art of resistance, Lebanon, Syria

The Art Of Mohammad Khayata.

khayataweb/Walking on Thread, photo via Mohammad Khayata website/

I was first introduced to Mohammad Khayata’s work while I was strolling down the streets of Beirut last November. On of his works (Walking on Thread) was exhibited in a gallery I passed by and it caught my eye immediately. I told myself I should remember his name and investigate more about his art when I come back home.

Khayata is a painter and a photographer, born in Damascus in 1985. His first solo exhibition was organized in Lebanon, three years ago.

mohamad kh

Khayata’s work is beautiful – it’s sensitive, powerful, thoughtful. In Bits and Pieces, he portrays symbols of what went on in Syria, combining stories and memories like a patched work stitched and tied to a canvas.

The images capture real life grief – from the portrait of a man wrapped in a patched quilt made of memories to another one disappearing into a patched quilt holding a suitcase in preparation to leave behind his world and life as he knew it.

He started from the captured moment, sketched it and finally gave birth to an entity painted on a canvas full of personal memories, feelings and passions to make visual the unspoken words.

khayata3

In Blue Period, Khayata starts from his brother’s story, “who filled a boat with his body and went far away for a new hope surrounded by whales, to smugglers who create creative ways to fill our bodies in tanks of chocolates and oil”.

The work is about the burden of our choices, how they are forced upon us, how it can all change our lives.

It is “about our choices that became rare, destiny that became like that of a fisherman who throws his hook in a sea of memories hoping his bate will catch possessing thread of power, or a suitcase to emigrate as far as you can get in this world, a bullet to kill or get killed by, or an empty bottle to lock and isolate yourself in”.

mkahay

Remember Khayata’s name, like I did that day when I passed by that little gallery. He is an artist whose compassion and tenderness goes a long way.

//all photos © Mohammad Khayata//

For more on Khayata’s work, visit his website.

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art of resistance, Iraq

Dunya Mikhail: Tablets.

dymaxion/artwork by the amazing Hayv Kahraman/

The following is a poem Tablets by the great Iraqi poet Dunya Mikhail. I am posting it together with the great artwork by the Iraqi artist Hayv Kahraman. Coming from Iraq, both of these great women have dealt with otherness, with being a refugee, with giving and leaving a part of yourself (forever). See it in their work, acknowledge it, respect it, remember it.

.

She pressed her ear against the shell:
she wanted to hear everything
he never told her.
.
A single inch
separates their two bodies
facing one another
in the picture:
a framed smile
buried beneath the rubble.
.
Whenever you throw stones
into the sea
it sends ripples through me.
.
bagage
.
My heart’s quite small:
that’s why it fills so quickly.
.
Water needs no wars
to mix with water
and fill up spaces.
.
The tree doesn’t ask why it’s not moving
to some other forest
nor any other pointless questions.
.
He watches tv
while she holds a novel.
On the novel’s cover
there’s a man watching tv
and a woman holding a novel.
.
blowing1
.
On the first morning
of the new year
all of us will look up
at the same sun.
.
She raised his head to her chest.
He did not respond:
he was dead.
.
The person who gazed at me for so long,
and whose gaze I returned for just as long . . .    
That man who never once embraced me,
and whom I never once embraced  . . .    
The rain wrecked the colors around him
on that old canvas.
.
He was not with the husbands
who were lost and then found;
he did not come with the prisoners of war,
nor with the kite that took her,
in her dream,
to some other place,
while she stood before the camera
to have her smile
glued into the passport.
.
Hayv-Kahraman-part2-10
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Dates piled high
beside the road:
your way
of  kissing me.
.
Rapunzel’s hair
reaching down
from the window
to the earth
is how we wait.
.
The shadows
the prisoners left
on the wall
surrounded the jailer
and cast light
on his loneliness.
.
Homeland, I am not your mother,
so why do you weep in my lap like this
every time
something hurts you?
.
Never mind this bird:
it comes every day
and stops at the branch’s edge
to sing for an hour
or two.
That’s all it does:
nothing makes it happier.
.
House keys,
identity cards,
faded pictures among the bones . . .    
All of these are scattered
in a single mass grave.
.
2_1
.
The Arabic language
loves long sentences
and long wars.
It loves never-ending songs
and late nights
and weeping over ruins.
It loves working
for a long life
and a long death.
.
Far away from home — 
that’s all that changed in us.
.
Cinderella left her slipper in Iraq
along with the smell of cardamom
wafting from the teapot,
and that huge flower,
its mouth gaping like death.
.
Instant messages
ignite revolutions.
They spark new lives
waiting for a country to download,
a land that’s little more
than a handful of dust
when faced with these words:
“There are no results that match your search.”
.
The dog’s excitement
as she brings the stick to her owner
is the moment of opening the letter.
.
We cross borders lightly
like clouds.
Nothing carries us,
but as we move on
we carry rain,
and an accent,
and a memory
of another place.
.
How thrilling to appear in his eyes.
She can’t understand what he’s saying:
she’s too busy chewing his voice.
She looks at the mouth she’ll never kiss,
at the shoulder she’ll never cry on,
at the hand she’ll never hold,
and at the ground where their shadows meet.
.
• • •
.
This poem was translated by Kareem James Abu-Zeid.
All of the artwork (paintings and illustrations) is by the amazing Hayv Kahraman – visit her official website for more. For more on the poetry of Dunya Mikhail, visit her official website and the Poetry Foundation.
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art of resistance, Iran

The Book To Read: Sohrab Sepehri and Water’s Footfall.

Last Sunday, I was strolling around one of Zagreb’s lovely flea markets, spending hours looking at used books, old postcards and perfectly hand-painted china teapots. At the end of my stroll (after I found Isabel Allende’s The House of The Spirits, perfectly preserved, for ten HRK, which would be less than two USD), already tired from all the digging and searching, I discovered a little green book – Sohrab Sepehri’s The Water’s Footfall (Selected poems). I must be honest and say that was the first time I encountered Sepehri’s poetry. The book was translated by Ismail Salami and Abbas Zahedi, and each English translation of the poem has a Persian original next to it, which is great if you’d like to practice your Farsi.

After reading most of the poems, it would be and understatement to say this was a nice little discovery. I am so happy I got to stumble upon such a great poet, with such an original gaze at the world around us. I like Sepehri’s  fascination with nature – happiness caused by lilac flowers, clean rivers, old trees. I like the way he plays with the concept of loneliness, often presenting it as an inevitable thing, but also a necessary one – to know yourself truly. Sepehri’s poetry is gentle, his flow of the words and ideas somehwat discreet, making one think Sepehri’s aim with poetry was never to persuade, but simply to observe (if he did have an aim).

sohrab-sepehri28-28Sohrab Sepehri

Sepehri was born in 1928 in Kashan, an ancient city between Tehran and Isfahan in central Iran. His grandmother had published poetry and it is likely that Sohrab grew up in an ethos that upheld a literary culture. His father died when he was young, and Sohrab’s studies and career were supported by his older brother, Manuchehr.  After finishing his education, he started to travel around Europe, but also to Japan and India. He would often travel to exhibit his paintings (Sepehri was also one of Iran’s foremost modernist painters), but also to learn new skills – in Paris he studied lithography, in Tokyo wood-carving. He never stopped writing poetry, and his travels are often the subject of his poems. Sepehri never married and died in Tehran in 1980 (of leukemia).

5DB01739-E1D1-4E9F-8A58-B7E07BFE5C17_w640_r1_sSepehri’s ‘Tree Trunks‘ series /via Sotheby’s/

Water’s Footfall (1964) is his longest and maybe finest single poem. Like Martin Turner notes in Sohrab’s Way:

“Very loosely an autobiography, it contains many of his most quoted passages and is the centrepiece of his poetic oeuvre. It deals with the lose of innocence, dating from his father’s death, and documents impressionistic details from his travels. But the journeying is also symbolic: he reads the lessons of life and divests himself of self-deceptions. A constant theme is the neo-Sufi one of opposition to the mosque and the rigours of Islamic legalism. It is in contact with nature that Sohrab experiences unitive rapture.

Here are some of my favorite excerpts from Water’s Footfall.

“I am a native of Kashan.

Life is not so bad.

I have a bit of bread, an iota of intelligence

And a bit of wit.

I’ve a mother, better than a leaf;

And friends, better than running water.

And a God who lives nearby:

Amidst these gillyflowers, near that tall pine tree

Over water’s cognition, over the ontogeny of plant.”

“I’m a native of Kashan:

An artist by profession.

Sometimes, I build a cage of colours and offer it for sale

To ease your lonely heart

With the song of the peony confined therein.

It’s a fancy! Only a fancy! … I know.

My canvas is lifeless.

I well know my painted pond is fishless.”

sohrab2Sepehri’s ‘Tree Trunks’ series

“I’m a native of Kashan,

Descending perhaps

From a plant in India, an earthenware from Sialk

Or perhaps from a prostitute in the streets of Bukhara. 

Father died after twice migrating of swallows,

Twice falling of snow

Twice sleeping on the terrraced-roof;

Father died beyond Time.”

I saw many things on Earth:

A child sniffed the moon.

Light fluttered in a doorless cage.

Love ascended to the Heaven by a ladder.

A woman pounded light in a mortar.

For lunch they had bread, vegetables, a plate of dew

and a warm Bowl of Affection.”

My soul sometimes coughs from longing,

My soul idles:

It counts raindrops, the chinks of brinks.

My soul is sometimes true as a rock on the road.

“I am contented with an apple

And with the smell of camomile.

I am satisfied with a mirror, with a pure relationship.

I won’t laugh at a child if his balloon bursts.

I won’t sneer when a philosophy halves the moon.

I know the fluttering of quail’s wings.

The colour of bastard’s belly, the footprints of chamois. 

I know where rhubarbs grow

When starlings migrate, when partridges sing,

When falcons die.

I know that the moon means in the Sleep of Desert

Death in the Stalks of Desire.”

d5059596xSepehri’s Landscape With Houses /photo via Christies/

“Wherever I am, let me be

The heaven is mine.

WIndow, mind, air, love, and earth are mine.”

….

Life is a perpetual soaking.

Life is bathing in the Pond of Now.

Let’s take off our clothes.

Water is one step off.”

For more on Sohrab Sepehri and his works, see his profile on Goodreads, and see the website dedicated to him.

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