature are deeply interconnected—every scene in nature represents a fragment of that eternal cycle of death and rebirth.
Throughout its vast history, art has always been one of humanity’s primary ways to overcome death and forgetfulness.
When we walk into a forest, at first everything seems chaotic and unorganized, but with a closer look we realize there’s a mysterious order within it.
That’s exactly what happens in my paintings: the entire surface begins with blotches and strokes of color, scattered and abstract, created without any prior plan. Yet in the end, they come together into a coherent form and hidden order—a process I have learned directly from nature itself.
Emaho: Many critics describe your paintings as chaotic yet full of resurrection and light. Do you see this tension as a reflection of human existence in modern society?
RZ: Human beings are endlessly ambitious—we fear endings and long for eternity.
The modern human, however, lives without anchors, full of contradictions, not knowing where they’ve come from, why they are here, or where they’re heading.
I, too, am searching for those answers. I paint that search, and in my mind, I always imagine a luminous, hopeful ending.
Emaho: Animals play a significant role in your work—merged with human figures or caught in dramatic relationships. What do they represent in your visual universe?
RZ: Yes, I always imagine myself as being like the animals I paint — I put myself in their place. In that sense, they become a form of self-portraiture for me.
Animals, to me, carry real, imaginary, and mythical equivalents. There is always a meaning beyond their literal depiction. They are deeply symbolic, though the interpretation of each symbol is never fixed — it constantly shifts and evolves.
I think my paintings turn dramatic relationships into tragedy. As Schopenhauer said, “Tragedy reveals a great misfortune.”
In my own way, I depict serious, existential events through the language of humor, and I express the afterlife and resurrection through the language of light.
Emaho: Themes of Persian literature and folklore appear frequently in your art. How does your cultural background influence your storytelling style and choice of symbolism?
RZ: In Persian literature, symbolism is one of the most powerful literary tools — it allows ideas to be conveyed through vivid, visual forms.
In my paintings, symbolism appears in its simplest and most direct form: expressing a complex idea or concept through a single image or object. That image might be a color, a place, a character, or even an event, and through it, I use one thing to represent something more abstract and intangible.
In my country, beyond the formal literary tradition, there also exists a kind of folk literature rooted in people’s beliefs, thoughts, emotions, and everyday speech.
In that tradition, symbols and metaphors take on different meanings — they’re used not just to describe the visible world, but to hint at the unknown and mysterious.
I think all of these layers of language and meaning have deeply influenced my visual storytelling and the way I build symbols in my work.
Emaho: Your exhibition Last Ceremony in Monaco introduced audiences to a powerful mix of humor, tragedy, and human emotion. How did that show evolve, and what message did you want viewers to take away?
RZ: Those paintings were created over several years (from 2018 to 2022), but they shared many common threads. They all carried a sense of light emerging from darkness. Most of them had a political undertone, and the central figure in many was the Devil. I’m not even sure why it turned out that way — but when we reviewed the works together, these connections became clear.
The world felt chaotic at the time, especially with the coronavirus pandemic.
I didn’t have a specific message or agenda in mind to communicate, but I always tend to use a language of humor and irony, and I applied that same tone again here.
For example: a dead devil whose funeral ceremony is being held; a Romeo and Juliet in which the devil takes Romeo’s place; a pope baptizing a pig… I think, more than anything, my intention was an act of protest — a way of responding to the absurdity of the times.
Emaho: The spontaneity in your creative process is fascinating—you’ve mentioned working without predetermined colors or composition. How does this instinctive approach shape your final pieces?
RZ: The foundation of my work is always made up of stains, colors, and completely abstract forms. I draw from my unconscious, and for me, the process is almost like entering a state of Zen. In essence, I build the groundwork of the painting through action painting, and from there, I begin to develop and shape the piece.
If I were to fully describe this process, it could easily fill one—or even several—books.
Emaho: Critics have compared the emotional intensity of your paintings to Dante’s Divine Comedy and Hieronymus Bosch’s fantastical visions. Do you consciously reference these older influences, or do they emerge naturally through your imagination?
RZ: The Divine Comedy has been my teacher — I’ve always been fascinated by Dante.
Critics make that comparison because of the shared themes — or perhaps it’s fair to say that I’ve inevitably absorbed certain influences from them: ideas like divine judgment, sin, symbolism, fear, belief, storytelling, and moral warning.
Dante describes an imaginary journey through Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory, but I see a clear difference between Bosch, Dante, and myself.
To me, Bosch is an image-maker — all his forms are predetermined and deliberate. Dante inspires wonder through imagination. But I am a painter — I don’t illustrate, and I don’t even think about composition. I simply let the act of painting unfold until it reaches its own completion.
Emaho: You’ve exhibited internationally—from Tehran and Dubai to Monaco and Paris. How does the experience of showing your art in different cultural contexts impact your perspective as an Iranian artist?
RZ: Because of Iran’s socio-political conditions, being an Iranian artist is a challenge in itself. Even if you have no political intentions, people still tend to interpret your work politically. They ask you questions about your country’s situation, or want to know your opinions about political figures and events. That said, these things don’t have a direct influence on my work.
On the other hand, I eagerly listen to what critics and audiences have to say, because through them I encounter new perspectives, ideas, and interpretations — they often notice things in my paintings that I, as the creator, wasn’t even aware of.
Emaho: Your work often captures the darker side of human behaviour—violence, obsession, conflict—but also transformation and compassion. Do you see yourself as a storyteller of moral dualities?
RZ: I believe the world is fundamentally built on good and evil—on light and darkness, black and white.
I’m simply a piece of that larger puzzle.
I don’t deliberately set out to depict human behavior with intention or moral purpose; rather, these paintings are already within me—they simply find their way out and set themselves free.
Emaho: Many of your works, such as Jungle and Beard and Tree, have a strong connection to nature. Is this inspired more by personal experience, or do you view nature as a metaphor for human chaos and rebirth?
RZ: Nature, and the reverence for it, is the true origin of art. At times, fear of nature becomes the central theme; at other times, it serves as a reminder of death and rebirth — of resurrection. In these paintings, the human figure either has no place within the landscape or becomes completely absorbed into it.
Emaho: You’ve also experimented with sculpture, like the series Kabuki and Bazaar, where you reinterpret traditional Japanese theatrical elements through an Iranian lens. What inspired you to move into three-dimensional expression?
RZ: I’ve always been fascinated by Eastern art, especially Japanese art, and I continue to study its forms of representation. There are many shared qualities between Iranian and Eastern art, and one of the most striking is improvisation.
Through sculpture, I can explore ritual, performance, and movement from multiple perspectives. It gives both me and the viewer greater freedom, allowing me to create new dimensions that move beyond imagination and take physical form—a space that exists between painting and sculpture.
Emaho: Tehran features heavily in your creative identity. What role does the city’s energy and history play in your artistic imagination?
RZ: Tehran is a megacity where nothing is predictable—and that’s exactly where my work and my city intersect. It’s defined by contradiction and unpredictability.
Tehran is full of news and events, chaos and beauty all at once—colorful yet gray, dark yet full of light. It’s a city of mountains, though you can’t always see them.
There’s always something happening here that makes you pause, reflect, and let your imagination awaken.
Emaho: Art often occupies a space between beauty and discomfort. How do you navigate that line when painting scenes of emotional or visual intensity?
RZ: I think that is called tragedy—and for me, it represents the truth of life.
I believe that if you only portray beauty, you’re telling a lie, because you’re hiding an essential part of reality. My work is a fusion of imagination and reality, and within that space, beauty and ugliness intertwine.
Emaho: Looking at your body of work—from Nocturnal to Smile and Habitat—how do you feel your style and focus have evolved over the years?
RZ: That’s really something that should be left to the critics and the audience who engage with my work.
Naturally, experience forms a foundation for everyone, and the experiences I’ve gone through over these years can’t be ignored. Experience doesn’t exist only in art — it’s also part of life itself. The combination of the two — art and life — marks the beginning of a new phase for me.
My style of brushwork and color application hasn’t changed, but my approach and relationship to painting have evolved. With each passing day, I find myself moving closer to abstraction and pure form.
Emaho: For many emerging artists in Iran and abroad, your success represents freedom of expression through metaphor. What advice would you give young painters trying to find their unique voice today?
RZ: It might be a little early for me to give advice, but I can share something from my own experience: think freely, work continuously, fear nothing, and take risks.
There’s one distinction I always emphasize — an idea is only the seed, the core; it still needs a body to come alive. And the most essential element of that body is thought.
Emaho: Finally, what does art mean to you at this stage of your career? Has your definition of creativity changed since you began painting two decades ago?
RZ: Art has always been something sacred to me, though its endlessness can at times bring me pain and exhaustion. Sometimes I even fear it, because it’s something I feel I must do every single day.
I see creativity as a force that compels you to look at the world through new eyes.
Along this path, I’ve always tried to define myself, and now that definition has become clear: I am not an artist — I am a worker. Because I believe art is about overcoming, and in this journey, persistence, endurance, and continuity matter far more than the insistence on being called an artist.
