Had Hazem Harb not been an artist, he could have pursued architecture or interior design as a profession. As one steps into the Palestinian artist's Dubai studio, they are greeted with classical music playing softly in the background while large charcoal drawings of victimized figures hang precisely side by side, a small globe model is slathered with thick blobs of paint representing the colours of the Palestinian flag, and a nearby wooden table is embellished with a simple cloth of Palestinian embroidery and a large metal key, symbolising 'the hopeful return' to the homeland.
Harb, who was educated in Rome, is also an avid collector of old Palestinian artefacts, including books, maps and photographs. Like many Palestinians around the world, his heart and his mind are on his home country. “My life has been turned upside down,” he says, eight months into Israel's assault on Gaza and its civilians, leading to rousing worldwide protests. During this time of great difficulty, the artist found himself revisiting the past in terms of artistic mediums and styles he had previously experimented with and put to bed.
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In our native Arabic tongue, I mentioned to him that in English there is a term for what he went through: "A full-circle moment". He enthusiastically agrees, as he feels it perfectly encapsulates where he is right now in his notable career, which began two decades ago. Over the years, Harb has tried his hand at archival imagery, collage work and impassioned figuration. It seems that the message in his oeuvre, delving into Palestinian history, geography and trauma, is, simply: Not to forget.
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In an in-depth and personal conversation with AD, the Palestinian artist opens up about his childhood in his homeland, building his dream house in Gaza, and his role as an artist during a time of crisis.
Hazem, you were born in Gaza in 1980. I was wondering if you could paint a picture of what it was like growing up there. What do you remember the most?
I was born into a family of eight children in one of Gaza’s oldest neighbourhoods – called Shejaiya – which in Arabic comes from the word “bravery”. With its downtown area, markets, ancient monuments, mosques and churches, it is a famous and heavily populated neighbourhood. I feel as if I was born in an intense cultural volcano. I had somewhat of a good childhood, but at the same time, it was ruined by the First Intifada in 1987. I still remember its beginnings. Because of safety concerns, we were deprived of many things, such as playing in the streets. It was traumatic because at any moment the army of the Israeli occupation could come to your neighbourhood and cause harassment.
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At school, I was obsessed with art. There was a room that was specialised just for the arts, and I was always committed to this space. I even remember when I was maybe six or seven years old, there was a mural in our school and I, unconsciously, was just standing right in front it and staring at it for no particular reason. Something pulled me towards it. I later joined the Young Men's Christian Association (YMCA), where I did my first studies in art, in Gaza. Not a day passed by without spending time there – making art, writing poetry and listening to music.
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I always mention my late mother, because she was the first who encouraged me and understood who I was. My father was always away, working in the occupied territories or travelling, so I was closer to my mother, who played a significant role in my life.
She was a seamstress, who created her own garments by drawing and cutting them. I will never forget that she had a massive catalogue, which contained hand-drawn international designs from the Seventies. I was always looking through it. So, in a way, I grew up in a creative household and was influenced by my mother and her fashion books.
I once said that I felt I came out of my mother’s body holding a paintbrush and a pen. I haven’t thought of anything else, except for art.
You speak so fondly of Gaza, despite the difficulties you endured. Are there some misconceptions about your hometown that you wish to correct?
Historically, Gaza is one of the most beautiful cities on the Mediterranean coast. We are talking about a city that is at least 4,000 years old. It went through incredible eras, from the Romans to the Canaanites to the Byzantines and the Ottomans. I remember from my childhood, we were living like any other person on the coastlines of Cyprus, Latakia, or Beirut – even Italy, which is a couple of steps away from Gaza.
The port of Gaza was possibly one of the strategic gateways, where trading ships from abroad passed through, to Asia. What I want to say is that Gaza was always an open city; its people are cultured and educated. I was actually in Gaza last September and I was living ‘la dolce vita’, where you have the view of the sea, the most beautiful sunrise and sunset. People there have always loved life, because they were historically connected with the world. They are facing the world.
Unfortunately, Gaza carried a huge burden when Palestine was occupied in 1948. Displaced families were put into refugee camps – such as Al-Shati, Bureij and Rafah – there. Gaza’s population increased, in one go, from, for example, 40,000 people to one million. So, Gaza endured a major responsibility. But still, I have beautiful memories there with my family and my friends. That’s all in the past now.
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You mentioned that the last time you were in Gaza was in September 2023, just a month prior to the October 7 attacks and the ongoing slaughter in Gaza, which sounds surreal in hindsight.
I went there with my childhood friend, the artist Mohammed Joha, who hadn’t been to Gaza in nearly twelve years. We both encouraged each other to go to Gaza. We were so happy there, living every moment and visiting cafes and restaurants. We even visited our school. In every street and neighbourhood, we were looking for our memories.
There was something strange about this particular visit. It felt as if we were actually saying goodbye to our city, and it deceived us by not telling us the truth of what was to come. I’m not saying that we lost hope and my city is completely diminished, but its physicality is gone. I can’t process the fact that when I’ll go back to Gaza, I won't find the Omari Mosque (the city’s oldest mosque, dating back to the 14th century). It no longer feels like my city. Can you imagine, for example, going to Damascus and not finding the Ummayad Mosque, or the Pyramids in Egypt?
On this trip, I was taking pictures like crazy of everything in Gaza, from my school to a dish of rice that my sister cooked. She invited me to her home, which had a large salon and overlooked the sea, where she prepared a feast. And now, she’s staying in a tent. I didn’t know that these would be the ‘last’ images I would take of Gaza.
Nearly eight months have passed since Israel’s assault on Gaza. You are here in Dubai, whereas your family is back home in Gaza. How has it impacted you, personally and artistically?
My life has been completely turned upside down. Everything has changed, even my personal perception of the world and my understanding of life. I started asking myself difficult questions, such as: What are human rights? Being an artist, it has completely affected my artistic methods. I started out in my career with figurative paintings and drawings, and then I moved on to collage, sculpture and installation art. I put figurative painting on the side, because I experimented enough with it, but I never stopped sketching. Suddenly, I found myself making a charcoal series, Dystopia Is Not A Noun.
During this genocide, I was just sketching without thinking. Unlike using a paintbrush, with charcoal there was no disconnection between my body, my hand and the artwork. It was so direct. I love using charcoal a lot in my sketches. Charcoal was the most suitable medium to depict the current situation. There is a darkness and blackness to it. In fact, charcoal is made of wood being burned, so I was playing with this idea of something burning. And that’s what happened to Gaza. It became a grey city, like concrete, which I used as a colour in these images.
I never thought I’d be making these kinds of figures, which I drew from my gut. I literally felt pain and I wanted to draw to let out my feelings. You’re dealing with fear, anxiety, physical and mental exhaustion, and at the same time, you have to be strong and fight your feelings. These drawings have a lot of lines, scribbles, anger and sadness. Eight months later, I still feel this way, as the genocide is still happening and it’s not stopping. Sometimes, I think to myself, is what we’re seeing real?
In your most recent show, Gauze, earlier this year at Tabari Artspace in Dubai, you showcased a mini-retrospective of your art, from drawings to collages, from over the past twenty years of your career. How did it feel to revisit your past through your own works?
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It’s true that that was the first time I saw a lot of my works right in front of my eyes together in an exhibition. I even had some work that I made in my family's home when I was younger in Gaza. It was a sensitive and delicate moment for me, as a lot of the Gaza artworks should have been burnt or destroyed. The show’s curator, Munira Al Sayegh, called them ‘the survived paintings.’ The works, whether I created them in Gaza or Rome were in dialogue with each other. They represent different experiences and stages of my life.
One of the highlights of this show was a series where you made little artworks by turning medical strips of gauze into haunting figurines. It looks as if you were making small statues out of these fluid ‘souls'. How did the idea come about?
This wasn’t the first time that I used gauze in my work. Back in 2000, I used it in a performance that was related to my mother’s illness. Twenty years later, I am working with gauze again but in a completely different context. This series has 22 individual works, where I posed the idea of where gauze comes from. Historically, gauze was invented in Gaza, which over the years was famous for its textiles, carpets and silk. Imagine, over the years, Gaza had more than 400 factories for gauze production. So, it is ironic and sad that Gaza, which exported this material to the world, became deprived of it. I made monuments out of gauze, glueing them onto brown cardboard paper. They represent bodies or souls, along with their stories and memories. They aren’t just numbers or obsolete bodies. In a way, the series eternalises them.
Do you believe that art has a role to play during distressing times, such as what we are witnessing in Gaza? Looking at your work, it seems that you are documenting, archiving and reinterpreting the story of Palestine, but there is sometimes a subtle element of resistance too.
In principle, it is not the responsibility of art to change anything. It is not the responsibility of art to perform miracles. The responsibility of art is to draw your attention to matters that can’t be seen in reality. There’s creation in the process. That’s the magic of art — I am showing you something that isn’t there. The drawings of the Dystopia Is Not A Noun series weren’t ‘there’ in the first place, but they just suddenly appeared on paper.
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I always say that in art, there is a kind of human responsibility. I feel I have a responsibility in what I present artistically. I feel it’s important for an artist to discuss human, personal and collective causes. One day, my work might become a sort of archive, or become a part of history, a legacy – placed in a museum or acquired by someone. I am grateful that while I am alive, I was able to see my work enter the collections of The British Museum, Centre Pompidou, LACMA and other foundations.
I feel that art has to tell the truth and has to explain matters. It has to express. I’ve said before that the artist is kind of an actor of resistance, as if you are challenging a certain situation. You are fighting for something. All I can do as an artist, and as an advocate for the Palestinian cause, is defend my identity through my art. It is my duty. I don’t want to call it “soft power”, because I’m not convinced of this term. But I do feel in art, there is a form of resistance, and I try to stay away from clichés in my work.
Because I lived outside of Palestine – in Europe and elsewhere – I view my history and cause with a different perspective. I saw how important our history was, from the outside. So I wanted to show our history, by using archival images, in a different way. I don’t want it to be too nostalgic, even though you can’t completely avoid it. Sometimes, nostalgia can be painful, because of certain memories. In the context of Palestine, part of our history has been lost, and I wanted to analyze and show how the geography of Palestine has changed with the Occupation.
One of the unfortunate events that personally happened to you in recent months is that your own home in Gaza, which you put a lot of effort into, was destroyed. Can you elaborate on what it meant to you as an architectural endeavour?
It was always my dream to have a house in Gaza. Of course, I had my family's house, where I was born and raised, but I wanted to build my own house that resembles me. I also wanted to pay tribute to my mother by displaying her belongings, especially her porcelain. It had my library and some of my artworks. As for the travertine marble, I imported it from Italy. I acted as an interior designer and took my time in building my house with the help of my brother. I generally love the modern Art Deco style, which was how I designed my home. I don't really like minimalism, because it feels lifeless.
Gaza is known for its handmade crafts, and I was always trying to support local artisans by buying their products. Whenever I went to Gaza, I visited the Atfaluna Society for Deaf Children, one of the most important centres for embroidery in Palestine, and possibly the Arab world. They also have a carpentry unit, founded by a masterful carpenter, Hashem Ghazal, who was deaf. He was sadly martyred in May. From the centre, I bought bamboo and ‘Khaizaran’-style (straw and wood) chairs and embroideries, including a carpet, which I filled my home with.
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This house really had its own unique story. I did my best to have my dream house in Gaza. I am thankful that I achieved this dream. I bought the apartment in 2020 and worked on it only for it to disappear, and that’s what happened.
It was reduced to rubble by dynamites and we couldn’t save anything. Honestly, the hardest part for me was my father seeing it getting destroyed.
I have a feeling that if you weren’t a visual artist, you could have been an architect or an interior designer. How did your interest in architecture begin?
I think being in Rome affected me a lot, visually and emotionally. It’s an architecturally intense city, famous for its Baroque and Renaissance buildings, that changed my life. I slowly became interested in architecture, and I felt there was an architect inside of me. That’s why I designed my own house in Gaza and I have used geometric shapes a lot in my works. Even when I’m planning my exhibitions, I always draw out their spaces and create maquettes.
Speaking of architecture, you once mentioned that you hoped to establish a museum one day in Gaza. How do you envision its appearance and purpose?
It was always my dream to build a simple museum overlooking the sea, as if it’s in dialogue with the world. Gaza doesn’t have a museum of contemporary art, but a few heritage museums. I would like to call it “Gaza Contemporary Art Museum”. It would have my works, my collection and some of Gaza’s history. Let’s see. . . We are still dealing with a huge tragedy. In reality, Gaza needs tens of years to be cleaned up. I don’t know how the city will look like then. So, let’s say that the museum is a delayed dream – for now – just so we don’t lose hope.
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