In a period of three months, I asked 28 people about God.

 I recorded the visual reactions of the answers during the 3 months dialogues. I focused on each individual, recording the tiny and ambiguous details and reading them again to detect emotions of worry, doubt, fear and indifference. The visual reaction is more truthful. I counted on that reaction more than I counted on the spoken language itself.

Language sometimes may consist of a simple collection of diction. The motive behind this research and dialogues that took 90 days with 28 subjects such as artists, writers, thinkers, actors, students and laborers was the search for belief in Allah. Would their chances and lives change when their faith has greatly changed? This research project led me to many questions, but not to a definite answer.

The piece is about the division in social class. Daniah used 2 typical views, one of rooftops and their haphazard TV dishes, the other is of a garden. Each View represents one social class. The more one is high on the social ladder, the better view one had. But humans have more things in common than not. We focus on eye level pleasures, but forget to look up and see we all share one sky, one heaven. The sky is represented symbolically by the 7  heavens,  7 devisions of different blues. The red triangles encourages the viewer to look up instead of downwards. Red being the colour of all humans, the colour of blood.

The direct translation of Kul is ‘all’ or ‘everything’. However, the connotation of the word Kul in the Arabic language is so much more complex in its all-encompassing meaning and implication of infinity.  This meaning is compounded by the artist’s technique of calligraphically depicting the word Kul repeatedly, so that it resembles an endless ripple effect. 

The impression of never-ending repetition is not merely a reflection of God’s abundance on Earth, but an indication to look both further, and deeper, to penetrate the mere appearance and surface of things, to discover the hidden messages that all aesthetic creation hold.

Once, we thought the atom was the smallest particle, before we discovered that it was made of numerous smaller ones, as we once thought that the extent of our universe was the Milky Way Galaxy, before we discovered that there were hundreds of billions more galaxies out there.  As God’s creation is infinite, and while we can say or write the word ‘infinite’ easily, it is impossible to imagine as it extends far beyond the human brain’s capacity for comprehension. Therefore, if one thinks of Kul too deeply or for too long, they might realize that it doesn’t exist; there is no ‘all’ or ‘everything’.

The series Maharem originated from the tissue box which middle to lower income families traditionally exhibit in their sitting room for their guests’ convenience. These boxes are usually lavishly decorated with velvet and kitsch gold rims and are often considered decorative masterpieces, a source of pride to the lady of the house. The artist physically manipulates the tissue box, ripping it bare of the comfort of the velvet coating. He then prints movie imagery onto the rough wood, overlaying the scenes and portraits with the direct language of popular sayings, proverbs and riddles.

In Azkiya’a Laken Aghbiya’a, Daydban covers the boxes with fragments of film imagery – actors faces and shreds of titles, subtitles and names. The artist uses the language of fractured montage to reference the saturation of conflicting messaging we receive on a daily basis. Similar to a previous work entitled Love (2013), there is a visual harmony to the work when viewed from a distance, yet on closer inspection we are confronted with discord and uneasy interjections. The artist is commenting on notions of identity, he believes that societies in the Arab world are currently on an unknown trajectory – whilst waters seemingly move in one direction, underlying are currents of uncertainty and unrest. There is a suspense surrounding thoughts and notions of the future, the countries’ identities are being redefined and yet not one person is clear or in control of the proposed or possible conclusion. The only reliable constant in this world being the empathy between us, one for the other. 

Text by Lara Khaldi

Archaeology of Occupation and TAG are two new bodies of work by artist Hazem Harb. In the collage series Harb juxtaposes pre nakba (1948) photographs of Palestinian landscapes with concrete heavy masses in the horizon of some of the images. Among many things, Harb has been experimenting with the relationship between sculpture and painting; collage as a technique seems to be very fitting, not only in terms of formal experimentation, but as a reference from modernist works of art. Harb is referencing modernism in relation to architecture, the occupation of Palestine and the Bauhaus style that worked hand in hand with military occupation. The series emphasizes a history of colonialism, where the fraught concretions are levitating ominously above Palestinian coastal skies. Thus the collage is double fold: the photos show a landscape devoid of people representing a biblical landscape while the concrete cut outs preempt the arrival of colonial modernizing concrete onto the horizon of the cities. But how does one read it from the present, or from the future? Perhaps in reverse? 

The TAG series is posing a question to the past in a very contemporary familiar language of tagging. The photos, also archival pre dating 1948, show faces and bodies that seem to be inhabiting their native landscapes, but that almost ornament them rather than pose a physical presence. The act of tagging that Harb introduces is both an effacing and an affirming act. It is worth noting that, during iconoclastic periods in Ottoman times, a line was added onto the neck of the figure in miniature paintings as to annul any animate affect. Thus Harb's work is not only a nuanced affirmation of the presence of people in that landscape, but is also a question about contemporary ways of self-legitimation and archival tendencies on social media and the internet. 

Text by Lara Khaldi

Archaeology of Occupation and TAG are two new bodies of work by artist Hazem Harb. In the collage series Harb juxtaposes pre nakba (1948) photographs of Palestinian landscapes with concrete heavy masses in the horizon of some of the images. Among many things, Harb has been experimenting with the relationship between sculpture and painting; collage as a technique seems to be very fitting, not only in terms of formal experimentation, but as a reference from modernist works of art. Harb is referencing modernism in relation to architecture, the occupation of Palestine and the Bauhaus style that worked hand in hand with military occupation. The series emphasizes a history of colonialism, where the fraught concretions are levitating ominously above Palestinian coastal skies. Thus the collage is double fold: the photos show a landscape devoid of people representing a biblical landscape while the concrete cut outs preempt the arrival of colonial modernizing concrete onto the horizon of the cities. But how does one read it from the present, or from the future? Perhaps in reverse? 

The TAG series is posing a question to the past in a very contemporary familiar language of tagging. The photos, also archival pre dating 1948, show faces and bodies that seem to be inhabiting their native landscapes, but that almost ornament them rather than pose a physical presence. The act of tagging that Harb introduces is both an effacing and an affirming act. It is worth noting that, during iconoclastic periods in Ottoman times, a line was added onto the neck of the figure in miniature paintings as to annul any animate affect. Thus Harb's work is not only a nuanced affirmation of the presence of people in that landscape, but is also a question about contemporary ways of self-legitimation and archival tendencies on social media and the internet. 

Text by Lara Khaldi

Archaeology of Occupation and TAG are two new bodies of work by artist Hazem Harb. In the collage series Harb juxtaposes pre nakba (1948) photographs of Palestinian landscapes with concrete heavy masses in the horizon of some of the images. Among many things, Harb has been experimenting with the relationship between sculpture and painting; collage as a technique seems to be very fitting, not only in terms of formal experimentation, but as a reference from modernist works of art. Harb is referencing modernism in relation to architecture, the occupation of Palestine and the Bauhaus style that worked hand in hand with military occupation. The series emphasizes a history of colonialism, where the fraught concretions are levitating ominously above Palestinian coastal skies. Thus the collage is double fold: the photos show a landscape devoid of people representing a biblical landscape while the concrete cut outs preempt the arrival of colonial modernizing concrete onto the horizon of the cities. But how does one read it from the present, or from the future? Perhaps in reverse? 

The TAG series is posing a question to the past in a very contemporary familiar language of tagging. The photos, also archival pre dating 1948, show faces and bodies that seem to be inhabiting their native landscapes, but that almost ornament them rather than pose a physical presence. The act of tagging that Harb introduces is both an effacing and an affirming act. It is worth noting that, during iconoclastic periods in Ottoman times, a line was added onto the neck of the figure in miniature paintings as to annul any animate affect. Thus Harb's work is not only a nuanced affirmation of the presence of people in that landscape, but is also a question about contemporary ways of self-legitimation and archival tendencies on social media and the internet.