Blood ties
Some people are closer than they think, writes Nader Habib
In some families, both parents and children show the same creative inclinations, giving rise to generations of artists bearing the same name. Alaa Lotfi is a case in point. "My son loves art. For him it's a way of expressing himself, not simply a pastime or something to imitate." After watching a movie, the six- year-old Ahmed would sketch out the scenes that affected him the most. Both Alaa and his wife Nashwa are painters, and he noticed that when they stop, Ahmed stops too. "It's like some form of collective inspiration is driving us." Ahmed is lucky because of his mother's job, too. As an art teacher it is her duty to discover a natural inclination for drawing and encourage it. "It's a mixture of motor skills and imagination," she explains. "A child who can paint has both the imagination and the muscle control required to give it form." At kindergarten Ahmed already could draw a circle, a triangle, a square. What he has learned since is to develop images into a story. "He can produce a certain colour balance," Nashwa says, "without guidance."
Alaa says Ahmed is in love with art: he would rather paint than play any game, given the chance. "It's a second language of his, because he's the only one who can explain his drawings. I don't intend to force him to turn his hobby into a career but I will certainly pass onto him all the tools and the knowledge that I have." Nashwa first noticed Ahmed's talent when he started playing with toy cars. "He would try to draw the cars and show how they move on paper, the first stage of his artistic development. Once he was allowed to use a brush, he began exploring motion and speed with much more focus. Of course it helped to have all the necessary materials at hand, but we also started to guide him, showing him that motion could be conveyed in a way other than drawing concentric wheels, for example. But we would always do it on a separate piece of paper." Ahmed had just contributed The Sea, signed Sonic, to a collective exhibition. "I signed with the name Sonic because it is strange sounding. In The Sea, you find people sitting under a pergola, playing with a ball, and going out to swim. I painted the sea so I could remember it until we went there again. Papa and Mama help me, it's true, but I'm the one who made this whole painting."
Indeed he is so wilful Nashwa refers to him as a dictator. "Sometimes he asks me how to draw a certain thing, then he goes ahead and draws what he feels like anyway." Ahmed has left his mark, literally, on every wall in the house, especially during his mask phase, when he painted nothing but masks. "He believed he could protect the house by drawing masks," Alaa explains. "He did one on the entrance and went on to do others so that if a guest escaped one mask, another got him, just as it happens in the cartoons. He also understands that painting on walls is more durable which reflects an instinct for survival and sense of belonging." It was Nashwa who, having let him paint on the walls for a while, eventually persuaded him to see the advantages of paper. "He came around." But it was necessary to let him have his way because, to discover a child's talent, a certain amount of freedom is required. "The child should have his own corner in the house for his things: toys, paper and paints, musical instruments. Then you should wait and see which he goes for. We mustn't take a child's playing lightly. Give him everything you can, and never make fun of anything he does. What a child does is serious and valuable. It's vital to respect a child's mentality and his work. Give him a variety of tools and let him choose."
Indeed Ahmed has even inspired Alaa. "I created a cartoon character modelled on Ahmed. I called it Dudu, a small, kind boy who keeps getting into trouble and making trouble for others without realising it. There is also a character called Super Dudu, a kind of a superhero who can do impossible things." Nashwa explains that children are fascinated by superheroes. "The idea of someone able to do what ordinary mortals cannot fascinated Alaa himself, I think. It's perfectly natural: to think that as ordinary people we have only two feet to walk on, two hands to work with, and can concentrate on a maximum of two tasks at the same time. It's only natural to imagine something better. Ahmed's father realised that fantasy in the image of Ahmed."
But Ahmed is not the only one. Annie, the seven-year-old daughter of artist Ayah Fouad and art professor Mohamed Abdel-Moneim, would demand paper and paints every time she saw them painting, and get down to business. "This was nice in itself," Ayah explains, "but in time I realised she had talent for mixing colours, holding the brush. She would even insist on using oil, which was far too advanced for her age." Annie's focus has shifted from people to animals. "She asked me to make drawings for her, but I gave her books so she could learn by herself. Whenever Abdel-Moneim comes home from a trip, the first thing she does is show him what she's drawn, and he often responds with something like, 'I'd like you to teach me, Annie!'" According to art critic Wagdi Habashi, artistic families of this kind are indeed quite common. He cites the family of Salah Taher in the plastic arts, the family of Farid Shawqi in acting, and the family of Abdel-Halim Nuweira in music. "What sets those children apart," he writes, "is that they grow up in the right climate."
Caption: Jenan and Ahmed at work
C a p t i o n 2: Jenan and Ahmed at work
Al-Ahram Weekly Online : Located at: http://weekly.ahram.org.eg/2007/854/li1.htm