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by Alexandra Mansilla
Understanding Adversity Through Art. Interview with Hana El-Sagini
6 Feb 2025
"Counting Fingers" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
Hana El-Sagini is an Egyptian multidisciplinary artist working with painting, installation, and sculpture, exploring sensitive themes of memory, trauma, and loss. But you will never feel weighed down while looking at her work — no. She plays with these topics, trying to understand them. And she has every right to do so — Hana has been through a lot in her life.
One of her most significant works is "Counting Fingers" — an exhibition dedicated to breast cancer, which Hana has successfully overcome (though she doesn’t prefer the word overcome — she says, “This work was about processing and understanding.”). It was also her first time working with ceramics. And should I even say how incredible the result was? Oh, absolutely. I would love to pick up each piece and take a closer look at every detail.
Looking at this work and knowing Hana's story, you can feel both the pain and the strength of the artist behind it. And yet, you can’t help but be fascinated by how she plays with everything — turning even the heaviest subjects into something profound and compelling.
We spoke with Hana for over an hour, diving deep into her work — from her earlier pieces (trust me, don’t miss them!) to "Counting Fingers" and "The Greenest Room", a new installation which you can see at Sikka right now.
P.S. We highly recommend checking out Hana’s website — it is incredible. The ceramic scissors? They are flying!
— Hello, Hana! You come from a family with a long history in the arts — could you tell us more about that?
— That is true, I come from a long line of artists — I’m a fourth-generation one. My father was a surrealist painter, very traditional and academic in his approach. He had a thing for using shoes as metaphors in his work — female shoes representing women, male shoes for men, building entire stories around them. My grandfather was a multimedia artist, a huge inspiration to me, even though I never met him. My great-grandfather was also a well-known painter in the Middle Eastern art scene.
Growing up in an artist’s household, I almost took art for granted. It was everywhere. Our home was filled with paintings and sculptures. But my childhood was far from stable, both financially and emotionally. Having an artist for a father meant living unpredictably. As much as he loved us, he never wanted the responsibilities that came with family life — he just wanted to create. But art alone didn’t pay the bills, so he had to work in advertising, something he never loved since he had to adhere to “Client Needs” and not create freely. Some months, we had everything, and others, we had to cut back on even the basics. (One month, we had a lux life, the next — nothing. It was a cycle of abundance and scarcity.
My childhood was also very different from my friends’. I was a professional basketball player, part of a team where everyone’s families had a structured life — fathers with steady jobs and predictable routines. Meanwhile, I spent my summers camping in the desert for two months, learning to navigate public transportation alone. My father believed we should always be prepared to face poverty at any time, so he toughened us up. And while it was difficult, I’m actually really grateful for that now.
— Okay, so you grew up surrounded by art. Did you want to become an artist?
— Actually, no. I always painted with my father, but as a teenager, I did not want to pursue it as a career, I wanted a stable life, so I studied economics and worked in HR for 12 years. I liked the structure, performance reviews, and clear career paths — something my father’s world never had.
By 2014, I was head of talent acquisition at PepsiCo, handling Northeast Africa. It was a big job, I made great money, and my husband and I built a solid life together. But I felt empty. I was running on autopilot. I had a team of 15 people, but I was uninspired. I knew something had to change.
That is when I made the decision — to try being an artist. I had no idea what that actually meant. I was insecure, constantly seeking approval, so I thought, “Okay, let me start with an art school for kids.” It felt structured and safe — I had KPIs and could track progress. I grew up learning art from my father in an intimate setting, and I wanted to recreate that. Plus, I figured teaching kids was less intimidating than putting myself out there as an artist.
Before opening my school, I quit my job and went to Barcelona because, until then, I had never seen art outside my father’s house — let alone outside this country. My ambition isn’t just to be a good artist in Egypt — I need to see where I stand globally. My dad was furious. I can teach you everything — why go to strangers? But I went anyway.
I studied at a small contemporary institute for two months. It was life-changing. I learned new mediums, experimented, met artists, and, most importantly, saw how people talk about art and how they present their work. I’m a fast learner, and I soaked it all in.
When I returned, I opened my art school. My father, despite his initial disapproval, visited me, saw how dynamic everything was, and was so inspired that he started his own new art school back in Cairo, shifting from classical techniques to a more experimental approach.
And then, just two months later, he passed away suddenly.
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Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
— May I ask what happened?
— It was a heart attack. That morning, he was supposed to come to see me on his Harley Davidson, have breakfast, and check out my work. But at 6 AM, I got the call. He was only 61. Strong, sharp, full of life. And suddenly, just gone.
I couldn’t bring myself to close his art school. If life had pushed me to quit my job, there had to be a reason for it. So I took over. I threw myself into the work completely — 24/7. I was obsessed. I had to make it. Everyone in Egypt knew I had left my corporate job, so failure wasn’t an option.
I restructured the school, created a whole new program, brought in tutors, and built a proper one-year curriculum — with modules, exhibitions, everything. It became incredibly successful, and now many artists in Cairo’s scene have come through that program.
After a while, I felt like I had done what I needed to do. I had honoured my father’s legacy, given his students something valuable, and helped build something meaningful. So, I closed the school and moved forward. Before that, though, I organised Magd Magd El Sagini’s Student Exhibition, a tribute to him. That was also when I exhibited my first piece — “Homage to Some Beautiful Things” — a still-life experiment with cutouts inspired by objects he loved.
From there, I focused on my own work. In 2018, I had the opportunity to do my first solo show at Zamalek Art Gallery, one of the best galleries in Egypt — the same place my grandfather had once exhibited. It felt full circle. The show was called “Moments”, and that is where my story as an exhibiting artist really began.
— You have talked a lot about the men in your family — your dad, grandfather, etc. But what about your mom? Could you tell me more about her?
— My mom had a really interesting role. She was my father’s silent rock. My father had such a strong presence — but she was always there, working alongside him. She was his assistant and secretary, managing the art school with him, and later in their life, she was his travelling partner and best friend.
And when I started as an artist, she became my rock, too. She would help with sanding, and prepping first coats — she loved hands-on work. She is an incredibly hard worker, and she enjoys having something to do. Supporting me became part of her routine, and it was also our way to work on our relationship, which was imbalanced after the passing of my father.
I think that is why, after he passed away, she spends time to find her new self that is totally independent, a life without Magd El-Sagini. She is still in Cairo, but she travels a lot now, trying to explore different and new sides of the world and of herself. She also spent a year and a half with me when I was sick — she was by my side the whole time.
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— As a mom who is always looking for good music and art schools, I have noticed how challenging it can be to find a school with teachers who are truly passionate about what they do — those who can genuinely inspire and teach kids. Since you have experience teaching children, have you noticed this as well? And have you come across any other challenges when it comes to teaching kids art?
— 100%. It is a huge issue, and I have seen it firsthand in art schools in Egypt. I will give you an example — teachers there often help kids with their work, sometimes doing a big part of it for them. Parents see the finished piece, are impressed, and praise their child’s "talent" without realising how much assistance went into it.
But here is the problem — those kids don’t want to create on their own in their free time. They have developed a fear that their work won’t look as "good" without the help, and they don’t want to disappoint their parents. So, instead of enjoying art, they end up avoiding it altogether. It makes me so angry because these teachers are setting them up to fail. They don’t give them the space to truly explore their creativity.
That is why I never interfere with my students’ work. I don’t touch their paintings at all. I make demos, I ask questions, I give feedback — but I never physically step in. I even encourage peer critique, no matter their age. Even my youngest students, at seven years old, would be the only ones allowed to see my work and critique it.
Kids are brutally honest. They don’t overthink, they don’t try to sound intellectual or impress anyone — they just see. Their instincts are pure, their artistic balance is natural, and they trust their gut. Unlike adults, they are not weighed down by insecurities or the need to sound "smart." That is why their feedback is often the most valuable.
— So, now, let’s talk about your artworks. A few years ago, you mentioned that "42 Bhagat Ali" was your favourite piece. Is it still your favourite, or has that changed? And could you tell me more about this work?
— Yeah, this show and the last one — “Counting Fingers” — are definitely my two favourites for so many reasons.
So, it all started with “Moments”, my first solo show. I created these small pieces because I have always felt torn between being a painter and a sculptor, so I was searching for this in-between medium. And it was actually during that show, while meeting people in the gallery, that I got the idea for my second exhibition.
After my father passed away, my family home completely changed — not physically, but in spirit. My grandmother also used to live with us, and after she passed, the energy of the place was just... off. I would walk in, and everything was exactly the same, yet nothing felt the same. The objects were all still there, but the spirit was gone. The feeling of the space had shifted.
I wanted to translate that into an exhibition — this idea of everything is still here, but something is missing. A shift in perspective, a change in colour, something slightly off but hard to pinpoint.
The gallery I exhibited in, Zamalek Art Gallery, was perfect for this. It is in an old building in my neighbourhood, and its layout is designed like an actual apartment — you can see where the entrance, bedrooms, and shared spaces would be. I loved that. I wanted to recreate my family home within that setting.
Another challenge for me was that my first solo show had sold out completely. So I had a choice — do I create something similar, keep selling, and become commercially successful? Or do I listen to my gut, take a risk, and make something purely for artistic growth?
So, I decided to be 100% honest with my work, even if it meant the show wouldn’t sell.
At the time, I won The Dean Collection Award, which came with a $5,000 grant. It was perfect timing — I used that money to fund the production of the show. In the end, I didn’t make a financial profit, but I also didn’t take a loss. And more importantly, the artistic gain and learning was huge for me, and it helped me be more grounded and resolve many issues within myself.
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— Why did you choose to depict your house in cold colours?
— I experimented with so many colours, but I kept coming back to Prussian blue. It has such an interesting history — back in the day, blue was one of the most expensive pigments to obtain. Artists like Vermeer were even said to have gone into debt just to afford it. Then, by accident, Prussian blue became the first synthetic blue ever created in a lab.
I really connected with that story. I’m a very controlling person when it comes to my work — I plan everything, I have schedules, and I like things to go exactly as I intend. But this colour? It was born out of complete chaos, an accident. There was something poetic about embracing that in my process.
It is also not a happy colour, but it has a certain calmness to it. And since this was a deeply melancholic project, using Prussian blue just made sense. The monochromatic palette felt right. Of course, I experimented a lot before landing on it — greens, furnace tones, everything. But this shade carried the exact weight and serenity I was looking for.
Another key element was perspective — something I became obsessed with after visiting a museum in Barcelona. I realised how shifting even slightly changes how you see things — sometimes for the better, sometimes not, but always different. That played a big role in this project, both visually and conceptually. It is about how things remain the same, but when you change your point of view, everything can look entirely different
— Is there a particular object that holds special meaning for you? For example, when you were creating that work, was there something you knew you absolutely had to include? Maybe a calendar, a specific item, or something deeply personal?
— When I started this project, I asked myself: “What moment in time do I want to capture in this house? When was it at its best?”
For me, that was the ’90s — when I was a teenager, when everyone was still there and healthy. My grandmother, my father, my mother — we all had lunch together every day at 2:30 PM. That is the moment I wanted to freeze in time. Back when I was in school, playing basketball, studying, and sharing a bunk bed with my brother.
Some of the original objects are gone now, but I recreated them from memory. The stickers on the wardrobe in the children’s room (mine and my brother’s), the dining table set for five, and all the clocks frozen at 2:25 PM — five minutes before lunch, when the house was most alive. Everyone sets the table, brings dishes, and prepares for the meal.
I also included a low-volume sound piece playing from the TV — commercials from that era, snippets of a football match because my father always watched football. We only had one TV, so we all gathered around it.
Another important part of this project was the artwork I chose to recreate. My father wasn’t here anymore; my grandfather wasn’t here, and none of my family was — so I wanted to reconnect with them through their art. By remaking their work, I could learn who they were. The decisions they made as artists — their brushstrokes, their composition, their scale — all became a way for me to understand them beyond memory.
In the end, I only exhibited 70% of the pieces. I created around 50 more works that weren’t shown. But that is how I always work — I don’t just create for an exhibition. I make everything that needs to be made, whether or not it ends up in the final show. The exhibition is just one part of the process.
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— I noticed that the parents’ bed is unmade. Why?
— I wanted the house to feel alive — to have a sense of movement, of life still happening within it.
My father spent a lot of time in bed watching TV. He was a huge tennis fan — he watched every Grand Slam, always from bed. He also napped a lot, so his bed was never really made. I used to sit with him there for hours, just talking. That feeling — of an unmade bed, of someone just having been there — that is what I wanted to capture.
That is why, in every room, you will find something that is not perfectly tidy — a cigar left by the chimney, a chair slightly pulled out, small traces of someone’s presence. These little details bring the space to life, making it feel like someone was just there, like the house is still being lived in.
When I decided to recreate the house, the reality was completely different. My mother was the only one still living there. My father had passed away; my grandmother had passed; my brother had married and moved out. The energy of the house had completely shifted — it had gone from full of life to almost empty.
This project was my way of bringing that life back, even if just for a moment.
— Could I call 1985 kind of a continuation of this piece?
— Actually, quite the opposite. Two things happened that really pushed me in this direction.
First, I had become known for cutouts, and I was hungry to try new things and mediums and felt some saturation. Second, I moved to Germany, and then the pandemic hit. Those two shifts became the driving force behind me changing my style, experimenting with new mediums, and exploring themes of trauma.
The pandemic was strange — on one hand, people were returning to the basics: playing board games, cooking, spending time together. But at the same time, everyone was glued to their screens, watching death tolls rise. It was this eerie contrast between what was happening inside our homes and what was happening outside in the world.
For some reason, I had been archiving photos of people who had passed away — those images shared on social media, where someone would post a picture and write a tribute. I saved them for years without knowing why. When I started working in 1985, I realised I wanted to use them. Every person you see in 1985 is someone who has died.
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I wanted to play with this contradiction — what happens when we turn something so heavy into a game? How will people react when they realise the playful board game in front of them contains images of the dead? Will they feel uncomfortable? Will the game override that feeling? Can we process grief through play?
The title 1985 came from my own childhood — I was born in 1980, and by the time I was five, these were the kinds of games I played. The scale has always been important in my work, so I made the toys huge, making people feel small in front of them. But then, I also created a miniature shop where visitors could buy small versions and carry them in their pockets. It was my way of asking: What does memory mean? How do we hold on to it? How do we let it go?
It was important to me that people actually touch and interact with the work. People would ask me, Aren't you worried your art will get ruined? But honestly, I don’t care. Everything eventually disappears — everything and everyone. I would rather people engage with it, play with it, and create a real experience rather than just have it sit there untouched, slowly fading away anyway.
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— Okay, so moving on to 2022 — that was a significant year for you. If you are comfortable sharing, was that when you learned about your breast cancer diagnosis?
— Yes, that is right. One big thing happened in 2022 — I decided to go back to studying.
I never had formal art training, and that always made me insecure. My background was all over the place — an economics major who only started showing work at 38? It felt unconventional, and I struggled with that. I was also extremely curious about art schools and wanted to be part of formal studying and have discussions with friends who are as obsessed as I am with art. So, I applied for a master’s program and ended up getting a scholarship in Switzerland, purely based on my portfolio.
At the time, my family was living in Düsseldorf, and I applied to study under Chus Martínez, a curator and also the head of the school. I told her, “The master's program is two years, but I have a family, I’m 40 years old, I have so much experience, and I work insanely hard. If you let me finish it in one year, I promise you won’t regret it.”
She said no — it is a structured program, two years is non-negotiable. But a week later, she called me back. “Okay,” she said, “I made an exception for you. Come do it in one year.”
So I moved to Switzerland that year, travelling back and forth to see my family. Meanwhile, my husband got a job in Dubai, so after I finished my master's, the plan was to join him. But right before that, something happened.
While working on a sculpture, I injured my arm so badly that my right arm became paralysed. I pushed through to finish the project, but my arm completely gave out. I needed surgery in Germany, so I stayed there for ten days to recover before heading to Dubai.
And then — on day two of recovery — I felt something in my breast.
I moved to Dubai the next day, got checked, and was diagnosed with cancer. So now, I was in a new country, paralysed on one side and battling cancer at the same time.
2022 was a year of chemo, physiotherapy, and pure survival mode. Everything in my life has always been intense — but even for me, this felt like a whole new level.
— And the exhibition “Counting Fingers” is the one you dedicated to your journey of overcoming cancer, right?
— Yes. During my treatment, I had 18 sessions of chemotherapy — so I was constantly counting. How many sessions have I done? How many are left? That was one of the reasons behind the title.
The other reason is something that really stuck with me during my experience as a breast cancer patient. Coming from the Middle East, as a woman, you are hyper-aware of your body. But once you are in a hospital as a cancer patient, your body almost stops belonging to you. Your breasts become public — doctors, interns, nurses, everyone touches you and examines you. At some point, it felt like so many fingers were involved in this journey — writing prescriptions, adjusting IVs, doing check-ups. I couldn’t stop noticing hands and fingers everywhere.
Initially, I wanted to name the show something about time — I was thinking of One and a Half as a way to reference my right breast mastectomy, almost as a dark joke. I was really fixated on the idea of half.
But then, during a conversation with my Husband, he pointed out my obsession with numbers and fingers. He suggested, “Why not look at it from another angle? How many fingers have touched you? How many prescriptions have been written? How many chemo sessions have you counted?”
And that is how the title came to be — a mix of reasons, all tied to time, numbers, and the overwhelming presence of hands throughout this journey.
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"Counting Fingers" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
— When people go through something difficult, many try to distance themselves from anything that reminds them of it. But you did the opposite — you brought it to the forefront, transforming the exhibition space into a hospital. Was that your way of coping with the experience?
— For me, creating this work wasn’t about coping — it was about processing and understanding. I don’t try to fight or resist things, I just go with the flow and give everything its time. But I have to process what I feel through my work.
I needed to explore what this all meant — what does it mean to have a prosthetic breast? To have three metal implants in my neck from my arm surgeries? Am I still fully human, or am I part object now? And beyond that — what do objects mean to us? Are we truly separate from them? Or is everything — humans, objects, plants, even fish — somehow blended together in ways we don’t fully understand?
I wanted to accept myself as this hybrid being by merging everything around me. Objects became limbs; functions blurred — was something figurative, still life, or design? Did it matter? I wanted to erase the boundaries between them because, in a way, I felt like I had lost my own boundaries. As a woman, my identity had shifted — I had lost all my hair, and I stayed bald for months, intentionally choosing not to cover it. It became an experiment in presence and perception.
That is why I decided to recreate the hospital in my work, down to every small detail I remembered. One of the strangest things about hospitals in Dubai? They all have aquariums.
It is bizarre — you sit there, disconnected from your body, watching these fish, these creatures that have been pulled from their environment, trapped in this glass box. And you realise… they don’t know where they are. And in that moment, neither do you.
That is why the aquarium was crucial in my work — I had to include it. I had spent too much time in front of those aquariums. I made it narrower, more claustrophobic, forcing the fish to keep moving back and forth, mimicking the restless, trapped feeling I experienced in the hospital.
And that was the first piece I decided to create. Funny enough, I had never worked with ceramics before — but this piece had to exist, so I learned.
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"Counting Fingers" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo: Courtesy of 421 Arts Campus; by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
— Wow, I just realised that the keys on this keyboard are small breasts…!
— Yeah, breast and nipples — I wanted to include them in the work, but in a way that was subtle and intentional, especially since I am Middle Eastern and I need to be culturally sensitive. I placed them strategically — they are there, but not in a way that feels vulgar or too obvious.
The one thing I did change — and honestly, I’m glad I did — was the patient chair. Initially, I made one with two breasts, but when I saw it, I didn’t like it. It felt too in-your-face, too literal. So I reworked it, replacing the breasts with breast ducts, which actually have a natural flower-like shape, which was more poetic and beautiful.
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"Counting Fingers" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
— You have one more work, “A Dialogue Between a Wooden Moth and Blue Slippers.” It is amazing!
— That piece was eventually sold to the Fenix Museum as part of their permanent collection.
Even before I knew about my cancer diagnosis, I was exploring themes of change and destiny — how life can completely shift in an instant. It started with this simple act: taking a slipper and killing a bug. It is such an ordinary, almost mindless moment, but when you scale it up, it becomes something almost supernatural.
I wanted to play with materiality — so I made the moth out of wood, something stronger than it appears, and the slipper out of carpet, something weak enough for the moth to consume. The idea was to flip expectations — something that should be fragile was actually strong, and something that should be powerful was, in a way, vulnerable.
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I also explored the slipper as a symbol of rest and protection. Blue is traditionally a protective colour, often used to ward off the evil eye. I made the slipper 2.4 meters long — big enough for someone to actually lie down inside, with enough space for someone else to sit beside them. Usually, when someone is in bed, if someone wants to comfort them, there is no natural way to sit beside them — it feels awkward, like you have to perch on the edge. I wanted to create a space where someone could sleep, and another person could sit with them, just be there for them.
As for how it ended up in Fenix — honestly, I almost threw it away. I left the piece in Basel, thinking it was too big to keep. I took the moth with me to Dubai and told the school, “Just keep the slipper, I have no idea what to do with it.”
Then, my professor started exhibiting it everywhere. She loved it, so she kept placing it in different shows; the last was Art Basel. One day, I received a call from the Fenix Museum — they were interested in my blue slippers. So that is how it happened.
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— Do you have any pieces you have created but, for some reason, haven’t shared with the world yet?
— So many, of course. A lot of my work starts as experiments, almost like a warm-up, before diving into a bigger project.
For example, I did a ton of cyanotype, but I have never actually shown any of it. I don’t know why, maybe because I gravitate toward things that feel more challenging. So, cyanotype is probably the biggest body of work I have never shared.
And then there are the sculptures — so many of them. They were the starting points for different projects, but in the early stages, everything felt too literal and too naive. You almost have to get through that naïve phase before you can dig into something deeper.
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"The Greenest Room" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
— And the last question. For Sikka, you created a truly amazing piece, "The Greenest Room". Could you tell me more about it?
— When Maktoum, the curator of the show, invited me, he assigned me a specific room — the darkest space in the entire 206 House, with tiny windows that barely let in any light.
Since Al Shindagha was once a home, I wanted to restore that feeling — to reflect on the growth, love, patience, and resilience that take shape within closed walls. This continues my exploration of domestic spaces and how I reimagine them.
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"The Greenest Room" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
So I created "The Greenest Room", an installation that transforms the space into a living room overtaken by a massive ceramic climbing plant. This plant, inspired by the Bougainvillea, is one that could never actually grow in such a dark, enclosed setting. I have always admired Bougainvillea in Egypt and Dubai, and its presence in this piece carries deep personal meaning.
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"The Greenest Room" by Hana El-Sagini. Photo by Ismail Noor / Seeing Things
The installation also reflects my own journey — the challenges of the past few years and how my family nourished and supported me through them. I incorporated braids from my past, reincarnating them as an ever-growing green plant — a symbol of strength that only emerges through intense pressure, much like how clay is transformed into ceramics through fire.
Time has always been a key element in my work, so I placed a functional clock in the small room, positioned so you can see it while sitting on the sofa. It continues my exploration of blurring the lines between art, function, and design — between external and internal spaces.
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