Piece Day / День Мира
Highlights of our conversation
What’s your name?
Nidjat Taghiev.
How old are you?
38. I was born on February 17th, on a snowy day. It also snowed on my wedding day — they say that’s a sign of good fortune in business.
How long have you lived here?
I moved from Ganja to Baku in the early 2000s. For the first six months I rented an apartment, and then my family and I settled in this neighborhood. When we arrived, my father and a neighbor built a spring right next to the house. It felt strange to live without a water source nearby. Since then, all the kids from the courtyards drink from it. At first, I studied at School No. 42, and after moving, at No. 175. That school was carried on the shoulders of Inna Yuryevna — a person who was respected, not feared, and you could feel that respect in everything.
This tree you see — I remember it from my childhood. A heating pipe used to run through it. When they were cutting it down, I tried to convince them not to… but, sadly, they did. Now I’m thinking of taking this tree trunk — and another one nearby with a wrench grown right into it — to make an installation. They’re so self-sufficient they hardly need any work; just clean them, and they’re already works of art.
Did you choose this place to live, or were you born here?
In the late ‘90s, life in Ganja wasn’t easy, but it was the hardships that brought people closer. We helped each other, shared what little we had. When I moved to Baku, there were almost no native Bakuvians in these courtyards — mostly Russian families. The locals didn’t accept me at first because of my different dialect; there were some conflicts. But within a year, we had all become friends. Maybe it was a test I had to go through.
Tell us about your work / profession / life’s mission.
My life’s work wasn’t born in an office or a bustling city. It began in silence — in my childhood among garages, where the first shapes took form from scraps, and old bits of wood turned into small wonders. That was a sacred place, a space where imagination was free, and my hands worked in harmony with my heart. That’s where I first understood: my calling is to create, to give objects new life and restore meaning to spaces.
Garage Earth is my manifesto — my way of speaking to the world in the language of nature, wood, earth, and spirit. I believe a home is not concrete and glass; a home is soil, air, wood, bamboo, peace. I don’t build furniture — I create spaces where the soul can rest and the body feels alive. It’s a mission to return to people their sense of connection with nature. I build a world where wood speaks again, where a dog like my Bambi is part of the space, where a pillow sewn by my beloved’s mother carries the warmth of generations. I create not just objects but quiet islands in a turbulent world, places where you can breathe, feel, and be. Garage Earth is my home, my faith, my responsibility — to wood, to the earth, to time itself.
How do you define your path?
Through calm. I choose work without fuss or unnecessary tension. I need inner peace, a state of emptiness without thoughts. Sometimes I find it dancing in the shower, sometimes just sitting next to my wife. She’s my main motivation.
What time does your day start?
I wake with the sun, but start my day depending on my plans — sometimes at 8, sometimes at 10.
What’s your morning ritual — the thing without which your day doesn’t start?
Dancing in the shower and eating persimmon. Without that, my day hasn’t really started. It’s a habit from my father — every morning he made me sherbet, water with honey and persimmon.
Favorite time of day?
Morning. Even though I spend evenings with family and friends after work, mornings are when I can be alone with myself and the silence.
How do you feel about the phrase “This day is your life”? Do you agree, or do you live more in the past or the future?
I try to be here and now. I take lessons from the past, make plans for the future — and then dive into the present. I also have an imaginary world. It’s been with me since childhood. I would often drift into it at school, and they’d have to pull me back. There’s no time there, and it preserves my connection with my inner child. Thanks to it, I can love sincerely.
If you could choose one place that captures the spirit of the entire city or country, what would it be?
In the Old City, near the Green Pharmacy, there’s a partition you can climb over to get onto the roof of a three-story building. From there I can see all the passersby, but they can’t see me. I can listen to their conversations and feel the soul of the city. For me, the Old City is the real Baku — where behind the walls there’s peace, and outside there’s rush and noise.
What are you doing right now? What’s the hardest part of your work?
Right now, I’m fighting to preserve our creative cluster so it doesn’t turn into a purely commercial project, but remains a space for art and creativity. It’s hard to find like-minded people willing to invest without thinking of a quick return. And of course, funding a project of this scale is always a challenge. We’ve been working here since October 2024, giving it our all.
Tell us about your interest in bamboo.
Bamboo is the future. You can make anything from it — houses, furniture, dishes, even airplanes. I first noticed it in Bali, but became truly fascinated during the lockdown, when I started watching videos about bamboo technology. I found a supplier in Lankaran who has his own plantation and also buys from neighbors. Since then, I’ve been promoting this material. I’ve convinced music open-air festival organizers to ditch plastic and switch to bamboo for their mobile structures and equipment. In three weeks, I’m flying to Bali for a month to study the art of bamboo construction. Today I’m starting to build our “bamboo bar” — benches, canopy, counter — all from bamboo, with a disco ball in the center and crisscrossing bamboo poles.
(Closing)
To the sound of a cuckoo and in the cooling evening air, we left the grounds of the former plastics factory, heading to the apartment he and his wife are moving out of today.
— “Almost everything’s moved, just a few things left to pack, need to fix the faucet, tidy up, and hand the keys back to the owners,” says Nidjat, carefully placing his wife Zahra’s beloved paintings into a box — the very ones she almost left behind in this apartment.
The move is for the sake of peace and quiet — living by a four-lane road proved impossible, with cars honking day and night. In recent months, they even moved their bedroom into the children’s room — the only one whose windows face the courtyard.
Nidjat Taghiev.
How old are you?
38. I was born on February 17th, on a snowy day. It also snowed on my wedding day — they say that’s a sign of good fortune in business.
How long have you lived here?
I moved from Ganja to Baku in the early 2000s. For the first six months I rented an apartment, and then my family and I settled in this neighborhood. When we arrived, my father and a neighbor built a spring right next to the house. It felt strange to live without a water source nearby. Since then, all the kids from the courtyards drink from it. At first, I studied at School No. 42, and after moving, at No. 175. That school was carried on the shoulders of Inna Yuryevna — a person who was respected, not feared, and you could feel that respect in everything.
This tree you see — I remember it from my childhood. A heating pipe used to run through it. When they were cutting it down, I tried to convince them not to… but, sadly, they did. Now I’m thinking of taking this tree trunk — and another one nearby with a wrench grown right into it — to make an installation. They’re so self-sufficient they hardly need any work; just clean them, and they’re already works of art.
Did you choose this place to live, or were you born here?
In the late ‘90s, life in Ganja wasn’t easy, but it was the hardships that brought people closer. We helped each other, shared what little we had. When I moved to Baku, there were almost no native Bakuvians in these courtyards — mostly Russian families. The locals didn’t accept me at first because of my different dialect; there were some conflicts. But within a year, we had all become friends. Maybe it was a test I had to go through.
Tell us about your work / profession / life’s mission.
My life’s work wasn’t born in an office or a bustling city. It began in silence — in my childhood among garages, where the first shapes took form from scraps, and old bits of wood turned into small wonders. That was a sacred place, a space where imagination was free, and my hands worked in harmony with my heart. That’s where I first understood: my calling is to create, to give objects new life and restore meaning to spaces.
Garage Earth is my manifesto — my way of speaking to the world in the language of nature, wood, earth, and spirit. I believe a home is not concrete and glass; a home is soil, air, wood, bamboo, peace. I don’t build furniture — I create spaces where the soul can rest and the body feels alive. It’s a mission to return to people their sense of connection with nature. I build a world where wood speaks again, where a dog like my Bambi is part of the space, where a pillow sewn by my beloved’s mother carries the warmth of generations. I create not just objects but quiet islands in a turbulent world, places where you can breathe, feel, and be. Garage Earth is my home, my faith, my responsibility — to wood, to the earth, to time itself.
How do you define your path?
Through calm. I choose work without fuss or unnecessary tension. I need inner peace, a state of emptiness without thoughts. Sometimes I find it dancing in the shower, sometimes just sitting next to my wife. She’s my main motivation.
What time does your day start?
I wake with the sun, but start my day depending on my plans — sometimes at 8, sometimes at 10.
What’s your morning ritual — the thing without which your day doesn’t start?
Dancing in the shower and eating persimmon. Without that, my day hasn’t really started. It’s a habit from my father — every morning he made me sherbet, water with honey and persimmon.
Favorite time of day?
Morning. Even though I spend evenings with family and friends after work, mornings are when I can be alone with myself and the silence.
How do you feel about the phrase “This day is your life”? Do you agree, or do you live more in the past or the future?
I try to be here and now. I take lessons from the past, make plans for the future — and then dive into the present. I also have an imaginary world. It’s been with me since childhood. I would often drift into it at school, and they’d have to pull me back. There’s no time there, and it preserves my connection with my inner child. Thanks to it, I can love sincerely.
If you could choose one place that captures the spirit of the entire city or country, what would it be?
In the Old City, near the Green Pharmacy, there’s a partition you can climb over to get onto the roof of a three-story building. From there I can see all the passersby, but they can’t see me. I can listen to their conversations and feel the soul of the city. For me, the Old City is the real Baku — where behind the walls there’s peace, and outside there’s rush and noise.
What are you doing right now? What’s the hardest part of your work?
Right now, I’m fighting to preserve our creative cluster so it doesn’t turn into a purely commercial project, but remains a space for art and creativity. It’s hard to find like-minded people willing to invest without thinking of a quick return. And of course, funding a project of this scale is always a challenge. We’ve been working here since October 2024, giving it our all.
Tell us about your interest in bamboo.
Bamboo is the future. You can make anything from it — houses, furniture, dishes, even airplanes. I first noticed it in Bali, but became truly fascinated during the lockdown, when I started watching videos about bamboo technology. I found a supplier in Lankaran who has his own plantation and also buys from neighbors. Since then, I’ve been promoting this material. I’ve convinced music open-air festival organizers to ditch plastic and switch to bamboo for their mobile structures and equipment. In three weeks, I’m flying to Bali for a month to study the art of bamboo construction. Today I’m starting to build our “bamboo bar” — benches, canopy, counter — all from bamboo, with a disco ball in the center and crisscrossing bamboo poles.
(Closing)
To the sound of a cuckoo and in the cooling evening air, we left the grounds of the former plastics factory, heading to the apartment he and his wife are moving out of today.
— “Almost everything’s moved, just a few things left to pack, need to fix the faucet, tidy up, and hand the keys back to the owners,” says Nidjat, carefully placing his wife Zahra’s beloved paintings into a box — the very ones she almost left behind in this apartment.
The move is for the sake of peace and quiet — living by a four-lane road proved impossible, with cars honking day and night. In recent months, they even moved their bedroom into the children’s room — the only one whose windows face the courtyard.
