If you look at the work of Lebanese artist Yasmina Hilal, it is hard to find anything quite like it. From year to year, her practice constantly evolves — she experiments with different techniques, materials, and forms. Each image invites you to look more closely and search for meaning.

And there is a lot to uncover.

At its core, her work is about inheritance. Born into a family where photography, craftsmanship, and storytelling were passed down through generations, Yasmina uses her practice to trace memory and to preserve what might otherwise be lost.

But there is another layer, one that is impossible to ignore. “I’ve lived through cancer, the explosion, three wars — and I’m not even 30 yet,” she says. That lived experience runs through her work just as strongly. For Yasmina, photography is not only a medium but a form of therapy.

We spoke with Yasmina to understand the meanings behind her work, what it was like to face cancer at a very young age, and what she dreams about now.

— I often like to start with this question. I am really interested in the family people grow up in — because I believe our roots, and our parents, shape who we become. So, can you tell me about your family?

— Sure! Photography runs in my family. My grandfather was deeply passionate about it: he photographed extensively, starting from the 1960s. I have a large archive of his work, and it is truly beautiful. I am planning to do something special with it in the future.

My mother was also a photographer, and she is the one who introduced me to it. She gave me my first film camera when I was 15, and I have been working with analogue photography ever since.

I was raised in my grandmother’s home. She was like a second mother to me. She taught me how to love and express myself. She also owned a beautiful vintage boutique called Beverly Hills in Clemenceau and Hamra, where she curated incredible garments sourced from all over the world.

My father, on the other hand, is an engineer, but he built everything in our home: from the tables to the closets. Through him, I learned carpentry.

So, in many ways, my work is a mix of everything passed down to me. I really can’t thank my family enough. It is all generational — everything I am comes from them.

Even their story matters. My mother is from the South, my father is from the North. They come from different religious backgrounds, and they got married during the civil war, under air raids. That, too, is part of who I am.

— So you started photography at 15. If you think back to who you were then, and look at who you are now, how would you describe that journey? What has changed since you first started?

— Before anything else, my sister was taking a darkroom class at university. She didn’t really know how to shoot, so she would give me her assignments, and I would do them for her. She eventually got an A! That is actually how I started developing my practice.

It took a lot of time — practising, learning, trying, failing. There were a lot of mistakes along the way, but that is still how I work today: finding beauty in those mistakes.

Over the years, I have grown not just technically, but also as a storyteller. Once you develop a photographic eye, the way you see the world shifts. Everyone has their own perspective, of course, but for me, that way of seeing has become very central.

Now, it feels especially important to use that perspective to showcase the culture and heritage we have here — specifically in Lebanon.

— Let’s move to your works — the one with your mother’s wedding dresses! Can you tell me the story behind it? And what do you know about your mother’s wedding?

— My parents actually grew up in the same building! That is how they met and eventually got married.

So, this story really began during COVID, when I went to stay with my grandmother. That period became the foundation for my second show, I See Me In You. In that project, I photographed women wearing their mothers’ or grandmothers’ clothes. It was a way of preserving this sense of inheritance, this culture that is passed down through the women in our lives — the ones who shape us and help build our identities.

During that time, my grandmother would give me pieces from her collection. At some point, I found my mother’s wedding dress. It was blue, and that felt very significant to me. Their wedding wasn’t traditional either. They got engaged in that same building, during the war, with bombings happening around them. For me, it became a way to show that love persists, even through violence and uncertainty — that it remains the most important thing.

I started wearing these pieces myself, trying to connect with those moments and honour them.

— Yasmina, I know you were diagnosed with lymphoma at 15. If you are comfortable sharing, could you tell me what it is like to face something like that at such a young age?

— To be honest, it is something that has never really left me. I have gone through a lot of therapy, and I am on medication for anxiety and sleep because I have complex PTSD. I still deal with a lot of nightmares.

When something like that happens in childhood, your brain is still developing — you don’t fully understand it at the time. It only starts to make sense years later.

It started when I found a lump in my neck. It turned out to be a tumour, and after the biopsy, I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma. The next day, my mom shaved my head. I still have my hair from that time.

I went through chemotherapy at the Children’s Cancer Centre here in Lebanon, which is an incredible place — they treat patients under 18 for free. Many of the kids there were from the South, and a lot of them had much more severe conditions.

I have been trying to understand its broader context. I am still researching, but there is a strong possibility that some of these cases are linked to environmental factors from the war.

During treatment, I had serious complications. I developed sepsis and went into septic shock. I actually died, and then came back — it was something close to a miracle.

Even now, it is still difficult to talk about. But just recently, I have started to speak about it more openly. It took a lot out of me, but it also made me who I am today. And I think being able to share this story matters.

— Have you ever thought about dedicating a project to it?

—Yes. I want to develop a small photo essay around that, though I am still figuring out what form it will take.

At the same time, there is just a lot to process. I have lived through cancer, the explosion, three wars — and I am not even 30 yet!

— When I look at your work, it is so clear that you never stop. You are constantly evolving. Every year, it feels different. You are really growing.

— For me, this is my form of therapy. It is my way of releasing everything. Being able to create like this is the only constant in my life, the one thing that always feels right.

There are a lot of days when I feel like giving up. But every job I take on just to make money — I put it all back into my work, into my art. I rarely take vacations and buy clothes. Most of what I have comes from my mother or my grandmother.

The industry can be very tough. Being seen, being recognised. It is not easy. I have faced a lot of rejection. But I keep going because I know that one day someone will believe in me, and I already believe in myself.

— I am looking at your work, Hour 12 of Sleep. Self Portrait. You mention in the caption that you were dealing with anxiety at the time. Is it connected with post-traumatic stress?

— I still have nightmares about getting sick again — about doctors telling me the tumour has returned, about explosions, and other vivid dreams that sometimes blur the line between reality and imagination.

At one point, I had to start taking stronger medication just to sleep. But soon, sleep stretched into 12, sometimes 14 hours a day. The only place I felt even a small sense of comfort was in my bed — especially the one at my grandmother’s house.

This image I took there is a self-portrait. At first glance, you might not notice, but if you look closely, there are two faces. It is both of me. I captured it in the hallway mirror of her home, wearing my grandmother’s clothes.

I share this because mental health should never be taboo. Speaking openly about real-life struggles matters. It reminds us that we are not alone, that our experiences are valid, and that sharing them can be a step toward understanding, connection, and healing.

— The next work is, of course, The Rose Endures. Can you tell me more about it? And how did you do it?

— It is printed on a type of plastic material quite reminiscent of a film negative, which l I have been working with since my first show in 2022, Trial and Error.

Part of my process involves burning — I am drawn to it. It feels like a form of release.

The story behind this piece started in Tripoli, where my father and grandmother are from — where I am originally from too. I was walking around when I noticed a man holding prayer beads. Before I photograph anyone, I always take the time to talk with them, to build a connection first. So I approached him and asked if I could take a short video. He said yes. His name is Hajj Nicola, though most people and I call him N2oula.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But that night, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was remarkable. Something inside me said I needed to photograph him properly.

The next day, I went back to find him, and I did. I told him I would return the following week to take his photo. The tricky part? He doesn’t have a phone, so it was all based on trust.

When I came back, I photographed him wearing my brother’s suit. My best friend, Laetita, who often helps me with my personal projects, came along, and together we styled him. We added a rose, and he held the prayer beads. We walked through the streets of Mina, and everyone there was filming and cheering him on.

A big part of this work is about giving back. Whenever I sell a piece, I make sure he gets a share. I still visit him from time to time. His family is in need, so I try to support him however I can. Right now, I am holding off on selling the work because I want to present it at a larger scale first — and then give back in a more meaningful way.

He has become really special to me. And now, interestingly, a lot of people want to photograph him for commercial work.

— You made him into a superstar!

— He already was a star.

— You mentioned at the beginning that you are planning to do something with your grandfather’s archive. Would you like to share a bit more about that?

— The idea is to include this work in my upcoming project, but I am also developing a photobook that brings together my images alongside my grandfather’s archive.

When my grandfather met my grandmother, they got married and then rented a car and went on a long honeymoon across Europe. This was sometime in the 1940s, when you could still drive across areas freely. They spent about six months travelling, and he documented everything.

We have since scanned all of his photographs. They are incredibly beautiful — images of my grandmother, of their life together, of family, and our home in Ramlet el Baida. There is something so striking about them — they were so stylish, so full of life.

Some of my favourite images are of their home, which still stands today, even though no one lives there anymore. Every intricate object remains in place — this was my grandmother’s world, and for a time, we all lived in it with her. There are photos of everyday moments: family gatherings, birthdays, the dining table where we still come together during Ramadan. That space carries so much memory, so much of who we were and who we are.

For me, it is all about continuity. It is generational. What started as my grandfather’s hobby became something much more — just like photography did for me. It is all connected, in one way or another.

— What can you tell me about your upcoming exhibition?

—This is a project I have been developing over the past two years, called 99. You may have seen some of the images — people holding prayer beads. I havent shared much right now but im waiting for the right moment to do so, it goes beyond the images.

The work revolves around the prayer bead itself, and around grief — particularly the loss of my grandmother. At her funeral, I found myself holding prayer beads as I prayed. It became almost obsessive, a small comfort in the midst of unbearable loss. Eventually, the beads broke in my hands.

I took it as a sign to look deeper into what this humble object carries. So small, yet so profound, the prayer bead travels across faiths and cultures, a vessel for memory and love. In its simplicity, it holds the weight of the human heart.

— I have one last question. I am not always sure how to ask it, but with you, it feels right. After everything you have been through, I get the sense that you have already lived many lives. So I would love to ask: what do you dream about?

— More than anything, I want people to return to their homes and live in peace. That has become my truest dream. As much as I long to grow as an artist, I also want to create work that matters — work that allows people to feel, to be seen, to remember they are alive.

I don’t always like to use the word “hope.” I think we have reached a point where we are just tired. I know I am.

All I want is a life of health and quiet, for all of us to live without fear. For people in my country to return to their homes, to their land, to breathe freely. To tend to the earth, to be close to nature, to be surrounded by the people they love. To preserve the culture that has shaped us, the stories that root us.

That is what matters to me.