She carries within her Armenia, Syria, Lebanon, and even a drop of Canada. She describes her personal and artistic journey as a hamster on a wheel: moments of fully lived life, followed by the distortion of war. Then comes rebuilding. Repeating. And finding joy again.

She is a self-taught artist who began by sketching in private, never showing her work to anyone, never imagining that one day she would carry the title of “artist.” And yet — she became one.

Her name is Sarine Semerjian. Recently, she performed at MENART in Paris, presenting her works through a live performance — dancing and drawing with charcoal. The performance, "Into the Void", was so moving that it drew intense attention from visitors, some of whom said they felt goosebumps while watching and listening to the music.

Her work is highly diverse. A few years ago, darker tones dominated her palette. Today, her colours are brighter, more vibrant, and visually inviting. But do the works truly reflect the happiness and light they seem to convey at first glance? Not quite. Beneath the surface lies something deeper and darker. What is it about? We spoke with Sarine to dive into her creative world.

— Sarine, you were born in Toronto, have Armenian roots, and grew up between Syria and Lebanon. How did this mix come together? And how did your art journey start?

— I come from a very artistic family. My mom is an incredible painter. My sister is a jewelry designer. My dad is an engineer, but he works in shoemaking — everything he does is hands-on. In one way or another, we all work with our hands.

I was born in Canada, but never really lived there. We moved to Syria when we were very young. I attended a French school in Syria until I was fifteen.

When the war started, we moved to Lebanon, where my grandmother and cousins lived. There, I studied landscape architecture at university. After graduating in 2019, as the Lebanese revolution began, I returned to Syria. I had a job opportunity in London at one of the top landscape architecture firms, but I turned it down. I wanted to return to my roots. I am a proud Syrian — Damascus shaped me as an artist.

I had a close group of friends there — all very artsy, mostly self-taught. And then there was me: the girl with the sketchbook who didn’t yet know who she was. I never showed my work; my art was deeply personal.

A friend who worked at Zawaya Art Gallery suggested a group exhibition, and I agreed. I told them about a performance I had started in university. When the gallery heard about it, they said, “You’re doing a solo exhibition.” I was shocked. I had one month to prepare a solo show — me, still figuring myself out. But I did it.

On opening day, people thought there were two different artists. The charcoal work felt completely different from the painted pieces. But it was all me. That is when I felt I had earned the title of “artist.”

Then came chaos: the Artsakh war, the Beirut explosion, disaster in Syria. Then COVID hit, and borders closed. Yet something beautiful emerged. People helped each other. Through art, I gave back — auctions, exhibitions, fundraising for cancer centres, Beirut’s reconstruction. And for Artsakh, we raised $100,000.

In 2023, I returned to Lebanon, torn between art, identity, and survival. Art is unstable, especially if you want independence. I went back to landscape architecture and event planning, but I couldn’t let art disappear. I worked part-time, then eventually quit altogether. And when I quit, opportunities started coming.

Then came Paris. It felt unreal. And the response was incredible.

— If we look through your works, we can definitely see different eras. For example, now there are more pink tones and more eyes, while earlier works were darker. Could you talk about these different eras and how you would describe them?

— I never really thought about it that way before. I feel like it started with a very dark colour palette. Everything was dark that time because of COVID, because of destruction, because of everything that was happening. I felt completely lost. That period was definitely a destructive era.

But then came rebirth. It feels like light slowly entering. Even now, if you look at my paintings, the colours are brighter, more eye-catching, but the message is still very dark. That hasn’t disappeared.

My work talks a lot about identity. About being anchored to your roots. About understanding that the land you are on is sacred. Now, I feel much more connected to my land.

— You mentioned that returning to Damascus helped you realise who you are as an artist. So who are you as an artist?

— My first solo exhibition in Syria shaped me into who I am today.

Damascus is a city I genuinely believed I would never return to. I really thought I was done, that I was moving on, ready to explore the world. But there was a force that pulled me back to Syria.

The artworks I created there were deeply inspired by Syrian architecture. The old souks, for example. There’s so much richness everywhere.

I absorbed all of that into my work. I would photograph patterns, surfaces, and ornaments, and then translate them into my paintings. If you look closely, you will see it: every element carries traces of those influences.

— You said that music guides your painting, and that in your studio you often begin by listening and dancing. What is this music?

— I love listening to bossa nova, sometimes Brazilian pop. Music that makes you move without even thinking about it.

There is also a group I love — TUL8TE. Their music feels Arabic but also Latino at the same time. Very rhythmic, very dance-driven.

I am really drawn to music that makes something move inside me. And before I start painting, I always put music on. I need to loosen up first. I stretch, I prepare my body before I begin working.

Sometimes the music can be energetic, sometimes it is very chill. Alternative rock, softer sounds. And then there is another side of me that loves classical things too. Opera, musicals — especially The Phantom of the Opera.

— You dance beautifully. Did you study somewhere?

— I am mostly self-taught — in art, in movement. I learned salsa in university, going to these Latino clubs where they taught bachata and salsa. It was all intuitive. So when I later mentioned performance during my solo exhibition, the curator assumed I was trained. I wasn’t. I hadn’t practised regularly. I didn’t even know if I could do it again.

But I did it five more times.

— And what about the music for the very first “Into the Void”?

— The first time, I did it with my best friend Walashi, who is a DJ. In Arabic, “Walashi” means nothing, and there is a whole philosophy around that: everything comes from nothingness.

While preparing for the performance, I asked her to help me find the song. She sent me track after track. And then she sent me La Loba. When I heard it, I felt it was exactly what I needed. It was sensual and powerful — there was a strong sense of feminine liberation. The song had a tribal, Spanish energy. It carried the body.

— Then you performed more — at MENART, for example. How was that?

— After performing in Syria, I went back to Lebanon. And for almost two years, I didn’t perform in front of people at all.

I was scared of losing that performative part of myself. I kept thinking: something has to happen for me to re-enter that performative world.

Then, this summer, I performed in Armenia. It was right before MENART. And that moment felt like anchoring myself — like reconnecting with ancestral forces. Performing in my motherland ignited something in me again. After that, I was invited to perform there once more.

And then Paris happened. That is when I felt it clearly: I am ready. The ball is rolling again. I am back in it.

— And you used a different song. What was it, and why?

— In Armenia, I performed twice. The first time was with a musician named Miqayel Voskanyan. He is a genius. His voice is incredible, and at the same time, he plays the tar — an instrument that is almost like a guitar.

What is special is that I met him on the very same day of the performance. I had listened to his music before, but I didn’t know what he was going to play. So imagine this: me, the musician, and the audience — all diving into the unknown together. Everything was improvised. We were exploring movement through sound, and sound through movement, without knowing where it would lead.

There is such beauty in that innocence — in not knowing. When you have too much information, things can get distorted. Here, we were just present.

For MENART, I wanted to bring that Armenian layer into the performance — Armenian music that many people don’t actually know. So I created a mix using Miqayel’s music and other melodies.

— What message do you want to convey with “Into the Void”?

— What I want — what I hope people feel — is the freedom to break boundaries for ten or fifteen minutes. To be fully present.

Forget your phone. Forget who you are. Forget your problems. Put everything on silent. Enter that meditative state and dive into the dance with me. See where it takes you — because I don’t know where it is taking me either.

Nothing is choreographed. The moment I step onto the paper, I enter my own little world. I just move. I follow the body. There is this swirling force — like a tourbillon — something that keeps turning and turning.

— During “Into the Void”, you draw an eye at the centre of the artwork. Eyes seem to play an important role in your work. Why?

— I have always loved eyes. You can read so much about a person just by looking into their eyes. It is almost like a kind of nakedness.

As I started painting eyes more and more, they began to feel like witnesses. Like protectors. Almost like angels watching over what has been happening around us.

We are living in such a chaotic era. We are literally writing history right now — and so much of it is distorted. There is truth, but there is also misinformation, denial, rewriting. And we, as people, are the witnesses. We have seen things happen. We have felt them. We have lived through this chaos.

There is also a protective aspect to them. In our culture, the eye is very important — it is believed to ward off evil. The evil eye. Even when you wear it as a symbol or an accessory, it is meant to protect, to send negative energy away. For me, the eyes in my work carry that same angelic, protective energy.

— In 2022, you created the performance This House Is a Circus. Could you tell me about this work? You are dancing with a partner there!

— Yes, I was doing it for the very first time! This event was actually really special. It was called Sot و Soora, which was started right after COVID by a close friend of mine.

The location of the event was intense. It was in a heavily destroyed area. Even getting there felt surreal. People were going through military checkpoints, soldiers with guns, just to attend an art event. And then suddenly, you arrive at this abandoned warehouse.

Inside, the space was transformed. White walls painted in the corner, like stepping into an exhibition inside a dusty ruin. People were dancing. My friend was DJing, and then the music suddenly shifted to classical. Everyone’s attention moved to the corner where I was performing.

I was drawing on the wall and the floor simultaneously. The red marks on the ground were my partner’s body traces while I traced his form on paper and the wall. The idea was to show my alter ego.

From that performance came a large painting entirely inspired by the space and the moment. I called it Grip of Life. It tells the story of two dancers sharing two worlds — body and soul — until the physical and spiritual merge. It is about love, freedom, survival, and trust. In circus life, if you lose your grip, you fall. But only when you let go does the magic actually begin.

— Now you are in a rebirth era, with bright colours in your work. But you have said the message is still dark. What is that message?

— I will explain it through Oléa painting, which I made last year, in November 2024, during a very intense period. This piece marked the beginning of a new collection — a shift toward colour.

I had this massive canvas, and I felt an urge to paint an olive tree — the tree of life. You can see human figures as the roots, anchored deeply into the soil.

The olive tree is deeply important to Lebanese culture. Olive season was happening at the time. And I kept hearing stories about olive groves being bombed to destroy the economy, because olives are such a big part of it.

Something inside me was breaking. Every time I sit under an olive tree, I feel grounded, very zen. It brings back very strong memories of my grandmother, of olive oil, of family.

Around that time, friends invited me to Batroun. The South was being bombarded, while in the North, people were partying and living normally. Two parallel universes in the same country. My friend told me to come stay the night, to change my energy a bit, because I was exhausted.

She lives in a beautiful cabin. When you go up to the terrace, there is an olive grove — people picking and pruning olives. I remember thinking: how is this possible? At the same time, in the same country, there is harvest and destruction.

That contrast is in the painting. The roots are grabbing the land — claiming it. Because once the roots are killed, the tree dies. The olives become eyes. They are protectors. They are saying: this is ours, no one will take it from us. The middle eye is closed. And the background is in motion — clouds on fire, colours flowing. The painting never feels still.

The red clusters look like molecules, like an internal system. The nervous system. Even the closed eye has antenna-like forms. The whole painting feels alive — pumping, moving.

A week after finishing it, I was running and completed my first 10K. The next day, I ended up in the hospital with kidney stones. Later, when I looked back at the painting, I saw it: the forms looked like kidneys. It felt like my body had spoken before I understood it.

So yes, there is darkness in the work. From far away, you see colour first. Only when you get closer do you notice some details. For example, the hidden figures below the roots — almost like they are imprisoned. This artwork reveals itself slowly.

— You are a self-taught artist. It seems that getting recognition without formal art education can be difficult. Was it hard for you, too?

— Yeah, it is. It feels ongoing. And in a way, I also feel lucky — because I already have a sense of my identity.

At art fairs, I love standing behind people and listening. They don’t know who the artist is. During that week, I heard people saying, “Oh, by the way, I saw her work in Paris.” And I’d just jump in my head like, Wait… you were at MENART? Do you recognise my work?

That, for me, is everything. Being recognised without trying to push it. I am not someone with a massive platform. I am very normal. I let things grow organically.

Of course, the struggle is there. Sometimes I get critiques — people telling me, “What you’re doing is wrong. You need to go back to art school, learn the fundamentals, and then start.” I have heard that.

It is not easy, but those comments shape you. They make you grow.

Some people will love your work, some will hate it, and some will judge it. Art is subjective. And honestly, part of me wants to show them: I am going to make this work. You will see.

— And finally, a question about your brand. When and why did you decide to create it? And where is it now — what plans do you have for it?

— SAR LAND started very organically. I had a kimono hanging in my room that I was planning to put on for the event. The night before the event, I decided to paint on it. I wore it there, and people loved it. They kept saying, “I want one.” That is when I realised it could become a brand. It all started with kimonos, but later, I started painting on pants as well.

At one festival, a man saw one of my kimonos and said, “My mom would love this.” He bought one, and we started talking. It turned out we had lived on the same street in Damascus.

On the last day of the festival, he called me on his way to the airport and said, “I have a business opportunity for you. Come to Cairo.” Four days later, I was there. He told me he wanted me to style and dress his mother. But I didn’t know that his mom was Asala Nasri.

I painted a kimono for her, inspired by the element of earth, and painted her name in Arabic like a crown on the figure. She looked like a goddess.

Today, Sarland exists in a very intimate way. Everything is handmade. I choose the fabric myself, piece by piece. When I make the pants, they are customised — tailored to the soul. I send a simple questionnaire to the person: favourite colour, what brings you joy, what resonates with you, a plant you love, words or numbers that matter to you. From that, I create patterns and symbols.

The person never knows exactly what they will receive. But in the end, the pants become their story.