Weird, quirky ... yet brilliant
Weird, quirky ... yet brilliant
Balqis hasn’t been on the art scene for many years, but she is making her way onto it beautifully. Her path into art stems from the years of living in Beirut and later on studying graphic design at the American University in Beirut, her form of art can’t be labeled, it can’t be defined yet somehow you see something beautiful in the mess of her thought collages. Her time exploring the world of art resulted in finding and cultivating her artistic expression as one that can express her ethnic mosaic mixed in with her true voice.
In 2015, she participated in the March Project at the Sharjah Art Foundation, an educational residency program for young artists. She exhibited her largest art installation under the name “Once we fell from the sky and landed in Babel” in the old heritage area turned into art spaces with a souk nearby where she found inspiration. The installation was a large concrete spiral “mebkhara” (used by Khaleejis to burn incense) that held many different meanings. There’s concrete that represents modernity, there’s a spiral shape that represents evolution and progress, the carpet that was placed around and inside the spiral installation inspired by the nearby souk and the burning incense that allowed visitors to literally smell nature mixed with tradition. The colorful carpet used was inspired by the many shopkeepers of the souk, where the edge of the carpet contrasted with the concrete welcoming visitors in. An Arab tradition requires people to remove their shoes as they enter a personal space and the concept was used with the installation.
“This monument attempts to portray a sensory and experiential space of dichotomies; a contemplative public space where contrasting beliefs, objects and practices are recreated and re-appropriated in order to blur the distinction of established systems and their agencies and transform them into a collective city experience. Dichotomies such as modernity and the past, sacred and profane, material and immaterial, labor and leisure, tradition and progress are in contrast because they are in constant threat of losing their value. The execution of the artwork was exciting yet challenging as it was designed to be heavy on labor, transforming the creation process into a ritualistic performance of labor toward the unknown,” said Balqis.
She’s recently made waves with her hula-hooping performances, a medium she uses to channel her higher self and inner child. Hula-hooping represents an innocence, a form of entertainment and playfulness that turned controversial solely through public opinion due to the artist donning the veil, a representation of her culture.
“I chose to use the veil as a modern representation of womanhood in our culture. It has become the static visual identification of the feminine collective. My work generally depicts a high level of contrast, whether it’s intentional or not. I enjoy playing around with contrasting ideas and aesthetic elements and “A State of Play” is a great example of that where I was able to achieve a powerful negotiation of meanings by combining a hoop, a child’s toy, with this cultural representation. The hoop, representing a child’s innocent play and urge for self-expression is surprisingly working in complete harmony with these representations, giving it a movement, a form and an essence,” explained Balqis.
She goes on to explain the use of the hula-hoop as a meditative tool, to reach a state of surreal discovery and our bodies are mere vessels. Her hula-hooping was a tool, that enabled her to free her soul and capture a certain freedom that her mind allowed her to reach.
“I find the niqab to be a very interesting piece of garment. It perplexes me. How can a black piece of fabric restrict and allow, empower and oppress, protect and expose all at once, it’s fascinating. The niqab gave me a sense of freedom that I didn’t think it can offer, it allowed me to share myself with the world without compromising my identity. In a sense, it is the extraction of the ego on an unknown path of self discovery. The artwork was able to innocently touch on many sensitive subjects that I find necessary to think and start talking about. The fact that we are asking “why” is a great start. It starts a discourse that is important to have today. I felt I was able to start a dialogue, allow people to question the illusion and discover the world of new possibilities.”
Art is not complicated, it’s a personal deep interpretation of oneself presented to the public to experience on their own, finding their own rendition of themselves. Imagine being able to find out something new about yourself that you haven’t ever tapped into before, a talent, an understanding, something that just might surprise you.
— Photo credit: Nidal Morra
‘It might be our destiny to have Syria only in our imagination’
- Syrian artists-in-exile discuss their absence from their homeland and its impact on their work
- For many exiled Syrian artists, their work is an expression of grief
DUBAI: “Being away from Syria is difficult,” young poet Maysan Nasser said. “Seven years later, it still feels like a phantom limb. It feels like the echo of white noise that is reverberating louder by the day.”
Nasser, a Beirut Poetry Slam champion, was talking separation: The idea that the loss of Syria is like an amputation. After seven years, she is still looking for answers to questions of home and belonging.
The first time I saw Nasser perform was last year during Zena El Khalil’s ‘Sacred Catastrophe: Healing Lebanon,’ a “40-day intervention” designed to permanently kick open the doors of Beit Beirut, a museum to the memory of the city in Sodeco. Her performance was raw and emotive.
The second time was in the basement of Riwaq Beirut, a coffee shop, cultural center and bar all rolled into one. She was addressing a small but appreciative young crowd and looked nervous. It was just a few weeks after she had launched the open-mic night ‘Sidewalk Beirut’ and the anxiety and jitters remained. In reality they shouldn’t. The crowd loves her.
“In this enforced distance from Syria, such communities have become my anchors,” she admitted. Yet her work, although deeply personal — sometimes painfully so — never directly discusses Syria or her home city of Damascus.
“I believe the distance of separation was the birth of my work,” she said. “It was in this distance that I was able to reconsider who I am, what my relationship to my family is like, what my relationship to my body is. I believe my poems to be attempts at understanding myself and my surroundings, but also my past.
“So when I speak about my mother and my relationship to her, I am also considering my mother’s past and the traditions she has internalized and passed on to me, which inevitably cast light on a time and place in Syria, and which inevitably expose my own connections and roots — or lack of, at times. This separation, in a sense, has coincided with a coming of age.”
At the same time as Nasser was hosting her early edition of Sidewalk Beirut, a mile or so away at The Colony in Karantina Zeid Hamdan, a pioneer of Lebanon’s underground music scene, was preparing to perform at Sofar Sounds. The venue —hidden up three flights of stairs in the Dagher Building — was little more than two empty rooms and an adjacent terrace. With him were the Syrian band Tanjaret Daghet (which means ‘pressure cooker’ in Arabic).
Hamdan has been performing with the trio since they left Damascus in 2011. Theirs is an energetic, sometimes harsh, alternative-rock sound, although that is changing. Their soon-to-be-released new album, “Human Reverie,” is as much about electronica as it is guitars and vocals.
“This pressure we’re living is kind of unique,” said Tarek Khuluki, the band’s guitarist and sometime vocalist. “You see people who are nagging about it or who are trying to use this pressure as a tool to escape the reality we’re living in, which can lead to unbalanced results. At the same time, you see people who are making the best they can with the little amount of nothing that they have. All they want is to see their ideas manifest themselves in art or in any other shape.
“Psychologically, we’ve learned not to think too much and not to play the role of victims, but to focus on our own language, which is music.”
It’s hard to discern whether the war in Syria has had a direct impact on Tanjaret Daghet’s work, or whether the wider woes of the Arab world are partially responsible for their sound and lyrics. They sing of political oppression and societal pressure, the absence of feeling and the loss of voice.
“We do not live the state of war in the real sense of the word,” says Khaled Omran, the band’s lead singer and bassist. “What we’re living is a kind of internal war, which has arisen from our instincts as humans. It’s our right to express ourselves through art and music because it’s more humanistic, and this has allowed us to meet several artists and to exchange expertise. Who knows, maybe if we had stayed in Syria, none of that would have happened.”
Outside of Beirut, up in the mountains of Aley, a series of old Ottoman stables have been converted into a residence for Syrian artists. Since it was first opened by Raghad Mardini in May 2012, Art Residence Aley has hosted numerous artists, including Iman Hasbani and Anas Homsi. Both now live in Berlin. Beirut, for some, is only transitory.
“It has given me a wider vision of the world,” says the artist and film director Hazem Alhamwi of his own exile in Berlin. “Maybe it’s more painful, but it’s more real. It is training for how to change pain into creative energy. Since 2014 I have been painting a collection I call ‘Homeland in the Imagination’. It might be our destiny to have Syria only in our imagination.”
Alhamwi is best known for “From My Syrian Room,” a documentary in which, through art and conversation, he attempts to understand how Syrians have learned to live with the distress and anxiety caused by war. It was while editing the film in France in 2013 that he realized he could not return to Syria, he said.
“I feel tired,” he told Arab News. “I feel as if I have one leg here — where I have to integrate, and want to — and the other leg in Syria, where I cannot stop being interested in what is happening. My family, my friends and my memories are still there. On the other hand, I feel like I am discovering another kind of violence, moving from living under a military dictatorship to the dictatorship of money. It’s a smooth violence written on smooth paper and put into a clean envelope. I feel myself in the stomach of the capitalist machine.”
For many exiled Syrian artists, their work is an expression of grief; a way to portray an overwhelming sense of loss. For others, those expressions are more subtle.
“We watch so many lies on TV, that it looks like art could be the only honest witness to modern times,” said Alhamwi, whose next film, produced by Zeina Zahreddine and Florian Schewe, will examine issues of identity. “Even many people’s facial expressions are not real. But good art is not only a mirror of the artist, but also of the spirit of the time they live in; or it’s at least the result of this reaction (of) the artist (to) the era.
“Art always tries to get people to pay more attention and not to repeat the same mistakes, but to learn from them instead. In wars, where the feelings of people are ignored and all the focus is on weapons, killing, fire and iron, art protects people’s real memory, away from any agenda or propaganda. It is this complicated memory that reflects the events, the emotions and the point of view of the artist. That is why art is needed in war as a special documentation. To tell the stories of people who didn’t get involved, because of position or fate,” he continued. “Art is a way for artists to survive in a world controlled by violence.”