I love treating art like a bit of an experiment, so here is one for you. Dive into that brain of yours and give me the first three things that spring to mind when I say Libyan history. The Arab Spring? Endless desert? Oil? Fair enough.

Now let's make it slightly trickier. Name three things about ancient Libyan history instead. I would wager you had go quiet on me. To be honest, before coming across Shefa Salem's work, I probably would have done exactly the same.

For Shefa Salem, that silence isn't the end of the conversation — it is where the real one begins. The contemporary Libyan artist has made it her mission to explore that silence. Through monumental paintings that often take up to three months to complete, she pieces together prehistoric rock art, forgotten myths, archaeological discoveries and tribal histories to ask a simple question: what if the key to understanding Libya lies not in its recent past, but thousands of years further back?

Her work is layered — and I mean that quite literally. Every figure, every piece of clothing, every gesture, every colour and every architectural detail is there for a reason, backed by months of archaeological and historical research. So, here we go — diving deeper into her art, with Shefa as our guide.

— You originally studied architecture and urban planning. How did you end up becoming an artist instead?

— Actually, I knew I wanted to become an artist long before I started university. The problem was that my city in Libya didn't have a dedicated art department, so architecture was the closest thing I could study. Once I got there, though, I realised it was much more engineering than art. So while I was doing my degree, I was also teaching myself to paint, experimenting with different techniques and slowly developing my own artistic practice. It felt as though I was studying two disciplines at the same time.

By the middle of university, I knew I wanted to give art my full attention. I started working smarter rather than harder on my degree so I could spend more time painting. Looking back, though, I don't think those years were ever a detour. Architecture gave me a different way of thinking and practical skills that still shape my creative process today. I have never worked as an architect, but I have collaborated on designing sculptures for public spaces in Benghazi alongside architects and urban planners, so in a way the two disciplines still meet.

By the time I graduated, I already had a solid body of work, and just four months later I held my first solo exhibition. In many ways, it didn't feel like a career change at all — just the natural next step after years of quietly working towards it.

— How did your family react when you decided to pursue art professionally?

— I think they could see I was serious about it. By then, my work was speaking for itself, so they accepted that this was the path I had chosen. That said, they are still parents at the end of the day, so I imagine part of them wouldn't mind seeing me make use of my architecture degree as well. They are happy I finished university, and perhaps they would be even happier if I somehow found a way to bring the two worlds together.

— You said you always knew you wanted to be an artist. Where do you think that came from?

— I think I always had the talent, but the war gave me the time and the reason to discover it. There wasn't much else to do, so I spent my days drawing and practising, often starting early in the morning and working for hours.

Life during the war depended very much on where you lived. I was lucky that our house was in a relatively stable part of Benghazi while the fighting was happening elsewhere in the city. Even so, we woke up to the sound of bombs and gunfire almost every day. Going outside could be dangerous, and stray bullets would sometimes reach our neighbourhood. We were fortunate compared with many others, but when that becomes part of your everyday life, you naturally look for somewhere else to put your mind.

For me, that place was art. It became both a way of understanding myself and of creating a world beyond what was happening outside.

— Many contemporary artists respond to the present, yet your work takes us thousands of years into Libya's past. What first drew you to prehistoric Libya, the Tehenu, the Timihu and other ancient civilisations?

— At first, my work was much more personal — it was about reflecting on myself. Over time, though, that shifted towards something bigger: the idea of a collective identity. After everything Libya has been through, I found myself asking a simple question: what is it that truly connects us as Libyans?

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that our shared historical memory rarely stretches beyond the Islamic period. That was largely shaped by the education system and the political environment I grew up in. So I started looking much further back, hoping to find something deeper that we could all relate to. During that search, I came across the writer Mohammed Altrhuni, who introduced me to Libya's ancient history through lending his books. That completely changed the direction of my work.

— How did you meet him?

— It happened during the war. He had founded an organisation dedicated to art and culture, almost as a way of pushing back against everything that was happening around us. I remember thinking it was such a hopeful idea at a time when there wasn't much hope. I joined because I wanted to be part of that environment, somewhere that gave people space to think about something beyond the conflict.

We have been friends ever since, and today we still work together. Around six months ago, we founded Teshuinat, an organisation dedicated to researching and archiving Libya's ancient heritage. We travel to archaeological sites, document and archive them, and recently published a book about one of them — the Black Mountains. For that project, I redrew many of the ancient engravings we found there.

— I know that your paintings incorporate a great deal of research. Once you have found a story you want to tell, how do you turn it into a finished work?

— It usually starts with a particular engraving, painting or historical story that captures my attention. Once I know what I want to say, the research begins. Because I paint realistically, every decision matters — the clothing, the architecture, the colours, the objects, even the skin tones of the figures. It is a combination of archaeological and ethnographic research, and only once I have gathered enough material do I begin building the composition.

— And what about the people in your paintings? Where do they come from?

— At first, I used myself as a model. Then my family, then my friends. Eventually I ran out of people I knew, so I had to start looking elsewhere. It is a bit like casting a film. You aren't just looking for someone with the right look — you are looking for someone who genuinely fits the character, someone who can convey the right emotion. So I am quite picky.

I remember asking someone with exactly the physique I needed to pose for a painting. Visually, he was perfect. But once we started, I realised he just wasn't emotionally inside the character. That is when I understood that a model brings much more than appearance. They have to inhabit the moment as well.

— Your paintings are incredibly detailed. How long does it usually take to complete a single work?

— Usually between two and three months of daily work. That includes the research, although the painting itself always takes much longer. There are two main reasons for that: the canvases are large, and I am very particular about detail. If I wanted to paint more loosely, I could probably finish much faster, but that has never been my approach. Every detail has to earn its place. I don't want to make a large painting simply for the sake of scale — if it is that big, it has to have a reason to be.

— Your work feels as though it sits somewhere between art and archaeology. Where do you actually begin your research?

— My research comes from many different places. If we are talking about Libya's ancient history, one of the earliest sources is Herodotus, who travelled through the region and documented the Libyan tribes — how they lived, what they ate, how they thought and organised their lives. Tha is one of the foundations.

From there, I turn to more specialised archaeological research. I spend a lot of time with the work of the Italian archaeologist Fabrizio Mori, particularly his studies of the Acacus Mountains, where he also discovered one of the region's oldest mummies. I also use the publications of Van Albada, whose work focuses on the nearby Messak Plateau, and Eric P. Uphill's research on the eastern Libyan tribes and their connections with ancient Egypt.

But books are only one part of the process. Quite often I go directly to the rock engravings themselves. After spending years looking at them, you begin to understand their visual language. Eventually they start speaking for themselves, and that is where interpretation begins.

— Ancient rock art and rock engravings don’t come with an explanation. How do you begin to understand what these images are trying to say?

— The research always comes first. It gives me the foundation. But after spending years reading, visiting archaeological sites and documenting them, you begin to notice patterns that aren't immediately obvious. You start recognising the different periods of Libyan rock art — the era of the large wild animals, the Round Head period, then the cattle, horse and camel periods. Each reflects a completely different environment and way of life. Over time, you almost begin to recognise the visual language these communities were using.

— Has your work with Teshuinat changed the way you read that visual language?

— Very much so. Working directly on archaeological sites has taken my understanding much further. We work closely with rock art, constantly exchanging ideas and comparing observations. Over time, those discussions led us to look at Libyan rock art from a perspective that hasn't really been explored before.

— What perspective is that?

— Shamanism. Until now, Libyan rock art hadn't really been studied through that lens, but when you begin looking at it that way, many of the symbols and scenes suddenly start to make sense. We also started comparing them with traditions that still survive in parts of Africa and the Americas, where communities have preserved similar ritual practices and oral histories. It is remarkable to see such similar visual languages appearing in places that are geographically so far apart. For me, that is one of the most exciting parts of the research — realising that these ancient images may be part of a much broader human story, not just Libya's alone.

— Let's look a little closer at some of your works to better understand your artistic approach. One of your earlier paintings is My City Sadder Than Ever. What story does it tell?

— I painted it during the war, while I was still at university. I actually remember sketching the first ideas during one of my lectures. At the time, I was trying to capture both the city and myself in a single image.

I imagined Benghazi, my hometown, almost as a human figure. Although I gave the city feminine qualities, I deliberately kept the figure ambiguous because what was happening to it went beyond gender. I also spent time researching Benghazi's traditional architecture, so the shape of the figure's head echoes the city's old houses.

Around the figure you will notice a series of cubes. To me, they represented the conflict trying to confine the city, to box it in. But at the same time, the city refuses to surrender to that. One cube is held in its hand, another has even been swallowed. The city isn't trapped by the boxes — instead, it absorbs them and refuses to let them define it.

— One of your paintings that really stayed with me is Sacred Singing. What is the story behind it?

— It all started with a single historical figure. While researching ancient Egypt, I came across the story of a Libyan singer who performed inside an Egyptian tomb. At first, it seemed like a small detail, but the more I read, the more extraordinary it became. She wasn't simply a singer — she held a highly respected spiritual role, and only someone from the Libyan Meshwesh tribe could perform those rituals.

That immediately made me wonder: why a Libyan? If someone from Libya occupied such an important position in Egyptian religious life, what does that tell us about where these beliefs came from and how they travelled? My interpretation is that, as drought forced ancient Libyan communities to migrate, they carried not only themselves but also their rituals, symbols and ways of thinking. In many ways, the painting is about the journey of an idea as much as the journey of a person.

Although the story unfolds in Egypt, I placed the singer within a Libyan architectural setting. The background is based on a real site in Libya, with a few additions inspired by Libyan symbols. I wanted the painting itself to mirror that cultural exchange, bringing together two places that history often treats as separate.

— Drawn to Dry Land tells a very different story. Where did the idea come from?

— I painted it during the war after watching a documentary about migrants trying to reach Europe in search of a better life. They risked everything hoping for a fresh start, only to end up working on tomato farms for very little money. It made me realise that sometimes escaping one hardship simply leads to another.

At the same time, I remembered a story by Gabriel García Márquez about a family emigrating to America. The mother dies during the journey, leaving her young son alone. He reaches the shore, but his struggle is only just beginning. Márquez describes him as being "drowned on dry land", and that image stayed with me. It became the emotional starting point for the painting.

— Which of your paintings feels the most personal to you?

— Without a doubt, My City Sadder Than Ever. It was my first truly original painting, and it represents both my city and my own experience of living through the war. In many ways, it also marks the beginning of my artistic journey.

— If someone had never seen your work before and you could show them just one painting, which would it be?

— I would choose The Libyan - Greek Conflict because, for me, it brings together everything my work is about. It has the research, the storytelling, the symbolism and the technical side of painting all in one piece.

The painting is inspired by the Greek myth of Heracles and Antaeus. Antaeus was a Libyan giant who guarded the country's shores, while Heracles had to pass through Libya to complete one of his Twelve Labours and steal the golden apples of immortality. On the surface, it looks like the story of two men fighting. But I have never really seen it that way.

The crucial detail is that Antaeus draws his strength from the earth itself. The only way Heracles can defeat him is by lifting him off the ground. To me, that is the real story. It isn't about physical strength at all — it is about roots. Once you separate people from their land, from their culture and from their identity, they become much easier to overcome. That ois why I have always seen it as a cultural conflict rather than a physical one.

Around them are two female figures: Athena, representing Greece, and Libya herself, represented as a woman. I find that symbolism fascinating because we often associate female allegorical figures with Europe, yet ancient Libya had one too. That discovery made me realise just how many remarkable women appear throughout Libyan history, despite rarely being part of the conversation today.

In fact, that became one of the guiding ideas behind my last solo exhibition. I deliberately chose subjects that brought those women back into view — from Libya herself to the Libyan Amazons and other female figures who played important roles in our history. I wanted to remind people that they were always there; we simply stopped telling their stories.