Hazem,
Sorry, I was wearing another “hat” for the last few day, I was preoccupied by designing the Analemma, and today, I had very productive morning with the mathematician.
Congratulations to your father’s (Takreem) for his life’s work on literature and poetry, I’ll be delighted to read some of his work, let me have a link to his work if possible.
Seeing you and your family reminded me with mine, now I am going to tell you this story about my children:
“In November 2000 I shared an exhibition with my then three-year-old son Mourad, which we called “is / am”. We both worked on old book-covers. This is the introduction to the show:
“He is, therefore I am. The son partakes of the father. But father can also partake of son. Issam Kourbaj (37) has drawn on the painting of his son Mourad (3) to explore images of his own childhood. The son paints the father who paints the son and, in turn, his own father, re-tracing the child’s first faltering steps in paint back to his own origins in the black mountains of southern Syria. As big Kourbaj responds to small Kourbaj’s pictures, he has flashbacks to buried memories of family, relatives, shopkeepers, trees, toys, brushes, machinery, cats, calligraphy, boats, and chewing gum.”
My son was the artist, and I was following his foot steps. He had no ladders, unlike me. I had many ladders and rather heavy to carry under my skin. The collaboration with my son was an invitation for me to drop them. This was the import of my contribution to Radio 3’s short talks series “Work In Progress”.
In July 2001, I introduced a retrospective exhibition of my work called “Nothing is Constant except Change” from 1990-2000 with this chronology:
1990 I sketched in a bedroom. 91, I began searching for a studio and found Candelaria (my wife). 92, I went to Mexico and discovered colour. 93, I went to the theatre. 94, I learned to cook rice. 95, I returned from Cuba to make clouds and chairs. 96, I moved into the Old Laboratory at Newnham College. 97, I exhibited at Kettle’s Yard, went back to Syria, found a piano in a skip, and my son Mourad was born. 98, I glued my coat to a painting and sold my sketchbook to the British Museum. 99, my teacher died (Moudarres), I watched workmen painting yellow lines, and made kwads. 2000 I took up aerial photography, painted on old book covers with Mourad, and my second son Sami was born.
On the morning of Monday 24th Feb 2003, my then 5 years old son Mourad woke up with an inquisitive mind, and asked me:
How the day comes?
It was a rather universal question, I didn’t dare to answer. I asked him back, what do you think? He replied:
Is it the same as snow?
God throws snowflakes,
and God throws light flakes.
Then God throws clouds,
and at night, he throws stars.
But when it rains,
God throws rain flakes.
And when it is windy,
God throws paper.
When it is frosty,
God throws something,
I do not know,
but it is frost!
Since then, I couldn’t help it; I took his thought on board and still reflect on it some years later.”
Many thanks for the dusty memories of Damascus, and for reminding me of many of its corners (I realised that the Faculty of fine art was near the Al Tahreer Square, not near the 7 Fountains as in one of my early posts!)
I could see that you have had many stories about borders; your story, scenes of a disco in Copenhagen, your Camera with its “erotic” content, your lost passport, the Danish police station, Istanbul and finally entering Damascus with papers written in English, and a month of being sleep! Did you ever find your passport?
I very much liked the quality of your (the Power of the moment) black and white images, the all have something joyous, but deprived chilhood, particularly (the 2nd picture) the one with the boy dangling from the swing, it has rather poignant.
As for the power of the faces, I wanted to ask where in Syria are these “rich” landscapes of faces? again I found both the images of the lady with the glasses and the children in the background and the man who is selling “nothing” in his dark shop and empty scales very moving.
Talk soon, and tell me why are very happy!?
Issam
