There is something rather wonderful about a person who describes herself as “seventy-plus years young” and is still considering going back to university. Not because she needs another qualification, but simply because there is so much more she wants to learn. I think that tells you quite a lot about Maysaloun Faraj.

An artist, collector and passionate advocate for Iraqi art, Maysaloun has spent decades doing a remarkable number of things. She studied architecture, built an extraordinary art collection with her husband, helped bring Iraqi artists to international attention, and somehow, amid all of that, continued developing her own painting and sculpture.

So, where do you even begin with someone who has so many different sides to her? Trying to cover all these different sides of Maysaloun in one conversation was a bit of a challenge, but an absolute joy. And I must admit, I even got a little teary-eyed at one point. I am rather emotional, so don't take my word for it. Although I have a feeling you might too.

Here we go.

— Let’s start right at the beginning. Were you always drawn to art, or did growing up in a creative family play a part?

— From an early age, I instinctively felt that I was destined to become an artist. I was born in Los Angeles in 1955 to Iraqi parents and spent my early childhood between Los Angeles, Washington and New York, where they were studying, before we returned to Baghdad in 1968.

My father studied mechanical engineering, earning a BSc from the University of Southern California, an MSc from Washington State University and a PhD from the University of Salford. Alongside his private practice, he was also a professor at the University of Baghdad. My mother studied fashion and interior design at UCLA. Education was paramount in our family, but so were culture, creativity and intellectual curiosity.

I was constantly drawing and making things, fascinated by colour, shape, pattern and the way objects were constructed. My father’s affinity for geometry and structure, alongside my mother’s eye for design and beauty, naturally found their way into my own interests, eventually leading me to study architecture.

But it was moving to Baghdad that truly shaped my visual world. I absorbed everything around me: palm trees, the scent of earth after rain, the geometry of brickwork, poetry, courtyard houses, faith and the extraordinary cultural richness of an ancient city shaped by two great rivers. Baghdad awakened something in me that I couldn't yet articulate.

All these impressions became part of my inner landscape, staying with me as I grew older and continuing to inform how I use colour and form, and how I think about place and memory.

— You originally studied architecture in Baghdad. At what point did you realise architecture wasn't quite the life you wanted, and art was?

— I have never really seen architecture and art as competing paths. I graduated in architecture from the University of Baghdad in 1978, and that education has shaped how I approach composition, rhythm and the relationship between individual elements and the whole.

I have never regretted not practising architecture professionally. Perhaps because it has always been such a natural part of my life. My husband, Ali Mousawi, is an architect, as is our eldest son, Amir, so conversations about architecture have always been part of our family life. It is something we share, both intellectually and personally. In many ways, my art is an extension of that education, bringing structure, spontaneity and freedom together into the same visual language.

— You left Baghdad and settled in London in 1982. Do you remember the first work you made after leaving Iraq, and did anything change in your work once Baghdad was no longer physically around you?

— I can't quite pinpoint the first work I made after leaving Baghdad, but my departure in 1982 marked a profound transition. I think you only fully understand how deeply you belong to a place when you are no longer physically there.

There is an Iraqi poem that has always resonated with me.

اللي مضيع ذهب، بسوق الذهب يلقاه

واللي مفارق محب، يمكن سنة وينساه

بس اللي مضيع وطن، وين الوطن يلقاه؟

It roughly translates to: He who loses gold may find it again in the gold market. He who loses a loved one may forget them in a year. But he who loses his homeland — where can he ever find it again?

That question has stayed with me and runs through much of my work. I may have left Baghdad physically, but Baghdad never really left me. I carry it with me in all its beauty and pain, its colours, textures, memories and contradictions.

If anything, distance made that connection even stronger. Art became my way of holding on to what I had left behind, while also making sense of what it means to live between places and cultures. Leaving changed my relationship with home, and memory gradually became an enduring part of my artistic language.

— You were already drawing traditional Baghdadi houses as an architecture student, and the city still finds its way into your work today. Where do we see it most clearly? And is it the Baghdad you remember or the city as it is now?

— The traditional Baghdadi houses I drew as an architecture student, with their courtyards, shifting light and shadow, colours and architectural rhythms, remain vivid in my mind.

Today, Baghdad finds its way into my work in all sorts of ways. Sometimes quite literally, through architectural references, palm trees, rivers, moonlit skies and that ever-present sun. Other times, it is more subtle, appearing through geometry, rhythm, colour and the way I organise elements on the canvas.

But I am not really trying to paint the city as it is, or even recreate it as it once was. I am much more interested in the Baghdad that lives inside me. Memory is a curious thing: it constantly shifts, breaks things apart and puts them back together, often in unexpected ways. And in many ways, that is exactly how I work. Those early impressions are still there, even if they take on entirely different forms today.

— Lockdown seems to have quietly changed the way you approached your practice. What actually shifted during that period?

— Lockdown gave me something ordinary life rarely allows: time to pause and look inward. It was during this period that my HOME series emerged.

For those fortunate enough to have a safe roof over their heads, home suddenly became the place where we spent almost all our time. For me, this was particularly poignant. I had already spent decades away from Baghdad, the place I had always considered home. And yet, here I was, spending my days in another home, beginning to see it in an entirely different light.

My process became more observational. I began drawing what I saw every day, exploring different perspectives of my living room, looking both inward and outward. Things I might previously have overlooked suddenly became worthy of attention. It also made me think more deeply about what home really means. Perhaps it isn't always a physical location, but something emotional that we carry with us, wherever we happen to be.

— Your work has such a distinctive visual language — small details, ornament, geometry and a lot of colour. How did that language develop over the years?

— Colour is my language of love. It is one of the fundamental reasons I paint.

Over the years, my visual language has been shaped by many influences: my Iraqi heritage, Islamic visual traditions and, above all, spirituality, faith and contemplation of the transience of life. Geometry, ornament, rhythm and colour have gradually come together in a way that feels distinctly my own.

I have never felt the need to give that language a particular name. What interests me is the tension between structure and spontaneity, between what is planned and what emerges intuitively. I enjoy having a sense of order, but I also love those unexpected moments when a painting takes me somewhere I hadn't anticipated. That element of discovery is what keeps the work alive.

— More recently, palm trees have become a prominent feature of your work. Why has this particular image returned to you now, and what does the palm allow you to express that other subjects perhaps couldn't?

— I have a lifelong love affair with the Nakhla, the date palm. She has been part of my visual memory ever since I first laid eyes on her when we moved to Baghdad. And yet, whenever she returns to my work, she takes on a new meaning, form and expression.

In my Nakhal series, the palm becomes much more than a childhood memory. Rooted in the earth yet reaching towards the sky, she embodies belonging and aspiration, endurance and fragility, generosity and resilience. For me, she connects the earthly with the spiritual, and the personal with the collective.

But there is also a very personal side to this series. I name each Nakhla after a woman who has touched my life and helped shape who I am. There is my grandmother Zahra, my mother Fatima, my aunts and friends, my daughter Aya, and now even my granddaughters, Ayla and Leia! Each carries her own story, and through them, I find myself exploring womanhood, love, faith and the passage of time.

— An important part of your life has been creating space for other Iraqi artists through Strokes of Genius, Saqi Books and later Aya Gallery. Why did that feel particularly important at the time?

— In the mid-1990s, against the backdrop of two wars and the devastating sanctions imposed on Iraq, I felt a strong sense of responsibility to bring Iraqi art to wider international attention. I knew how rich and sophisticated our artistic history was, and I believed it deserved to be seen and shared.

I had grown up surrounded by Iraqi culture and knew many artists personally, largely through my husband, who collaborated with artists of his generation on architectural projects. Yet I was also very aware of how little Iraqi art was visible internationally.

Through Strokes of Genius: Contemporary Iraqi Art, published by Saqi Books, a groundbreaking website, a touring exhibition and later Aya Gallery, I set out to create platforms where Iraqi artists could share their work and reach audiences who might otherwise never encounter it.

It was deeply personal, too. Having left Iraq myself, I wanted to help preserve and share a cultural heritage that was vulnerable to loss, fragmentation and misunderstanding. I felt strongly that Iraqi art shouldn’t be defined solely by the country's political circumstances, but recognised for its creativity, complexity and contribution to modern and contemporary art.

Over time, these efforts helped generate wider interest among art professionals, educational and cultural institutions, auction houses and publishers, opening the door to further publications, exhibitions and opportunities for artists.

— I want to hear more about Strokes of Genius. How did the project actually come together, and how did you choose the artists involved?

— Strokes of Genius: Contemporary Iraqi Art began as a personal initiative in 1995, when I started building a database and archive of Iraqi artists. What began as an effort to document their work gradually grew into something much larger: a book, which I edited and Saqi Books published in 2001; a pioneering website, at a time when the internet was still in its early stages; and an international exhibition tour across the UK and USA between 2000 and 2003.

To help select the artists and works for the exhibition and publication, we brought together an expert panel with extensive knowledge of contemporary Middle Eastern art. It included Venetia Porter of the British Museum, Ulrike al-Khamis of Glasgow Museums, and Iraqi artists Rashad Selim and Leila Kawash.

Together, we reviewed slides and images, putting together a selection that reflected the breadth of modern and contemporary Iraqi art across generations, styles, media and lived experiences. We included emerging artists alongside established figures, as well as artists from the Iraqi diaspora, whose practices spanned Iraq, the wider Middle East and North Africa, Europe and North America. The exhibition also included loans from the British Museum. None of this would have been possible without the immense in-kind support we received, alongside grants from Arts Council England.

Our aim was never to define Iraqi art, but to reveal its breadth, individuality and sophistication at a time when Iraq was too often viewed only through the lens of conflict and political crisis.

— Was there ever a point when you realised you had become so busy creating space for other Iraqi artists that you needed to reclaim some of that space for Maysaloun Faraj the artist?

— Yes, absolutely. For many years, I devoted much of my time and energy to promoting Iraqi artists through Strokes of Genius, exhibitions and Aya Gallery. It was work I believed in passionately, and I don't regret a moment of it.

But eventually, I realised that my own artistic practice needed more of my time and attention, too. Supporting other artists and developing my own work were never mutually exclusive. In fact, the experience brought me closer to my cultural roots and helped me better understand my own artistic voice.

So turning towards my own work felt like a natural next step. After spending so many years creating opportunities for others, I felt it was time to give my own painting and sculpture the same commitment, energy and belief.

— You and your husband have also built an extraordinary collection of Iraqi art, reportedly comprising around 2,000 works. Do you remember the piece that started it all?

— Collecting grew quite naturally for Ali and me. We were both educated in Baghdad, surrounded by Iraqi art and artists, many of whom we knew personally. We simply acquired works we loved, without necessarily imagining how large the collection would eventually become.

One of our very first acquisitions was Lyre of Ur (1977, mixed media on canvas, 120 × 120 cm) by Iraqi artist Saleh al-Jumae. But the story actually goes back a little further. Ali introduced me to Saleh and his wife in 1975, when I was studying architecture at the University of Baghdad. Our families became close, and Saleh became something of a mentor to me, encouraging my artistic pursuits. His work had a considerable influence on my own, particularly during the 1970s and 1980s.

Ali also commissioned Saleh and other renowned Iraqi artists for his architectural projects. Saleh left Iraq in 1979 and eventually settled in Alameda, California, where he worked as a freelance graphic artist.

— Are you still actively collecting Iraqi art today? If so, what was your latest acquisition?

— Absolutely! Iraqi art is still at the heart of our collection, but our curiosity has taken us well beyond Iraq over the years. We have always followed the artists and works that speak to us, wherever they happen to come from.

Among our most recent acquisitions are The Message, a bronze sculpture by Egyptian artist Rana Ajamm; Al-Mash’aya, a limited-edition print series by Iraqi artist Ahmed al-Bahrani; and a collection of small oil paintings by Turkish artist Süreyya Noyan.

I think that is one of the pleasures of collecting. There is always another artist to discover, another work that catches your attention. And even after all these years, that curiosity is still very much there.

— After so many years of collecting together, is there one work that feels particularly personal to you and your husband? What makes it so special?

— Several works hold special meaning for Ali and me, but one is particularly close to my heart: Sunset on Dijla: Fal’lah and Wife (1986), a drawing by the pioneering Iraqi artist Neziha Selim, who happened to be my art teacher at Baghdad High School.

I chose it to launch the online display of the Joury Collection because of a story I will never forget. In 1988, Ali and I were in Baghdad for the Art Biennale, where I was exhibiting. We were staying at the Al-Mansour Melia Hotel, which at the time was a lively meeting place for artists, intellectuals and all sorts of interesting people.

One morning, someone knocked on our hotel room door. And who was standing there? My former teacher, Miss Neziha Selim, holding a rolled sheet of paper and coloured pencils! “Oh my God, Miss Neziha! Please, come in!”

She sat down opposite me, unrolled the paper across her lap and began adding the finishing touches to the drawing, right there in front of me. I was ecstatic. “But, Miss Neziha, how did you remember me after all these years?” I asked. She looked straight into my eyes and replied, “How can I forget my beautiful, talented student?” She signed the drawing, handed it to me and left. I was moved to tears.

So, for me, this is far more than a treasured piece of Iraqi art. Every time I look at it, I am taken back to Baghdad, to my younger years and to a remarkable teacher whose kindness and generosity I will never forget. It is a very personal reminder of just how much a teacher can mean in someone's life.

— In a recent interview, you mentioned that you were thinking of applying to the Royal College of Art to study painting. Did you ever take that step? Or is it still on your mind?

— The idea of applying to the Royal College of Art comes from a very simple desire: to keep challenging myself and learning. My architectural education shaped me profoundly, but as a painter, I found my own way through years of independent exploration, experimentation and practice.

And the funny thing is, the longer you work, the more questions you have! There is always something new to explore, something you haven't quite figured out yet. At seventy-plus years young, I am still curious and excited by all the paintings I have yet to discover!

The application deadline for the RCA's MA in Painting is January 2027, so watch this space! I certainly haven't ruled it out. One never knows what the future holds, and I find that rather exciting!