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Al-Ahram Weekly 1 - 7 July 1999 Issue No. 436 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 1 - 7 July 1999 Issue No. 436
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Profile Features Special Interview Travel Living Sports Time Out Chronicles People Cartoons Letters Basement mutations
By Youssef Rakha
Partly in response to the globalisation concurrent with the advent of the millennium ("these days the world has become one small place, and any change in the world now reaches us immediately in Egypt"), partly in search for cultural and individual uniqueness ("unlike the West, we are in possession of a tradition that we can exploit and respond to, but it is only natural that we do so in the spirit of the age, each in his own particular way"), the 1990s generation of artists displays what at first sight appears to be an aimless vitality.
From Emad Abu Zeid's nondescript rectangular wooden shelves, which cut three walls and contain nothing but folded newspapers, to Ibrahim El-Dessouqi's portraits (different incarnations of the same woman which, with their down-to-earth use of colour and prosaic iconography, are somewhat reminiscent of Pop Art), the work exhibited in the four galleries occupying the basement of the Gezira Arts Centre reflects the disillusion and uncertainty not only of life but of art -- "a stumbling procession", as one gallery-goer put it.
But it would take more than a touch of cynicism to dismiss the sustained creative effort and intellectual determination behind each of these 18 artists' careers as sheer stumbling. Certainly, their respect for each others individuality and their willingness to accept difference testify to the gradual emergence of a collective 1990s movement -- a pluralistic, exploratory vision in which the search for roots in an increasingly rootless environment is challenged by the struggle to attain an idiom sufficiently articulate to be understood by the international art world. What unites them further, of course, are the realities by which they are bound.
"Art is art regardless of its time," asserts Dina El-Gharib, whose refreshingly inventive collages point up the ironies of the cityscape, and "if it truly expressed me, it would naturally express my times, my age, all the experiences I've had. But you can't impose things on the work in that way. Visions from the 1990s, the 1990s Generation -- that really isn't so relevant. Since we live in the same place at the same time, I suppose we have something in common, and maybe exhibitions like this will actually help us interact more, because it's a chance to meet and get to know each other's work. But what counts is the work each of us has done."
From top: Islam Zahir, Sahar El-Amir and Adel Tharwat
photos: Sherif Sonbol
The same place at the same time can lead to widely divergent paths, though, and reference to reality is not always paramount among the priorities of the last decade. The impression of complete disorientation produced by Diaa El-Din Dawoud's pottery is but one example of the subtle, convoluted link between reality and its artistic image, in terms of both subject and technique. His sculptures intimate contorted limbs, gigantic gaping jaws, unearthly horns. Body parts deprived of bodies hang threateningly in mid-air. One may conclude that the psychic dislocation portrayed refers to repressive belief systems in which the body is denied. Society is criticised in the most unexpected way. But what is original about Dawood's display of physical agony is the medium in which it is executed, which gives the sculptures an uncanny texture and shine. Everything remains in horrifying repose, neither alive nor yet quite dead.
Others, in the attempt to reflect the specificity of their situation ("it's not as if we just follow whatever is current in the West -- it is absolutely necessary to realise where we are"), practice a more conventional realism or, like erudite antiquarians, seek out long-forgotten symbols and motifs from history, folklore and myth. In Mohsen Allam's small-scale etchings, for example, the figure of the cockerel occupies centre-stage in what appears to be a mythologised reinvention of small-town everyday life. There are no peasants or palm trees here -- only the cockerel, graceful and majestic, almost human, striding over buildings and lamp-posts and connecting the earth with the sky.
Large landscapes by Ashraf El-Zamzami and Omar Abdel-Zaher, too, use elements of folklore to reflect ironically on idyllic visions of the countryside, while the figures in Sanaa Mousa's primitivist cityscapes hint at the wiles and guiles of overpopulation.
Adel Tharwat's mixed-media compositions employ the folk heritage in ways that are both more neutral and more direct. On large vertical blocks, he juxtaposes objects taken from Ancient Egyptian and modern folk mythology -- the talismanic doll, the crocodile, the chameleon, the rams' horns, the cloth used for wrapping a mummified head -- with prosaic boxes, mysterious, senseless shapes, calligraphic symbols and incantations taken from old books on magic. Frequently, he uses gold backgrounds -- a feature common to both Ancient Egyptian and Islamic murals. But this is far from simplistic work. Everything here is elaborately structured and detailed, everything tailored to the needs of a composition that is glaringly three-dimensional. "I've worked with mixed media since I graduated in 1990, though the subject I teach at the Faculty of Art Education is actually painting. Well, I used to tackle political subjects, war, that kind of thing. But recently I've been drawn to ancient creeds and esoteric symbols. A work of art is not a narrative, though. There's no story to tell, only a feeling, the vaguest perception of form, that I sketch out on paper and later develop into one of the works you see. But everything changes when I actually start working, the sketch is no more than a reminder and a way of getting to grips with the transitory thoughts that you start with. Then things begin to present themselves in a different way...
"Yes," Tharwat continues, "I feel you could say there is such a thing as the 1990s generation. Of course, we don't constitute anything like a school, each and every one of us has his own orientation, but we all, or at least most of us, emerged out of the Youth Salon, which was founded in 1989." In fact it was probably the opening of this lively institution that gave rise to a sustained milieu in which young artists could develop their styles, showcase their work and respond to audiences. Though functioning under the auspices of the Ministry of Culture, the Youth Salon has provided a consistently open environment for young artists to practice. Far from officially oriented or conventionally high-brow, it has allowed for inventiveness and individualism, and provided many an artist with the opportunity to participate in workshops both at home and abroad. "That's how we benefit from each others' work," Tharwat explains, "even though we don't work along the same lines. It was the Youth Salon that created an integrated movement that is nevertheless free of the constraints and restrictions of a school..."
Ashraf El-Ghazali's video-generated images, on the other hand, shun representation altogether, opting instead for a soothing sentimentality, though he is not the only participant with a propensity for abstract expressionism. Aliaa El-Gereidi's oil paintings deploy strong contrasts of colour to achieve a troubling, aesthetically repulsive effect, and in the chaos of her forms nothing can be discerned except, perhaps, a few hazy buildings and the black, indistinct contours of a female figure. Hamdi Attia imitates Japanese prints in an attempt to portray his own version of the urban chaos. But Samar El-Amir is probably the most remarkable of the 1990s abstract expressionists. Her colourful, mosaic-like compositions manage to be both intellectually reflective and emotionally euphoric, while at the same time remaining more or less purely abstract.
El-Ghazali's work is significant because it epitomises the working process of the generation of the 1990s artists. A workshop held in the course of last year's Youth Salon had drawn him away from experiments with mixed-media composition and collage, and towards the artistic potential of modern technology. Through concentrating intently on what could be captured with a camcorder, this year he effected what he considers his greatest breakthrough to date. "I'd always been intrigued by the encounter between colours and water," he explains, "these complex, flowing formations, the slow movement of the paint as it spreads... So what happened was this. After the workshop, where two groups of artists -- one Egyptian, one European -- completed two remarkable projects (neither, by the way, had anything to do with paint and water or anything like that, it was all about people in an urban environment), I felt that this kind of work could really be of use to us here. So I spent a long, long time filming the unique spectacle of paint and water mixing. The results were fed into a computer, and I made the prints.
"As you can see," and he points to the small screen where the film is playing, "these are formations that no artist could possibly achieve by hand or even with straightforward photography, but you feel the need to express them nonetheless... And no, they do not refer to anything in particular, though of course there is no reason the technique shouldn't be deployed in a different way. This is an initial step, and what counts is the discovery."
But the discovery can manifest itself in more conventional ways. Psychological realities too have a claim to make on the 1990s generation. In his oil paintings and charcoal drawings, Islam Zahir strikes a level-headed balance between the urge to express an inner feeling and the obligation to represent the world in a realistic, hence accessible, way. Existential male figures, semi-nude, occupy nondescript interiors in which they seem to be waiting endlessly. "The idea started with my graduation project, in which I wanted to portray that sense of disappointment, of disillusion, which seems to beset so many of us as soon as we start out. I have been sticking with the same topic since then, though of course it has gone through various stages of development. I think we have an obligation to portray the world as we see it, as it presents itself to us, and there is no doubt that our lives have been beset by disappointments. It's easy to say that young artists should follow in the footsteps of their teachers, but our world is an altogether different one, and you can only respond to what you have... I always work with models, and they must be people I know, not just anyone. I must know about their lives and their feelings and their particular disappointments so as to capture the truth. As you can see these people are waiting, they're disillusioned and almost in despair. And this is my sense of the situation we are in... I think it's great that the artists here are so different to each other, even though they're familiar with each other's work. There is a lot of peer learning going on."
So the vitality of the 1990s generation is not so aimless as it first appears. The exhibition may not have any one great work or artist in its midst, but the variety and interest of what it has to offer go far beyond the surface. For the last two decades the art scene has been dormant, awaiting radical changes that would bring it back to life. A visit to the basement of the Gezira Arts Centre suggests that that transformation may well be underway.
