Chafa Ghaddar, Lebanese Artist: ‘Trauma Is a Shared Meal’

by Alexandra Mansilla

Chafa Ghaddar, the Lebanese Artist: ‘Trauma Is a Shared Meal We Are All Sitting At’

28 Sept 2024

1,200 hand-painted azulejos now adorn the wall of Al Safa Library. Honestly, it is not something you would ever expect to see in Dubai. The piece, titled "I Am Still Learning," was created by Lebanese artist Chafa Ghaddar. As Chafa herself puts it, "The blue, as seen in Portuguese azulejos, doesn’t naturally belong to Dubai. But then I asked, 'What truly belongs here?'"

We had a chance to chat with Chafa about this mesmerising work (which, honestly, is hard to take your eyes off), why she is drawn to large-scale creations, and how the tragic events she has experienced are reflected in her art.

— Chafa, could you please tell us how your journey in art began? This is for those who haven’t seen your interviews yet.

— I was born and raised in Lebanon, not in Beirut, but in the South, in a town that is part village, part coastal town. In the 80s, we were the only house on a hill with pine trees, foxes, and snakes. Back then, the area wasn't crowded with construction, and we didn't have a fenced garden, so when you stepped outside, there were hills and valleys — my playground. I think this early experience of vast, open spaces shaped my approach to large-scale work later on.

As more houses were built on the hill, we lost some of that freedom, but my childhood was still filled with a sense of agency and playfulness. I grew up in a large Lebanese family, and my parents' house was a gathering place for cousins and extended family. We were often left to explore the hills on our own, and the sound of the call to prayer signalled that it was time to return home. That freedom and connection to the earth — playing with soil, wood, and nature — fueled my curiosity and sense of risk-taking.

Unfortunately, the war of the 80s also left its mark. Our house was hit by a rocket when I was two months old, and although it wasn't destroyed, it was damaged. Over time, we dealt with humidity in the walls, surface contamination, and the general weakening of the structure. These experiences, witnessing the deterioration and trying to fix it, made me sensitive to surfaces and textures, which later became central to my artistic practice. I have come to realise that my work with frescoes, murals, and large surfaces is connected to these early experiences of scale and materiality.

Growing up in a war-torn country also had a deep emotional and psychological impact. I personally witnessed many wars with Israel, sometimes having to leave our home, uncertain if we would return. These intense, violent experiences of uncertainty and instability shaped not only my personal life but my approach to art as well. Even after moving to Dubai, I stayed connected to Lebanon, as it is a part of who I am and continues to influence my work.

I have been told since I was three or four years old that I had a natural sense of colour. I had a fluidity when mixing colours and forms. Although I never had a formal art education until university, it was clear that painting was my passion. In university, however, I felt dissatisfied with the painting classes, so I sought out my own path. I wanted to work on a larger scale, to experience art with my entire body, and this led me to learn about murals and industrial painting. I worked on construction sites, learning to plaster walls and understand the layers beneath a simple white wall. This hands-on experience became the foundation of my practice.

At the same time, I began developing my own artistic language, one that was deeply connected to the murals and surface work I was doing. Although some in the contemporary art world didn’t fully understand my dual focus on commercial and fine art, I knew that both were important to my development. Over the years, my work evolved into something more intentional and meaningful, combining my experiences in both fields.

After moving to Dubai, I continued to explore new themes. The city's unique atmosphere — its haze, humidity, and layering of cultures — began to influence my work. I was fortunate to be selected by Tashkeel Studio and Gallery for the Critical Practice Program and had my first solo show in Dubai in 2020. Throughout this journey, the duality between Beirut and Dubai has fueled my creativity, allowing me to look at my practice from different perspectives.

— Can you describe the differences between your works before and after moving to Dubai?

— Dubai opened a new window for me, almost like a portal into an "elsewhere." This idea of "elsewhere" fascinates me. What is an elsewhere? Is it escapism? Is it a distant place we fantasise about mentally? Or is it literally the other house, the other home, the other place?

In Beirut, my practice centred around themes like exploring the self, the home, the self-portrait, and what the body has gone through. These themes didn’t disappear when I moved to Dubai. They expanded. I started doing more atmospheric paintings and became deeply interested in the concept of atmosphere, particularly the idea of haze. My practice matured on many levels. I work with frescoes, a historical technique that is quite rare in contemporary art, and Ive come to understand and refine my language around it while living in Dubai.

Being here has also given me space — both mentally and physically — to explore ideas like journaling, fragmentation, and autonomy in art. What is a fragment? How can it be autonomous? How does a fragment inform us about painting and art beyond its boundaries? Dubai gave me the room to dive into these ideas.

At the same time, I made a deliberate decision to step away from commercial work. I quickly realised that the market here is entirely different, and focusing on it would take too much away from my contemporary art practice. So, I decided to dedicate at least three years to focusing entirely on my research — on exploring my practice conceptually and theoretically — and seeing how it could evolve in this new environment. There is still a level of consistency with the work I did in Beirut, and I carry that forward, but the space and opportunities in Dubai allowed for new growth.

— Artists often express their life experiences through their work, and I am curious: in which of your works can we see the influence of your experience, particularly with the war?

— I can point to “Spectrum”, a project I did during a collective exhibition called “Exposure” in Beirut in 2012, which was my first fresco. That was a great adventure. And also, it was the first time I was commissioned to participate in a collective show in Beirut, and I decided to create a mural fresco. I was surprised when the Beirut Art Center gave me such a large wall — 12 meters by 6 meters. I felt like the little girl on the playground saying, “Okay, I’ll take it all!” It turned into this massive fresco that stretched almost from corner to corner, like a stretched skin. It was inspired by the chemistry of the fire that had happened in my house.

Spectrum (2012) by Chafa Ghaddar

But in none of my projects do I talk directly about the trauma or the war. I don’t create work that simply says, “This is what happened to my house.” Even that fresco at the Beirut Art Center wasn't about the fire in a literal sense. It was about understanding its impact on a more phenomenological level.

From that project, I became interested in wounds as a time phenomenon. A wound isn't just the event — it is how the event manifests over time. It can be poisonous, it can kill you, or it can heal. My work is never just about the event itself. The trauma is a given, especially for Lebanese artists. If we keep creating work solely about war, it is like recycling the same food — eating it and throwing it back up. I feel like the trauma is a shared meal that we are all sitting at, but what is interesting to me is how the manifestation of these events affects the body and psyche over time and how that opens up new poetic dimensions.

That project at the Beirut Art Center is probably the closest I have come to directly addressing war because it was inspired by the instability of my house after the fire. But again, the project wasn’t about the event itself — it was about how a psyche, like a wound, develops over time. Each time you look at the work, you see the wound in different stages. I have other series that are very sensual, where the wound appears almost like real skin. You can always see the ideas of the body, skin, ageing, and layers in my work. Some might say it is about violence, even if there is no violence visible. Others might say it is about resilience, though I never explicitly mention resilience. Fresco is a medium that embodies both ruin and residue — it is everything that wasn’t wiped away. This tension between vulnerability and strength exists in everything I do. It is not just about what I paint but how I place the work in an exhibition. Everything resonates with my experience, even if it is not explicitly about war.

Sources #26, #23, #24 (2023). Source: artsy.net

Another project where you can see these themes is a more recent one on paper. Last year, I did two series — Sources and Wildfires. Sources started as a study of the landscape, looking at nature and soil as something always in a state of becoming. But while I was painting, the disaster in Palestine started, and the violence and grief we were all seeing really affected me. I remember when they bombed the Al-Shifa hospital, killing 400 people. That moment was so overwhelming, and instead of painting grass, all my greens turned into red, burgundy, orange — aggressive colours like fire.

Wildfire series #1, #38, #52 (2024). Source: artsy.net

The next series, Wildfires, continued this exploration. I never say that these works are about a specific war, but they reflect what is happening to the land and to the body. I mean, we are burning inside out, right? Even now, I get goosebumps talking about it. My focus, my aesthetic — they are intense. You will see the drawings are colourful, textured, and even sensual, not dramatic in an obvious way, but they still carry the intensity of what is happening to the land and the mind.

The land has always been important to me — it was my playground growing up, but now it is a space of conflict and violence. Whether in Lebanon, Palestine, or elsewhere, the land embodies so much. So, while I don’t explicitly create work about war, those experiences are always present in my hues, in the fiery sunsets that I can't seem to move away from. I am currently working on a new body of work for a solo show at Maraya Art Centre in October, and these themes of fire and intensity are still at the core of what I am painting.

My medium itself is complex — sometimes I paint a face or a self-portrait, or sometimes I create abstract pieces. But the painting stage is often just one part of the process. Before painting, I spend a lot of time building the surface. I create my own surfaces, whether with acrylic, mural materials, or even lace prints. The surface itself is integral to the work. Fresco, for example, requires very specific techniques with lime, sand, and pigment. I move into painting only after building the surface, and this process feels like a performance in itself. I move fluidly between themes — sometimes it is a face, sometimes a sunset or an intimate scene, but always with confidence in their connection to each other.

The last performative aspect is the placement of the work. I don’t view paintings as simply rectangular objects to hang on a wall. Even if they end up on a wall, they are part of a larger ecosystem, requiring support and interaction with each other. They talk to each other; they support each other.

When you look at my practice from 2012 until now, even though the visuals may shift, you can see the consistent link between different aspirations. As a woman, a mother, and an artist in the contemporary art world, there is a lot of pressure to follow trends — whether it is identity, geopolitics, or whatever is in vogue. It takes courage to stick to your own themes and trust in them, and I teach this to my students. As women and mothers, we should embrace the right to create freely and trust in our themes and connections. The contemporary art world will come to you; it is not about fitting in. It is about consistently building and committing to your vision, no matter the trends around you.

— In 2018, your debut solo show, The Visit, took place in Beirut. How would you characterise or describe the works that were included in that exhibition?

— You think that the works are quite different from each other. Why are you asking?

— To be honest, yes. I saw the works, and I was wondering why they were all in the same place. Why are they grouped together under one name in one exhibition?

— I am so happy that you noticed it! I remember that show vividly — it was centred on red and blue. If you look at those colours broadly, you can see that Beirut is very visceral, very corporeal — it touches you deeply.

I will be honest with you. I had big ideas wanting to do things completely differently, but it just wasn’t possible with the team I had at the time. When you saw the works in the studio and then saw how they were framed and hung on the gallery walls, it felt so disconnected from their essence. It was depressing, honestly. I only felt I was able to undo that in my first solo show in Dubai in 2020. For example, that big red piece from 2018 — some people thought it was nice, but I never wanted to install it that way. I never envisioned those works on paper being framed. These were the mistakes of the first show, but it is okay. We have to be gentle with ourselves.

RED (2018) by Chafa Ghaddar

What makes sense to me now is the idea of a "visitation" — I love words. I talk about wounds and other themes, but they are never direct; they are always phenomenological. When I think about the concept of a visit, it feels like more than just an event. A visit can be beautiful, hurtful, transformative — it changes you. Nothing is the same after a visit; even something as simple as a visitor coming for coffee leaves a mark on you. I have fantasised about this idea a lot. It is not just about trauma or war or moving, though those are complex in their own right. Leaving Beirut for marriage, for example, wasn’t a simple move for me. It was layered with complexities, as I had an almost established career there and was trying to shape a contemporary art practice in a new city.

Yes, Dubai and Beirut might feel like sisters in some ways, with flights connecting them daily, but at the same time, they are completely different worlds. The way I drive in Dubai is totally different from how I drive in Beirut. It is a reflection of how different the environments make you feel. Moving to Dubai, starting a new chapter with a partner, getting pregnant just a month before my opening — these were all major life changes. This idea of "visitation" is about how something happens to you or to a surface, and afterwards, nothing is the same.

The Visit exibition, 2018

In that 2018 show, all the works hinted at something having happened. We don’t know what, but it left a mark. It is not a closing; it is an opening. Whether it is a body being revealed, a wound, or some "elsewhere" that comes into view, these are all abstract concepts. I don’t expect viewers to fully grasp this just from seeing the show. That is why the show was supported by an essay from my mentor, and we even did a talk to carry the conversation forward.

Even now, the concept of "visitation" is present in everything I do, even if I no longer use that specific term. In that 2018 show, I was working with visceral red hues, flesh tones, and a desire to open up to the sky or some "elsewhere." These were two polarities: the raw, grounded Lebanese experience and the desire to escape or expand. The way the works were installed back then, with the support I had and where I was in my development, didn’t fully allow these ideas to echo as I wanted. But that is okay — by 2020, in my Dubai show, I had the chance to push the concept of sculptural painting, atmosphere, and "elsewhere" further.

Then, in 2022, in my first gallery show at Tabari Artspace, I revisited ideas of intimacy and serology. Everything you are not fully satisfied with eventually gets revisited or re-explored at another stage. That is the beauty of the process, isn’t it?

The Visit exibition, 2018

— I also wanted to ask about the absolutely fascinating work — the public mural at Al Safa Library in Dubai. The title is “I'm Still Learning”? I am always interested in how a name is connected to the idea behind the work and what we see. So, why that title, I am Still Learning, and why the bench? How did it all come together?

— "I'm still learning" is an expression that, if I recall correctly, was used by Michelangelo at some point, and it perfectly fits this project. This project is really about progress, becoming, and the regeneration of surfaces.

So, I was commissioned to create a permanent public artwork, and during the process, we visited several sites in Dubai with the curator. One of the sites we visited was Al Safa Library, which was undergoing construction. They weren’t demolishing the entire building, but rather maintaining the original structure while making some new additions. Since I am someone who has worked on construction sites, I immediately thought, "This is it!" Al Safa Library felt right for me. Back in the day, the Safa area, located between Zabeel and Safa Park, was a key gathering place for the local community and the first expats in Dubai. The library, built in the 1980s, has a very distinct architectural style from that era, typical of the UAE.

At the time, there was a sense of nostalgia, almost mourning, over the changes happening in the area — people were concerned about the erasure of an era. Being new to Dubai, I didn’t want to impose an outside concept as if I were from this place. I didn’t want to pretend or assume a deep-rooted connection to the space. But what was happening to the Safa Library wasn’t just about one building; it was part of a wider redevelopment of the city. The park had been cut through to make way for the canal, and there was a broader government effort to build a strong narrative around the heritage of the UAE.

I Am Still Learning, public mural, Al Safa Library, Dubai

Coming from a place like Lebanon, where heritage and ruins are key concerns, I found this question of heritage in such a young country fascinating. When does a building or a site get to be considered part of heritage? In a city like Dubai, which is still relatively young, how do we decide which ruins of the future deserve preservation? Al Safa Library, although old by UAE standards, was undergoing semi-destruction, which raised interesting questions for me.

For the project, I decided to repaint the visuals of the old building. I found an archival photograph of the building’s exterior — a façade that resembled a fort, with a tree and a bench. The bench in the photo was empty, which had a poignant meaning. I also created a smaller mural based on the internal decorative cornices of the building’s rooms. The same building was being replastered with new materials, creating a new surface over the old one. I came in with a mural technique that was "parachuted" in from elsewhere — a sort of phantom presence — using blue oxide. The blue, as seen in Portuguese azulejos or Delftware from Holland, doesn’t naturally belong to Dubai. But then I asked, "What really belongs here?"

The question of identity in Dubai is complex. While the government creates a narrative of national heritage, it is not necessarily a complete picture of the city's history. There are multiple narratives — those of the people, the artists, the interventions. So, I decided to embrace the azulejos blue, not as an accurate representation, but as a deliberate choice. I also wanted to experiment with the rich, striking quality of that blue.

Tiles were the perfect medium for this project. Unlike frescoes, which wouldn’t survive Dubai’s extreme weather unless kept in a climate-controlled space, tiles had already endured the temperature shocks. So, tiles it was.

The idea behind this clash of surfaces was to create a dialogue within the building itself, allowing it to tell its own narrative. I took the archival visuals and stretched them like two different layers of skin. While I used photographic references, I painted everything by hand to leave my own mark — to emphasise the presence of the painter. I could have just printed the image, but adding my own touch was crucial.

The phrase "I am still learning" reflects not only my process but the building’s as well. The building is still learning about itself and regenerating its surfaces. The changes happening to it suggest that the building itself doesn’t yet fully know what it will become. Architecturally, my mural is now integrated into the building, and its fate is tied to the fate of the space, the library, and the city. We don’t know what the future holds, but that uncertainty is part of the story.

I Am Still Learning, public mural, Al Safa Library, Dubai. Instagram: @chafaghaddar

— What can we expect to see from you in the near future?

— I am working on the solo show at Maraya Art Centre in Sharjah, and I am very excited about it. Although it is a new body of work, there will be many references to my previous works, particularly landscapes. In this show, I am really pushing the idea of fragmentation within the painting language. You will see the concept of fragmentation, similar to what you find in frescoes, but this time, it won’t necessarily be in the fresco technique. I am also experimenting seriously with oil paint for the first time, and I am really excited about that.

I also have a few collaborations with designers that I can’t announce just yet, but they are great projects that will happen throughout the year. I will also be teaching more, as I am a teaching artist at various institutions. I create my own lessons and give masterclasses, and this year, I am focusing on pushing that further.

That is what is in store for now, and who knows what else might come along!

— If you had to imagine the most unexpected place where your art could be, where would it be? It could be anywhere!

— I would love to work on a church. I have this fantasy of creating something grand, like a large open space or an opera house above it. I would love to work on either a church or an opera house.

by Alexandra Mansilla

Chafa Ghaddar, the Lebanese Artist: ‘Trauma Is a Shared Meal We Are All Sitting At’

28 Sept 2024

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