“Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky.”
—Ojibwe proverb
(I came across this quote while trying to make sense of the darkness I was in. It stayed with me ever since.)
“Colored Air”
This project didn’t begin with an idea. It began with a heaviness I couldn’t explain, a silence inside me. On August 4, 2020, the ignition
of 2,750 tonnes of ammonium nitrate at Beirut’s port caused a blast equal to 1.1 kilotons of TNT. Over 200 people died. Thousands
were injured. 300,000 were displaced. Entire neighborhoods disappeared.
I lost my home, my studio, everything I knew. I fell into depression. That moment cracked something open in me.
Without realizing it, I began looking for what still felt alive. And slowly, life started revealing itself again. Or maybe it was always there,
waiting for me to be still enough to see it.
I used to pass things by. Now, they’re in the air. The air feels colored.
This is a tribute to existence, and to those still here, especially in the Middle East, where we carry so much: grief, uncertainty, noise.
Still, there’s beauty in our small worlds.
We grow used to the mundane and forget how strange life is. But in quiet, subtle moments, life is full of mystery. That mystery lives in
the things we overlook.
I don’t chase those moments anymore. They come to me. They’re everywhere.
This isn’t a statement or a project in the traditional sense. It’s a way of stepping outside myself. A way of being present.
Some might call it meditation. I don’t. It’s simply being alive, and seeing how strange that is.
This work is a trace of that strangeness. Bittersweet. Still. Breathing.
Some people call it meditation. I don’t. For me, it’s simply being alive, and seeing how strange that is. How strange it is to exist at all.
This work is just a trace of that strangeness. Bittersweet. Still. And breathing.
