— Could you tell us a bit more about your childhood? As I understood, they were involved in the creative industry, and I would love to know more about that.

— I spent my early years between Abu Dhabi and Al Ain, as my family originally hailed from Al Ain before moving to Abu Dhabi for work. This duality of location provided me with a strong sense of roots and tradition, and I spent many of my holidays in Al Ain.

Creativity seemed to flow more from my maternal and paternal side. My paternal grandmother was particularly skilled in traditional crafts like palm leaf weaving. As a child, I was always drawn to DIY projects, a passion supported by my mother. She provided me with toys that encouraged building and creating, which deeply influenced my love for hands-on activities.

Cooking and baking were other avenues where my creativity was nurtured. My introduction to French bread baking, through a recipe book from my mother, turned into more than just a hobby. After baking bread that my mother shared at her office, the positive feedback was incredibly encouraging, and it pushed me to continue experimenting in the kitchen.

Despite these artistic pursuits, I wasn't identified as an "artist" growing up. Our exposure to art was limited; we didn't have art history or contemporary museums — just regular heritage museums. However, my father, who had studied in the US, exposed me to different cultural experiences, including visits to science museums during summers spent with him. These experiences enriched my understanding and appreciation of various forms of knowledge and creativity.

Interestingly, I also ventured into hairstyling, turning a room in my mother's spa into a successful little salon during my undergraduate years. This experience was fulfilling, yet when it came time to advance my education, I chose to pursue art over hairstyling, believing that the world needed more artists.

My formal education in financial accounting initially seemed promising due to my good grades, but it lacked enjoyment. Encouraged by an advisor, I tried art classes and discovered a new passion. This revelation led me to take my art studies seriously, seeking opportunities to develop my skills, particularly in the United States.

Looking back, I see how my upbringing and the various skills I acquired, from baking to hairstyling, have influenced my current work. My art today involves developing my own recipes for materials like plaster, cement, and resins, drawing on the meticulous skills taught by both of my grandmothers. This blend of culinary and artistic skills in my practice allows me to reinterpret and repurpose my past into my artwork, providing a deeper understanding of my creative identity.

— You once mentioned that your grandparents lived in an old house in Al Ain, where there was marble everywhere. Can you tell us more about this house? 

— There are two houses, one from my mom's side and one from my dad's side — my grandparents' homes on both sides. What is interesting about these houses is that they were built in the late 70s or early 80s, during a time when we were a modest society. People lived simple lives, but then wealth started coming in, and you can see that reflected in the houses.

For example, the staircases leading to the utility areas are made of marble, which is astonishing because that is something we can hardly afford now. Even the staircase that goes up to the rooftop is made of marble. On my father's side, the entire house, including the floors and staircases, is made of marble, even down to the basement and the kitchen area. Marble is such a durable material; it is still there, in perfect condition, even today. The same goes for the wooden doors — these old, solid wooden doors have stood the test of time. They just need a fresh coat of stain every now and then, and they look as good as new. It is mind-blowing to think that these materials have lasted so long, while in newer houses, doors start to warp and bubble from humidity within a year.

It all sounds very luxurious by today’s standards, but back then, it was their way of showing that they had reached a certain level of success. They used marble as a symbol of quality and longevity.

This connection between material wealth and the passage of time inspired me in my work. When I was asked to create a monumental public art sculpture, I wanted to use marble to represent both the luxury that was significant to my grandparents' generation and the idea of permanence. The sculpture would monumentalise something we all share — a collective memory. I thought of pillow forts, a universal form of play, as a way to connect with a global audience. In the 90s, while we were building temporary pillow forts in our living rooms as kids, the city around us was being permanently built. I wanted to capture that contrast between the temporary and the permanent.

I wanted to create something that not only resonated with my culture but also with people from around the world. Instead of focusing on more personal topics like hair, which might feel imposed on the audience, I chose to reflect on this collective childhood memory. The composition of the pillows, constructed into a fort, becomes a monument in itself — a monument to a shared memory. It is a nod to a specific generation and a way to pass on a historical moment that lives within us, using material once associated with luxury and time.

— Another amazing work — Tangle, Untwist, REWIND - Sweat For Years To Come — is dedicated to your mom. Why did you do it this way? Why is it located among trees?

— I grew up with very long hair — down to my knees, actually. It was madness, and looking back, I realise how much of that had to do with social constructs and conditioning. My mom got married very young; she had me when she was 16, and I am her eldest, so we became best friends. 

She had four girls, all two years apart — exactly. My mom's marriage was arranged by the family, and I think, being so young, many of her decisions were influenced by them, especially her mother, my grandmother. Taking care of my hair was such a huge labour for her — both physically and psychologically. She would tell me how painful it was to brush my hair, knowing that I was in pain, too. 

I have talked a lot about the hidden labour that existed in my upbringing. I always had my hair pulled back straightened, and it wasn’t until I was in undergrad that I realised that no one ever told me my natural hair was beautiful. It made me wonder why I was constantly hiding it. Over time, I began to appreciate my hair, its texture, and everything it represented. That led me to a deep appreciation of my mother’s labour and all the time she spent taking care of it.

I remember asking her once, "Why did you keep it this long if it was so hard to maintain?" She replied, "Your grandmother would have gotten upset." There is so much in that — following social constructs without really having your own opinion.

As for the work I created, it was during a residency program called the International Summer Program in Watermill, New York. The program focused on developing performance and installation art, and I went in with the intention of bringing performance into my work or having someone interact with it. The environment was very collaborative, and we were encouraged to work together.

I consulted with Bob, the founder, multiple times about my piece. Initially, I planned to incorporate dance and sound into the installation, but each time, after thinking it over, he advised me to keep the ropes as they were. So that is what I did.

The program was intense — I had to produce the piece in just two weeks, I was lucky to have had help from other artists but I also spent time working alone. It was the biggest rope installation I have ever made. The woods were so deceiving; what seemed like a small area turned out to be massive. The installation ended up being about 8 to 10 meters high and extended 12 to 15 meters across the ground. When I calculated the amount of rope used, it totalled about a thousand meters — one kilometre!

Working on it was both meditative and laborious. The process of untwisting the ropes was like a ritual involving my whole body. It became a dance, a way of channelling energy without straining any one part of my body too much.

When it came time to title the work, I wanted the process to be visible in the title. So, I called it "Untangled: Tangle, Untwist, REWIND — Sweat for Years to Come." The experience was so intimate, especially dealing with nature — the ropes would get wet from the sprinklers, become heavy, and tangle together. There were days when all I could do was detangle them, and it felt like a conversation with the ropes as if they had their own moods.

The whole process taught me so much, and it was a lesson in patience and care. The title reflects that — it is not just about the physical work but also about the emotional labour, much like what my mom put into raising us. It is a practice that will continue, not something that ends now.

— Another work that caught my attention is "Split Ends", made of cement, resin and foam. How did you come up with these materials? And as a follow-up, could you walk me through the timeline of your exploration with different materials? I have noticed you have worked with glass, rope, cement, wood, and many others — how did these come together in your work?

— Yeah, I am always curious to learn new materials. I also work simultaneously on different projects using various materials. I think I would get too bored if I stuck to just one medium — I don’t think I could do it. For me, art is a language, and I am constantly developing a lexicon of materials that I work with. Stagnating on one work or material would feel so boring and like a waste of time, especially when there is so much more I could explore. I am an overthinker, and my brain is always racing with ideas like, "What else can I do with this material?" There is always a curiosity driving me forward.

When I moved to the States to do my master’s at RISD, I started in the painting program, but I ended up taking classes in glass and ceramics. That is where I began to explore different skills and materials. With the "Split Ends" work, which was also the name of my solo show, I wanted to delve into the inherited ideologies we are taught growing up — how to present ourselves, how to care for or hide our hair, and so on. These ideologies create invisible boundaries that we are aware of, but they are not explicitly written in any curriculum. They are a mix of cultural, religious, and faith-based elements.

I started revisiting these ideologies and questioning them —wondering if I wanted to continue living by them, coexist with them, or unlearn them. This process made me more conscious of my background and upbringing. The "Split Ends" pieces are round, braided foam shapes coated with cement, representing a soft core with a hardened exterior — a metaphor for the balance between softness and hardness in these ideologies. The pieces are placed in a sequence, split but still connected, much like how split ends in hair remind us to maintain and care for it. I realised that I could spend my entire life exploring these ideologies and my relationship with them. It is not something I want to completely discard; I have great respect for my culture and upbringing. Instead, I am interested in how I can coexist with these ideologies, embrace them with intention, and be conscious of their influence.

The title "Split Ends" made sense because hair grows and develops split ends every few months, reminding us to trim and maintain it. Similarly, I see these ideologies as something that needs to be revisited and dealt with over time.

As for the grey color in the work, it varies between dark and light shades due to the different mixes of cement. I started using a lot of construction materials because I was always questioning what my palette and landscape were. It turns out that I was naturally drawn to monotones and subdued palettes, which wasn’t intentional but felt right. During grad school, I was often asked why I wasn’t using more colour, which led me to self-critique and develop a better understanding of my practice.

When I moved back from the States, I realised that the landscape around me — constantly under construction — was influencing my palette. My surroundings are dry and industrial, which is reflected in the materials I use. Visiting hardware stores and finding materials I wasn’t familiar with became part of my process. These industrial and construction materials have become central to the recipes I create in my work, representing where I am from and what I do.

— Let’s talk about two more of your works, starting with "Round and Round We Go." It seems to touch on the idea of a full life circle, with everything being interconnected. Could you tell me more about what this work is about and what inspired it?

— This was part of my last solo show, which I find really interesting because it reflects where I am now in my practice. Throughout my career, I have always been responsive to my surroundings, whether it is the day-to-day rhythm of life, social and cultural changes, or even broader sociopolitical shifts. Over time, as my work has developed, I have become busier, and I have started to notice how this fast-paced life affects not only me but also the sincerity and quality of my work.

The idea behind "Round and Round We Go" really stems from this realisation. When I was at Watermill, the experience was a wake-up call. It reminded me of the importance of community, especially among artists and creatives. The program was filled with diverse creatives — musicians, sound designers, set designers, performers, actors — all from different fields. Every day, we would gather at meals, discuss our progress, and share feedback, and it hit me how much I missed that kind of interaction, which is something I feel is often lost in our fast-paced, project-driven world.

As artists, we are constantly moving from one project to the next, and I started to wonder if this rush could compromise the quality and sincerity of our work. Could we end up just producing for the sake of it, losing the depth and connection that art should have? I am very passionate about the emotional connection to my work, so these thoughts really influenced my approach.

"Round and Round We Go" is a reflection of this. The piece is about the cyclical nature of life, represented by a wooden structure with bobby pins installed on the rope. It symbolises the endless cycles we find ourselves in, like a hamster on a wheel, constantly moving without a clear beginning or end. This concept was influenced by the philosopher Byung-Chul Han, whose work on modern-day time and rhythm resonated with me.

For my solo show, I wanted to create an environment that would absorb the audience and ground them for a longer time, breaking away from the typical fast-paced gallery experience where people walk in, snap a few photos, and leave. To achieve this, I incorporated a soundscape into the exhibition, working with Dario Felli, a sound designer I met at Watermill. The soundscape was composed of noises from my studio — sounds of the materials I use, edited and spliced to create a meditative environment. The aim was to introduce movement through sound, inviting the audience to slow down, settle in, and truly experience the art.

The show was titled "Give Your Weight to the Ground," and it was all about creating a space where people could pause, reflect, and engage with the work on a deeper level rather than just passing through.

— The next work is Breathing Space No. 2, the painting. I am curious — when I think of "breath," I usually associate it with lightness, openness, and maybe even imagery like clouds or a vast space. So why did you choose to depict it in such dark colours? What was the reasoning behind that choice?

— It is interesting because if you see them in real life, the background is actually lighter, peeking through the dark areas. I have an interesting relationship with painting. I studied it in my master's program, and while I love painting, I often struggle with being overly self-critical. In my opinion, the best paintings I have created come from intuition and feelings rather than logic.

When I created these two paintings, they were literally meant to be "breathing spaces" for me — a time to play like a child and just have fun. These paintings were actually a reflection of a previous series I worked on called "I Met a Line and We Made Paintings".

There was a moment when Mohammed Ahmed Ibrahim visited my studio while I was working on those earlier paintings. He saw the unfinished work, just fields of colour without the lines yet, and told me they were beautiful as they were. At the time, I thought, "No, they're not finished; I still need to add the lines." But his words stuck with me.

As I was preparing for this show, I did a lot of reflecting and remembered that moment. I realised I missed the simplicity of those early stages, so I decided to bring that feeling back. That is why I called these pieces "Breathing Space" — it was a moment of allowing myself to revisit and embrace something I had once thought of as incomplete.

As for the colour palette, it was a very intuitive decision, responding to the surface itself, which had a greenish base. I didn't overthink it; I just let the process guide me.

— Do you have any unreleased works? For example, earlier ones that you still haven’t shown?

— That is a great question. To really understand, you would need to see my studio. There is a constant flow of creations, many of which I never end up showing. For example, I often feel an urgent need to paint, but when faced with the canvas, it is not always clear what will emerge. These pieces can start as what seems like mere drawings, but sometimes, they feel like proposals for future paintings.

One piece in particular encapsulates this process. It is an image that came to me in what seemed like a dream. I woke up with a vivid picture in my mind of a braid trying to sit on a chair and immediately sketched it with oil pastels—a medium I don't typically use. This piece is quite distinct from my usual work, which often involves direct imagery, like the painting and drawing of one of my rope installations that are currently in the studio and may not even be exhibited.

Moreover, I have a shelving unit downstairs filled with various test pieces, exploring potential ideas. These tests sometimes evolve into complete works, but often they do not. Yet, many visitors, including one of my professors during grad school, have suggested that this shelf itself, with all its contents, is a piece of art. He even proposed that I consider exhibiting my studio as a lab, highlighting the experimental nature of these pieces, which, though I often dismiss them as mere trials, are works of art in their own right.

— The latest piece you worked on is “Collective Exhaustion.” Can you tell me more about it? 

— Oh yes, we even created specifically for this project. It represents a new direction in my work, as I collaborated with Cristian Simon, a lighting designer, Dario Felli, a sound designer, Johan Sterner an architect/scenographer, and Lyuba Todorova a theatre director for this installation, which added unique elements to the piece.

I showcased "Collective Exhaustion" in my studio after receiving a grant from the national program. For more information about the project, you can check out the link in the bio of the Instagram account. There, you will find further details on what we developed and the concepts behind it.

For “Collective Exhaustion,” I chose to create an interactive environment right in my studio rather than in a traditional institution. This decision was driven by my desire to experiment freely without the constraints typically imposed by institutional settings. By hosting the project in my own space, I was able to truly shape the environment and cultivate the energy I envisioned.

The entire production took place over a month, turning my studio into a sort of creative camp where the team and I worked from morning to evening. This intensive collaboration involved a sound designer and a lighting designer, enhancing the interactive nature of the work. The installation was designed to function almost like a shelving system, representing the everyday load of chores, responsibilities, and obligations. The shelves, made of fabric, and sagged under the weight of ropes, visually represent the burden of these daily tasks and allow visitors to interpret the symbolism in their own ways.

My goal was to provoke thought among other artists about pushing boundaries and creating more ambitious works. I wondered how we could leverage our resources and support to move beyond the comfort zone of "safe" exhibitions. 'Collective Exhaustion' posed a question: If we have reached a state of collective exhaustion, what comes next — mass burnout?

To explore this, I created a space where visitors could lose track of time. The piece ran for three hours each night over three days, featuring live improvisations with light and sound that didn’t loop but continuously evolved. It was fascinating to observe the audience's engagement; some, who I expected might stay for just thirty minutes, were captivated for nearly two hours, fully immersed in the experience.

— You mentioned that the pace of life in the UAE is very fast. Has it always been this way? And you weren’t okay with this tempo, right?

— I don't think it is necessarily about me being okay with it. When I reflect on my parents, family, and friends in different countries or even civilisations throughout history, every society has faced its own drastic and dramatic changes. What we are witnessing now, with the rapid pace of technological advancements, architecture, and development, is just another form of that change, but at an accelerated pace.

I don't place all the blame on the pace of development alone. Technology, with its ability to put the world in our hands, plays a significant role. We have gone from waiting for letters and packages to instantly knowing our location, schedule, financial status, and even predicting the weather — all with an abundance of information at our fingertips. It is not so much about being okay with it; it is about recognising that this is our reality. It is inevitable. The real question for me is: how do we coexist with this rapid pace? Is it natural for our bodies to endure and experience this kind of constant stimulation?

I do believe it has psychological and physical effects on us, undoubtedly. That is why there is a growing interest in wellness practices, meditation, and other forms of self-care. People are clearly yearning for slower moments. But the bigger question is, will we find a balance, or are we headed for a collective burnout? 

That is why I often ask if we have reached a point of collective exhaustion. Will we all hit a mass burnout, or can we find pockets of time and ways to cope? No one is going to tell you to stop or take a break — it is up to us to set those boundaries. Unless we take the initiative to say, "I need some space," or block off time in our schedules, the demand will never stop. People will always want more.