Vahid Mirzaei

My background is rooted in visual storytelling. I was born in Eslamabad Gharb, Iran, where I developed an early fascination with symbols, language, and culture. While my formal education led me into graphic design, I never truly identified with the commercial notion of being a "designer." I always saw myself as an artist using design as a platform to exhibit humanitarian issues, provoke dialogue, and preserve cultural memory. The transition was natural—design gave me form, but my intention has always been expression, resistance, and reflection.

My background is rooted in visual storytelling. I was born in Eslamabad Gharb, Iran, where I developed an early fascination with symbols, language, and culture. While my formal education led me into graphic design, I never truly identified with the commercial notion of being a "designer." I always saw myself as an artist using design as a platform to exhibit humanitarian issues, provoke dialogue, and preserve cultural memory. The transition was natural—design gave me form, but my intention has always been expression, resistance, and reflection.

Design is an ethical gesture. It’s not simply about solving problems—it’s about raising the right questions. It is the visual form of empathy, memory, protest, and poetry. For me, design is how culture speaks back.

I’m most drawn to designing poster collections and book covers that act as visual essays—like Endangered Animals or Omar Khayyam Posters. These are not projects, they are exhibitions of thought. I’m particularly passionate about works that center around cultural preservation, human rights, or endangered narratives.

Extinction Exhibition, based on my Endangered Animals series, is deeply personal. Each poster mourns a vanishing species. It was exhibited in Tehran but its purpose transcends location—it’s an artistic act of environmental remembrance. I designed it not to inform but to evoke grief and accountability.

One of my earliest commissions was a poster for an independent film. Even then, I treated it as a canvas—not a promotional tool. I focused on emotional resonance, not branding. That mindset hasn’t changed.

I often work with digital platforms, but I’m increasingly drawn to AI in visual storytelling. I’ve authored research on AI’s role in creative education. However, no technology replaces intent. The message always comes before the medium.

When I’m uncomfortable—either emotionally, ethically, or intellectually. Creativity for me is a response to tension. Art is how I process injustice, absence, or forgotten beauty.

I prioritize symbolism, emotion, and cultural layering. I want the work to carry history and provoke emotion. If it doesn’t linger, it doesn’t live.

Responsibility and vulnerability. I carry the weight of the stories I tell—whether of a vanished species or a neglected poet. Designing is never neutral for me; it's always intimate.

Relief, and sometimes grief. Because I don’t see a finished design as a triumph—it’s often a visual eulogy. When viewers connect with it, I feel less alone in that mourning.

When it triggers thought long after it's seen. Success isn’t awards or likes—it’s resonance.

Its ethical stance. Is it honest? Is it necessary? Beauty without purpose is decoration. I look for moral architecture in design.

To be a witness and an advocate. We don’t just design visuals—we design narratives, perceptions, and ultimately, values. Designers must be accountable to both history and the future.

Design is expanding from service to statement. The future lies in its fusion with AI, activism, and cross-cultural storytelling. It will no longer just solve—it will speak.

My last was Extinction Exhibition in Villa Sufia Gallery, Tehran. I’m planning my next around endangered dialects and disappearing rituals, hoping to bring it to an international stage.

From absence. From forgotten voices, endangered languages, lost species, silenced poets. I read history and mythology more than design blogs. My creativity is fed by silence, not noise.

Minimalist yet narrative. Symbol-heavy, culturally rooted, emotionally charged. My style is not a trend—it is an archive of conscience.

I live in Iran, and my work is inseparable from its heritage. From Khayyam’s verses to Persian miniatures, my country’s complexity is my aesthetic DNA. But constraints—both political and infrastructural—often make creative freedom difficult.

I collaborate, never serve. Whether it's a publisher or a film studio, I aim to understand their soul—not just their brand—and then reflect that through design.

Choose a designer who challenges you, not just pleases you. Look for voice, not just style. Trust the process of co-creation.

It starts with immersion. Reading, researching, sketching—then distilling. I reduce until what remains is essence. Only then do I begin the visual phase.

Morning: writing and research. Afternoon: sketching, client calls, revisions. Evening: reading Persian poetry or exploring AI-image synthesis. Late night: quiet conceptual thinking. My days are a blend of activism and aesthetics.

Be human first, designer second. Don’t chase beauty—chase meaning. Study history. Read poetry. Listen to silence. Learn to care deeply, and your work will follow.

Positives: You can influence thought without saying a word. Negatives: Society often undervalues the cultural and ethical labor embedded in visual work.

Never design what you don’t believe in. Every visual is a vote. Make yours count.

I’ve been immersed in the world of visual storytelling for over a decade. My journey began in Eslamabad Gharb, a small town in western Iran, and has since taken me across borders through exhibitions, awards, and collaborations. While my background is in graphic design, my work extends far beyond that title. I design experiences, not just visuals—whether through powerful poster collections, conceptual book covers, or cause-driven visual campaigns. Over the years, I’ve had the privilege to work with cultural institutions, independent filmmakers, and social movements. Each collaboration has been more than a project—it’s been a chance to give form to silence, to make stories visible that might otherwise fade away.

I didn’t choose design for its profession—I chose it for its potential. Growing up, I was always drawn to the quiet power of symbols, the way an image could speak louder than any speech. My love for literature and poetry—especially Persian classics—gave me a deep respect for metaphor, and design became a natural extension of that. After pursuing formal education in graphic design, I started to see how design could be more than just problem-solving. It could be an act of remembering, resisting, and healing. No one told me to take this path. It wasn’t a marketable decision—it was a personal one.

For me, every design begins with intention. I start by asking: why should this exist? I’m drawn to themes that speak to memory, absence, and social impact. My style leans toward flat, symbolic compositions with minimalist palettes—visually calm, but emotionally loud. I often begin with sketches by hand and then move into digital platforms for refinement. Technology serves the idea—not the other way around. I also spend a lot of time in research before starting any visual work; the concept must be grounded in something deeper than trend.

There’s always a sense of quiet urgency. Designing, for me, feels like walking a tightrope between grief and beauty. Especially when I’m working on projects that deal with extinction, violence, or injustice, I feel like I’m holding space for stories that haven’t been heard. That emotional responsibility becomes the fuel. But there’s also joy—particularly in the process of refining, simplifying, and arriving at a visual that feels inevitable. The moment a concept clicks visually is like a quiet revelation.

I think my biggest strength comes from outside the design world. My connection to Persian poetry, philosophy, and social issues gave me a foundation that’s both cultural and critical. I’ve always been curious about silence—about things we no longer speak about. That curiosity drives my visual work. Also, growing up in a place with limited access to design resources taught me to do more with less. That sense of constraint helped shape a discipline of clarity and conceptual depth.

I see my future as a continuation of storytelling—but on a larger scale. I dream of building a multidisciplinary studio where artists, designers, and researchers come together to archive endangered cultures through visual expression. I also want to curate traveling exhibitions around themes like forgotten dialects, ecological grief, and refugee narratives. These aren’t just projects—they’re ways to preserve what’s slipping away. In the long run, I’d love to collaborate with international museums or universities to bring these stories into global consciousness.

Don’t rush. Don’t follow. And don’t fear silence. So much of design today is about speed and visibility, but real work comes from depth and patience. Listen to your discomfort—it often points to your true themes. Stay curious about everything that isn’t design: poetry, politics, history, psychology. Let life shape your work. And most importantly, make something you care about, even if no one sees it right away. That’s where your voice lives.

Success, for me, is not about awards or reach—it’s about relevance. I think we all need to hold our work accountable: Is it honest? Is it necessary? Does it create space for others? It’s tempting to chase trends, but lasting work often comes from staying in your lane—especially if that lane is narrow, quiet, and true. Be intentional with collaborations, keep your ethics visible, and never treat your audience like consumers. Respect their time and their attention.

My mornings are slow. I usually begin by reading—something poetic or philosophical—to clear my head before starting any creative work. Then I sketch, ideate, or write. I work both alone and with collaborators, depending on the project. Some days are heavy with production, others with research. I try to create a rhythm where I’m not only making but also thinking. And in the quiet moments, when I revisit old designs or notes, I often find the seeds for my next piece.

I don’t chase trends, but I observe them. They’re part of the visual conversation. That said, my focus has always been on building a timeless language. I draw more from literature and history than from social media or trend reports. I believe good design should be rooted, not seasonal. Trends can inspire technique, but never dictate intention.

A well-designed work feels inevitable—like it couldn’t have been anything else. Good design for me isn’t flashy or flawless; it’s thoughtful, clear, and emotionally honest. If a piece lingers in the mind of the viewer, it has done its job. I value meaning over polish, depth over detail.

I know a design is ready when it feels quiet to me—when it no longer demands revision or questions. But I also believe in openness. Some of my works continue evolving over time. I often revisit them with new context. Completion is not a hard stop—it’s a soft landing.

The Extinction Exhibition, based on my “Endangered Animals” collection, has been the most personal and globally resonant. It wasn’t just about biodiversity—it was a meditation on loss. Each piece became a silent protest, a visual obituary for species we’ve forgotten to mourn. It was exhibited in Villa Sufia Gallery in Tehran and continues to be a project I carry forward in new forms.

I deeply admire Shigeo Fukuda for his ability to say so much with so little, and Siah Armajani for turning design into democratic poetry. If I could sit down with any creative mind, it would be Armajani—his work exists at the intersection of architecture, literature, and resistance, which aligns closely with my own philosophy.

I live in Iran, and my cultural heritage is inseparable from my work. Persian poetry, architecture, and symbolism often guide my visual language. Music—especially traditional and minimalist—is also part of my creative process. I see design not as a job, but as a way to reflect the complexities and contradictions of the world I live in.

I keep my studio intimate—less bureaucracy, more freedom. I work with people who care more about meaning than marketing. When selecting collaborators, I look for curiosity, humility, and a shared sense of urgency. My work culture is rooted in trust and silence—space to think before we create. I believe in fewer, deeper projects—not constant output.

Most of my campaign work—for mental health, anti-violence, or environmental issues—has been done pro bono. I also mentor young designers and speak at cultural forums about ethics in visual communication. I see design as a civic act. It must give back—it must serve more than just aesthetics.

Being recognized by the A’ Design Award gave me a broader platform to connect with global creatives and present my work within a more international dialogue. The experience expanded my network, sharpened my confidence, and helped position my projects in front of curators and organizations that value both concept and conscience. It wasn’t just a prize—it was a new beginning.

I began my journey in the visual arts not with the intent to serve commercial ends, but to pursue storytelling through visual form. While my academic training provided the technical foundation, my growth came through deep engagement with culture, philosophy, and social issues. Over the past decade, I have navigated poster design, book and music cover art, and packaging—but always with the lens of an artist, not a commercial designer. My work is about creating experiences that are exhibited, contemplated, and felt.

Design became my vessel because it allowed me to translate humanitarian concerns, cultural heritage, and existential questions into something visual and accessible. What drives me isn’t the aesthetics of design, but the urgency of expression. I’ve created works to address violence against women, raise awareness on schizophrenia, and commemorate cultural legends—because design, to me, is activism in disguise.

I chose to become an artist, and design was the closest available language to express my vision. It was never about tools or trends—it was about voice. I saw in design the potential to exhibit thought, to exhibit resistance, and to exhibit memory.

I design visual narratives—posters that serve as meditative surfaces, book covers that elevate literature, and campaigns that spark social consciousness. From Live Life for HIV to visual projects on mental health, my work invites engagement rather than instruction. I wish to create more exhibitions that question our shared realities and celebrate endangered beauty—whether it’s an animal, a language, or a forgotten poet.

Dare to care. Don’t chase fame—chase relevance. Let your work be haunted by meaning. Find the moral, political, or emotional urgency that keeps you up at night—and turn that into a visual statement worth exhibiting.

Good designers serve needs. Great designers challenge perceptions. Greatness lies in using form not just to solve problems, but to raise questions—and that’s what I try to do in every piece.

When design transcends its medium—when a book cover becomes a commentary, or a poster becomes a protest—it’s no longer good; it’s necessary. I evaluate design based on its lasting emotional and ethical imprint.

Good design carries cultural responsibility. It can advocate for the marginalized, preserve endangered memories, and celebrate forgotten wisdom. Investing in good design is not just aesthetic—it's ethical.

I would design for endangered languages and dying traditions—perhaps an immersive exhibition that maps their decline through visual poetry. I would give them a final monument in the gallery of human consciousness.

A large-scale, interactive archive of humanitarian crises visualized through minimalist design—something that can travel across borders and invite people into a dialogue with global sorrow and hope.

Empathy. Not sympathy, but active empathy—living inside the concerns of others, the forgotten, the endangered, the misunderstood. That, combined with relentless visual discipline, is my approach.

I resonate with artists who transcend function—Fukuda’s symbolism, Tanaka’s cultural fusion, and even thinkers like Siah Armajani, who treated design as public poetry. Their works remind me that clarity and mystery can coexist.

Designs that destabilize comfort and provoke contemplation. I admire works that don’t merely inform but disturb—because design must sometimes act as a social accelerant.

Perhaps my posters that have no direct client, like those in the Extinction Exhibition. They exist solely to question and commemorate. They aren’t transactional—they’re testimonial. Their greatness lies in their capacity to remain silent yet loud.

Engage with literature, history, and ethics. I didn’t grow by following trends—I grew by understanding culture, studying human rights, and reading Khayyam. Design is surface; art is depth. Choose the latter.

Possibly a documentarian or a cultural anthropologist. Because even then, I would have been collecting the unspoken and turning it into something visible.

Design is an altar. What you place on it—whether it’s political pain or poetic wonder—is your offering to the viewer. It is not a career for me. It is my visual activism.

Every unseen story that demanded justice. Every poet, every activist, every anonymous viewer who paused before my work—that silent recognition fuels me more than any accolade.