Zen gardens took shape in centuries of silence; minimalist courtyards that, with a few stones, some sand, and at times flowers, unveil a boundless world. In these gardens, every stone has its designated place; moving even one is like altering a single note in a musical composition—it disrupts the balance of the whole. The flower, however, is a fleeting presence, a symbol of rebirth and redemption. This contrast between the permanence of stone and the transience of the flower reflects the essence of Zen: witnessing timelessness within the flow of time.
In the paintings of Mohammad Hasan Nikbakht, this ancient tradition is reimagined. Through color and shadow, he constructs a minimalist garden and invites the viewer into a poetic contemplation.
His works feature an image of Braille—yet it is neither raised nor tactile, and thus not intended for the blind. Perhaps it is here that meaning emerges: it reminds us how many things we see without truly seeing. The act of seeing implies understanding and full comprehension, much like the closing lines of *Blindness*: “We are blind. Blind people who see. Blind people who see, but do not see.”