Ismat Mahmassani is a narrative photographer whose work layers flowers over war-scarred houses and abandoned buildings, offering a kind of magical realism that feels both nostalgic and defiantly hopeful. Born in Lebanon, raised in Saudi Arabia and Paris, with stints in London and Dubai, she eventually found herself back in Beirut — reluctantly at first. But somewhere between collapsing staircases and power cuts, she stumbled upon her muse. We sat down with Ismat to discuss her path, Beirut, and beauty in everything.

— Tell us a bit about your background. I know you have lived abroad in different countries. What brought you back to Lebanon? What was your journey before you started photography?

— I was born here, but I grew up in Saudi Arabia. At the age of 11, I moved to Paris. So in many ways, France is my hometown. I grew up there and went to university. Later, I also moved to London for my studies. I got married there, and I had my two daughters in London.

I was studying law and development studies and human rights. Then I moved to Dubai in 2005, and had two more kids. I have four in total. I lived 12 years in Dubai. I was a stay-at-home mom, doing small businesses, but always amateur photography.

In 2017 — after a personal change, my divorce — I returned to Lebanon, my home country. But it was really the first time I had lived here, at the age of 42. I had visited often, but I had never studied here, never settled. To be honest, I never liked it much. I would come, see my family, and then quickly want to go back to Dubai or London. I never blended in. I never felt Lebanese. I considered myself simply Arab, with a French education and English — a very European-Arab mix.

So anyhow, when I moved here, I was very upset. I didn’t want to be here. And Lebanon was going through very bad times since 2018. So I was like, what is going to happen to me?

But suddenly, I realised my muse was here. The resilience of the people — how they get up, show up, and keep going. Even in the worst circumstances, they still want to enjoy life. Any background, any religion, any social class — the cool guys, the poor guys, the rich people — they all just want to live. You can't postpone living. You live in the moment.

So I decided to push myself. I had always taken beautiful pictures. My father is an architect, and he loves these Lebanese homes. Most of them are being destroyed, replaced by skyscrapers. I used to walk around thinking, How can I preserve them? I can't buy them. So instead, I photographed them.

Then I asked myself, How can I take this further? That is when I taught myself the technique of layering flowers. I am obsessed with flowers. And who isn't? Who doesn't love flowers? That is when I decided: I would photograph flowers, and then bring them to life on these houses.

— So how exactly does this technique of layering work? Is it like some physical collaging?

— It is digital, though I don’t use Photoshop. I have my own techniques. I superpose two photos, blend them, and it becomes more artistic.

At first, I would place a single flower in a bullet hole or on a balcony. One of those works — a piece featuring the war-scarred Holiday Inn — was even published in L’Orient-Le Jour. Collectors bought it too, because the Holiday Inn is a landmark of the civil war, which I myself didn't live through. Yet it stirred memories in people — showing how hope can bloom again, how things can be restored.

My work is very metaphorical, and not only for Lebanese people. I have photographed windows and doors in Dubai, Italy, Greece, and Egypt, and people everywhere related to them. They saw a doorway to a dream, a window of opportunity. It is what I call poetic photography.

I don’t categorise myself as a "real" photographer. Instead, I call myself a narrative photographer, because behind every artwork there is a poem, a story. I felt compelled to share the journey through photos.

So of course it is a personal story, but it has resonated with many in different ways. People who grew up here see nostalgia in my work. I might not even know the name of the street I photographed, but it means something to them.

— I also read that you describe your style as “magic realism.” How would you explain that?

— Magical realism is originally a literary technique, but it also applies to my photography. My works are very real. I am not putting cupcakes or unicorns — it is butterflies and flowers. I am not adding things that don’t exist. They are real — but it is like magic.

For example, I have a piece showing cedar trees with huge butterflies. Of course, in real life you would never see butterflies that large flying among cedars. But the image creates depth, a dimension that a straightforward photograph can't capture. I see myself as a visual artist, completing the storyline. Art has no limits. Magical realism — because it is magic and it is real.

When I cover a house with flowers, of course it isn’t real. But the flowers themselves are. I photographed them in a field, or at a flower shop, zooming in on a peony — depending on the season. I don’t use AI. I never use things I didn’t shoot, except butterflies at the very beginning, which I purchased with copyright.

Recently, in May, I travelled to Konya and visited a butterfly farm. Now I have my own butterfly photos, so my new works will feature them.

I do everything by the book when it comes to copyright. It is a terrible feeling when someone takes your photos. So — no AI, no fake images. I can't. I tried, but I don't like it.

— By the way, what is your go-to camera? Do you shoot on your phone, or something special?

— I have my classic Nikon — actually, two Nikons. And yes, I also use the iPhone. I learned how to shoot in RAW. Sometimes the moment presents itself — like a kid popping out of an abandoned house — and I shoot with my phone.

I have learned techniques that allow me to enlarge those shots into one-metre prints. Because I invest a lot in the finish of my prints. All German paper — Hahnemühle. There is baryta, German etching, fine art.

— To me, your works are about hope. How do they reflect you personally?

— I did see myself in these abandoned places, because I too felt abandoned. Yet there is so much beauty, even in sadness. I want to see beauty everywhere — not just textbook version of it, but also in broken places.

Hope stems from the flowers — the message that you can always change perspective. Gratitude pulls me up every time.

Sharing my work has healed me. Creativity healed me.

Some houses I photographed aren’t there anymore. That is why my dream is to do a book — to recollect all the houses, with their the before-and-after layering. Heritage here isn't preserved; sometimes they tile over windows or demolish the structures entirely.

Now, people associate me with flowers, and I love that. Friends see flowers on Instagram and say, “That’s you!” I am also associated with butterflies. I don’t care if that seems delusional, as long as it gives people hope.

And especially here, in Lebanon, it carries a message of love for life. Never postpone. Live the moment.

— How do you see modern Beirut today? How would you describe it?

— In summer, the city is alive with people dancing everywhere, with music drifting through the streets and a sense of almost-delusionary joy. Of course, the problems are real — the South, the economy. I wouldn't downplay them. But once you are here, what can you do? You simply have to hold on to hope.

People love life. Not only the wealthy — in the villages too, there is music, shisha, food, and sharing. Lebanon is a sad country, yes, but one that insists on living. It is a beautiful, magical place.

When I tell friends abroad, “I love Beirut,” they are surprised. But now, I would not live anywhere else. People here are kind; they smile at you even when there is no electricity.

In Dubai, I was the girl with “first-world problems” — deciding what to do for Christmas. Here, I wake up and say: I cannot complain. I have electricity, I have A/C. Meanwhile, people with very little still smile and still say, “Whatever you need.”

It broke my heart open and made me appreciate small things. Even abandoned houses speak to me: “Take my picture, preserve me.”

I also love the Virgin Mary. She is everywhere — tucked into corners, standing beneath trees. I photograph her often. I am Muslim, but I love Mary. To me, she represents Lebanon’s beauty, its faith, and its survival.

— That is amazing, how you describe it. So much love, from inside and outside. I think your works represent memory.

— There is a soul in these places — in the history, in the architecture. Some are dangerous. My father once told me, “How did you enter this house? The stairs could collapse.” There are rats, risks, hazards. But I am fearless.

You have to feel the space. What happened here? How much beauty was there? How could they let it go?

That is why artists try to save it — through paper, poetry, songs, stories. In some form, it must become a legacy.

— If you could add another sensory level to your works — sound, scent, touch — what would it be?

— Music, definitely. Every one of my photos has a song. Music elevates me — whether classical, Arabic, or something modern. Most of the time, the song elevates the photo. Sometimes the shot reminds me of a song, sometimes it is the other way around.

Music is everything. My dream was always to be a musician. Instead, I see music in my work. I live as though in a musical.

— What are your plans now?

— The book is my focus. I want to consolidate the houses and anchor them in history. My dream is to collaborate with someone who can help me write it — ideally an architect who is knowledgeable in heritage and Lebanese architecture, someone who can bring depth to the details of arches and structures. That is what I am looking for.

— I can’t help but ask. You are a mother of four. How do you find time for all of this? How do you manage?

— My two eldest daughters are 29 and 27. They live and work in London. They take care of me from afar — my guardian angels. I had them very young, by the age of 23.

Then I have my Dubai babies, now 18 and 15, teenagers living with me in Beirut. So I don't have an empty nest yet.

They blended here quickly. We live across the street from their school, which is very different from Dubai, where I had to drive them everywhere. Here, they walk, they are street-smart. They have their grandmother, their dad. Beirut feels like a village.

So yes, I do get free time. My work has become my solace, and creativity fills the gaps. Inspiration often comes late at night. I have my iPad, my laptop, USBs, SD cards scattered everywhere. I am not organised — but that is fine for an artist, I guess.

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