Aude Abou Nasr is a French-Lebanese illustrator and animator whose work can be recognised almost instantly through her distinctive colour palette. At first glance, it can feel light — something that could easily sit within the world of animation, soft and visually gentle. But the longer you stay with it, the more it begins to unfold. Some pieces carry a quiet sense of tension, others seem to come from a need to express what can't quite be put into words, and at times, they feel like something to hold onto when nothing else quite settles.

What began as a simple pull towards the visual rather than the musical gradually found its shape — first through architecture, and later through illustration. Her path has been shaped by meaningful collaborations, moments of difficult clarity, and an ongoing, deeply personal relationship with her practice.

Meet Aude.

— Let’s start from the beginning — can you tell me about your childhood and how your connection to art first developed?

— No one in my family was an artist, but my parents always made a real effort to give me and my sister access to things they hadn’t necessarily had themselves — especially when it came to creativity. I actually played the flute for about eight years before realising I was much more drawn to the visual side of things, and that is when I began drawing, quite shyly at first.

That gradually led me to study architecture at 17. I was fascinated by how people live, and by the way spaces can carry memory and hold a kind of quiet emotional weight. At the same time, I found myself increasingly out of step with the structure of the course, and with the Parisian environment around it. There were moments that really stayed with me — I have always loved maps, for instance, and I was particularly drawn to set design — but drawing itself remained slightly in the background, never quite taking centre stage.

It wasn’t until I was 26 that I began taking illustration seriously. I had some health issues at the time, which pushed me to reconsider my path in set design, and that shift gave me the space to approach drawing more openly. It became a way of exploring what I was feeling — what was frustrating me, what was making me sad — and from there, things started to unfold quite naturally. Looking back, I am very grateful for how it all came together.

— How does your creative process usually unfold? I read that you often start with black-and-white sketches before moving into digital — is that still your approach today?

— Yes, very much so — that part hasn’t really changed. Over time, I have realised I need to begin on paper for the composition to settle properly. If I start digitally on a blank screen, I tend to lose direction quite quickly. There is something about working in a physical notebook — sketching, adjusting, testing things out — that makes the whole process feel more grounded.

I usually go through a few rough sketches before one starts to stand out, and then I develop that further — either refining it digitally or continuing by hand. From there, I move into colour through either digital or watercolour techniques, depending on the piece.

I have gradually shifted more towards digital for practical reasons, especially with commissioned work — it is simply more efficient. But I still really value when a project takes on a physical form. I have worked on silk scarves with the Lebanese brand Tash&Ley, a large linen piece for the Lebanese Architecture Pavilion at the Beirut National Museum, and embroidered works in collaboration with Rana Balsan at The Fig Tree.

Often, a piece will start on paper, pass through a digital stage, and then become something entirely different in its final form. More recently, I have also been exploring painting on ceramic, which comes with its own pace and constraints. So over the past year or so, it has really been about expanding into different mediums and seeing how the work can evolve across them.

— Your work has a very distinctive colour palette — is there a reason behind that choice?

— Yes, definitely — for me, it often comes back to purple. It is quite a complex colour, and not the easiest to define. There is a certain mystery to it — it doesn’t reveal itself straight away, you have to sit with it a little.

I also really love the balance it holds between warmth and coolness; it can feel both intimate and slightly distant at the same time, which I find quite calming. I tend to think about colour in relation to what I am trying to express in a piece — what kind of emotional space I want it to hold.

Purple allows me to do that without things becoming too heavy. It can carry both melancholy and a sense of hope at once, and when paired with more muted tones, it leaves room for people to bring their own feelings into the work, rather than everything being too clearly defined.

— Many of your works engage with heavier historical and political themes in the Middle East. How do you understand your role in telling these stories?

— I think it started from a sense of frustration, really. I often felt quite powerless watching things being misrepresented — especially when it concerned a region that is so closely tied to my own background. I grew up in a family where the Middle East is part of the story, so that connection has always been there.

At some point, I felt the need to respond — to engage with it in a way that felt more honest, and to try and honour a region that is so often misunderstood and placed under pressure.

For me, art becomes a way of going beyond words — of holding space for things that are difficult to articulate directly. Bilad al Sham, in particular, is very important to me. It is part of my culture, but also a region that is incredibly rich and, at the same time, deeply painful to be connected to.

Working through these themes is part of how I process that complexity — not to explain it fully, but simply to sit with it, and make it visible in some way.

— I saw your recent work on printed books for displaced children in Lebanon — it is a beautiful initiative. What kind of illustrations did you create for it, and how were they chosen?

— Well, it started quite simply with me, my sister, and a few friends. We set up an initiative called Alwen w Ahlem, where we draw, print, and distribute colouring books to displaced children in Lebanon during the war.

I worked alongside a group of artists on a colouring book titled Haywanet Lebanon — meaning Animals of Lebanon. It is a collective project, bringing together illustrators from across the country, each responding to themes connected to their own regions. Some focused on animals, others on traditional clothing, plants, flowers, food, or even shared cultural habits across Lebanon, Palestine, and Syria.

The thinking behind it was quite straightforward. On one hand, we wanted to remind children that there are people across Lebanon who genuinely care about them. On the other, it was about gently reconnecting them with the beauty of the country — even if it feels hard to see it that way right now. With so many children unable to attend school, we also hoped it could offer something engaging, and a little educational, during what is an incredibly difficult time.

We have also been lucky to work with some amazing organisations — Reman, which supports migrant workers, Man wa Salwa in Beirut, and Humans of Dahieh, who helped us get the books down to the South at a time when bridges were being bombed and roads weren’t really safe to use.

I am really grateful to everyone who got involved — especially my friends and my sister, who helped make the whole thing actually happen on the ground: Bénédicte Aboul-Nasr, Chiara Zakhia, and Presica Chaar. And a special mention to Zahraa Al Jundi and Jana Hamed, who were among the first to believe in the idea and start creating.

— As a French-Lebanese artist, many of your works engage with events in Syria and Palestine. How do you personally understand your role in telling these stories?

— I think it is a shared responsibility to speak up against injustice — especially when it affects you or the people around you. For me, Palestine has come to represent something much bigger than itself. I have family from Syria, and I grew up hearing stories about what has been happening there.

As I got older, and began meeting Syrians and Palestinians myself, I felt a strong need to make work that reflects how connected we actually are, rather than how we are often portrayed — as separate.

Right now, so much around us pushes towards division. But I think it is important to keep reminding each other that we aren't truly divided — our stories are intertwined, and so are many of our struggles.

— You have collaborated on several projects. Can you tell me about Hybrid Memory with Amer Al-Barzawi — what it explores and how it developed?

Hybrid Memory is primarily Amer’s work — a video installation that reflects on digital memory, exile, and displacement. He was born in Damascus and had to leave in 2010, and the piece sits within that in-between space: between tangible, lived memories and the more fragmented, almost blurred ones that exist in digital worlds. It touches on what it means to have a sense of home stretched across time zones, held together through video calls and distant connections with family.

I worked on the illustration for the piece. We spent time talking about what felt important to him, going through images and memories that held weight, and at some point he mentioned wanting to include a carpet. I have always been drawn to alternative ways of mapping — not geographically, but emotionally — so I suggested translating his memories into a visual map. Something that could sit between the digital and the physical, between what has been lost and what is still held onto. It is quite a tender piece, really, about staying connected across distance.

— You are involved in a number of socially driven projects. One that stood out is your collaboration with Gal-Dem, addressing abuse within the music industry. Can you tell me more about how that came together?

— Gal-dem approached me for that project. We had collaborated previously, and I believe they were looking for someone who had already worked with stories centred around violence and abuse. It became a very considered collaboration — we spent time thinking through how to honour the voices of those involved, keeping them anonymous while still allowing them to be seen and heard.

Alongside this, I have worked with Egna Legna here in Lebanon on stories of sexual violence affecting migrant workers, and with a Syrian journalist documenting sexual torture within Assad’s prisons. It is a difficult and often heavy subject, and one I have engaged with in different ways over time, but it is also something that still needs to be spoken about. Being entrusted with these stories carries a great deal of responsibility, and it isn't something I take lightly.

— Some of your projects touch on sensitive or difficult topics. If you had to choose, which work feels the most emotionally significant to you?

— That is a difficult one. I think, ultimately, everything connected to Lebanon feels the most personal. Since I was a child, I have carried a certain feeling about the country — perhaps because I grew up outside of it while still having family there, and being raised to love it deeply.

Lebanon has given me so much, despite all the pain tied to it. It has always been a part of me, and it always will be. So whether it is the Venice piece, the recent work responding to the war, or the colouring books — that is where the emotional weight sits for me right now.

At the same time, any collaboration where someone has trusted me to visually translate something as personal as their inner world means a great deal to me. Those moments of trust don’t feel small.

— Some of your series feel lighter and more dreamlike, like Daydreams and Nightscapes. How did that body of work come about?

— That came from a very personal place. I reached a point where I needed to step away from work that was directly tied to politics or the state of the world. It was a moment in between wars, in a way, and I just felt like I needed a pause from constantly engaging with heavier subjects.

At the time, I was having very vivid dreams, and I found myself processing a lot through them. I was also speaking quite a bit about dreams with my friend Razan El Helou, who has a deep understanding of that space, and slowly it all started to come together quite naturally.

When Tota Beirut invited me to exhibit, I showed the series around animals and dreams, alongside a tarot deck I have been working on. It felt like giving myself permission to sit with something softer — something that didn’t need to explain itself or respond to the world. Just beauty, imagination, and a bit of daydreaming.

— Is there an artwork that feels especially personal to you — something created not for a project, but purely for yourself or someone close to you?

— Yes, definitely my watercolour work. I do sell the originals, but I don’t take on commissions for them, so it remains a space that is entirely my own. It is where I can slow down, take my time, and just enjoy the process without any pressure — no deadlines, no expectations.

In a way, it brings me back to what I love most about illustration: that it can be a tool for expressing and regulating emotions. There have been moments when things felt particularly heavy, and returning to that practice really helped me hold onto something steady. And I think there is something quite special in being able to create images that invite others to dream alongside you.

Because these pieces are more intimate, they sit very close to my heart.

— Many artists experience imposter syndrome. Have you ever felt that, and how did you navigate it?

— Oh, yes — I used to be completely paralysed by it. I didn’t study art formally, and I often found myself surrounded by illustrators who came from very artistic or intellectual backgrounds. There was always that voice in my head telling me I didn’t quite belong — that I didn’t have the right training, or the right foundation to be there.

I think that feeling still comes and goes, but I have learned to make peace with my own path. If anything, I have grown to feel proud of what I have built, precisely because I didn’t come from that world.

It took a lot of work, and a certain level of stubbornness, but it also brought me so much — both in terms of what I have learned and the people I have met along the way. I didn’t have a safety net of connections or formal education, so I had to be quite intentional and determined in how I approached things.

And in the end, I have been able to build something meaningful through drawing, regardless of those moments of doubt — which, in a way, makes it all the more personal.