Ranim AlHalaky is a Syrian-Lebanese multidisciplinary artist — but if you think her practice is shaped by just two places, think again. It is far more layered than that, shaped by movement, multiple contexts, and an ongoing process of research — both personal and cultural.

Her work moves between metal, visual art, weaving, print, sound and voice, and wherever you encounter it, there is always a layering of meaning — a broader cultural narrative sitting alongside something far more intimate. Often, that personal thread leads back to her grandmother — to the summers she spent in Damascus, recording her stories and memories.

We spoke about the shifting idea of home — a theme she keeps returning to — as well as her approach to working across mediums and what continues to push her to experiment. And, naturally, the conversation kept coming back to her grandmother, whose presence still shapes the emotional core of her work.

No more spoilers — let’s get into it.

— How did your creative journey begin, and what role did your family play in shaping it?

— My creative journey began during my studies in graphic design at the American University of Beirut. It was really through my graduation project that something shifted — I found myself drawn to family histories and traditions, particularly through my grandmother’s storytelling.

From there, my practice naturally moved into a space between design and art. It wasn’t a conscious decision, more a gradual unfolding — both disciplines began to grow alongside each other and became quite intertwined in the way I think and create.

My family plays a very central role in this. Not just as inspiration, but as material in itself. I built it as an archive of stories I recorded with my grandmother, and I kept returning to it again and again. It has quietly become the foundation of much of my work — something that continues to shape both the questions I ask and the way I approach them.

— You mentioned being both Syrian and Lebanese — how has this dual identity shaped your work and sense of inspiration?

— I was born in Damascus, and I am half Syrian and half Lebanese, but I didn’t really grow up fully in either place — I was raised in Saudi Arabia. So my connection to both Syria and Lebanon has always been shaped more through family and visits, rather than everyday life.

That distance has definitely influenced how I think about these places. In my work, I keep coming back to questions of home and belonging — what it actually means to feel connected to somewhere you haven’t consistently lived in. There is always this quiet tension between being close to a place and slightly removed from it at the same time, between returning and then leaving again.

It is also something that keeps shifting, especially as both places continue to change. At times, it feels almost like a love - hate relationship, but in a way, that intensity creates a very real kind of attachment.

Both contexts feed quite naturally into my work — through history, craft, oral storytelling, and especially through my grandmother’s narratives. They give me a starting point, but also something I am constantly rethinking and returning to from different angles.

— Having grown up across multiple countries, how has this influenced your understanding of home?

— I have moved quite a lot — from Saudi Arabia to Beirut, Damascus, and now the UAE, where I have been for almost nine years. As a child, I was convinced Saudi was home, but once we left, that feeling shifted and even going back didn’t quite bring it back.

Over time, I have started to feel that home isn’t necessarily tied to a place. It has become more about people — family, relationships, and the memories you carry with you.

Beirut and Damascus still hold a certain emotional weight for me. There is a sense of comfort there, something familiar. But at the same time, I don’t think I have a fixed answer to what “home” is anymore.

It is something that stays open — a question that continues to unfold in both my life and my work. And, in a way, the more I explore it, the more it opens up rather than settles.

— Many of your projects engage with UAE culture — why is this important in your work, and has it also somehow shaped your sense of home?

— It is quite closely tied to this idea of belonging. Engaging with the culture of the place I live in has been my way of building a relationship with it — moving from feeling like an outsider to something more grounded.

Most of my work, both in art and design, is culturally driven, so it felt quite natural to explore those questions through different formats. Working on projects in the UAE — from national day initiatives to pavilions — allowed me to understand the place on a deeper level, not just visually but culturally.

And over time, that process started to shift something. It wasn’t just that my sense of home influenced the work — the work itself began shaping that feeling in return.

— Looking at your UAE projects, there is a sense of minimalism — is that something intentional?

— I wouldn’t say the work is minimal in itself, but I can see why it might come across that way at first glance.

Often, the starting point — whether it is a logo or a title mark — is quite restrained, and that is intentional. It creates room for the project to expand, so the full identity can grow into something much more layered and dynamic across different applications.

I tend to think of it as a kind of base structure — almost like an underlying grid. It isn't always visible, but it quietly holds everything together. From there, the work can evolve quite freely while still feeling cohesive.

— Research seems central to your practice — how does your process usually work?

— Research sits at the core of everything I do, but for me it goes well beyond books or online sources. A big part of it is about being physically present — going into the field, speaking to people, and engaging directly with places and communities.

When you are there, moving through a space, having conversations, noticing small details — you begin to see layers that wouldn’t reveal themselves otherwise. It becomes less about collecting information and more about building a relationship with what you are studying.

— Can you share a moment from your research that shaped your work?

— One that stayed with me is from a recent project linked to my solo exhibition. I was working with objects of memory from my grandmother’s home, including a traditional Syrian blanket — something quite common across the region, yet deeply layered in meaning.

After 14 years away from Syria, I returned there to trace its origins. It wasn’t something I could look up — I had to go into the souks, carrying the blanket with me, asking people, moving from one person to another until I eventually found the original family business behind it.

That process opened up far more than I expected — connections between craft, history, and different forms of knowledge. But what really stayed with me were the conversations with the craftsman, who had inherited the practice from his great-grandfather. Through him, I began to understand not just the object, but the layers of memory it carries.

I have had similar experiences with glassblowers and other craftspeople — moments where the research becomes something lived rather than observed. Even in more client work, like UAE National Day projects, I approach it in a similar way: going into markets, bookshops, archives, observing how people engage with culture, and translating that into visual work.

It is an ongoing process — and in many ways, an endless one.

— In your works you return to your grandmother’s stories quite often — what keeps drawing you back to them?

— It started quite simply — by recording her stories. Every summer in Damascus, we would go to see her, sit around her, and she would tell these endless stories, all from memory. Nothing was written down, yet she carried so much within her. And somehow, every year, there were always new ones.

I think what stayed with me was that sense that the stories weren't just something she told — they were really the bond between us, and also my connection to Syria itself. I was quite fascinated by how much her memory could hold, and that none of it existed anywhere else.

I began recording her around 2014, initially as part of my thesis project, 50 Meters of Omaya's Storytelling. But over time, it shifted. I became less focused on the stories alone and more drawn to her voice — the pauses, the breaths, the small hesitations. Those in-between moments started to matter just as much, if not more. In a way, they are what make her feel present again.

That project never really felt finished. It kept unfolding into different forms — from a book object to installations, to textiles. And it became the starting point for later works like Of Liminal Threads, where I work with objects of memory, like the blanket, deconstructing and reconstructing them while weaving in her voice alongside my own present experience.

I think I keep returning to it because it isn't only about her. It is also about trying to hold together these different states — being physically here, but emotionally somewhere else, in memory. And that is something that continues to shift as I do.

— One of your recent works is To Remember Is to Resist. How did that project come about?

— It began as a poster for an open call at ICD Brookfield Place, centred around the idea of graphic dissent — how design can respond to what’s happening around us.

At the time, there was a lot unfolding across the region — in Gaza, south Lebanon, and Syria — and I felt a need to respond in some way. I used a line from a poem by Mahmoud Darwish — one that has stayed with me for quite a while — and let it guide the visual direction. The trees in the poster carry the words of the poem, almost as if they are holding and passing them on.

The work is structured around a central point, almost like a quiet cosmology, with elements expanding outward. For me, this became a way of thinking about memory, land, and erasure — how histories can be lost, but also how they endure.

Once it was selected and exhibited, I found myself wanting to take it further. It gradually moved into a series of prints, and then into more physical forms. While I was in London, I started working with screen printing and Jacquard weaving, which came quite naturally from the direction I was already exploring. I had been working with traditional blankets — deconstructing them and reworking them — so I was already quite close to the material.

Jacquard weaving allowed me to take that further. Although it is a machine-based process, it still relies on a very tactile system of warp and weft, which I found quite engaging. It became a way of translating the visuals into textiles and garments, giving them a different kind of presence.

At that point, it shifted from being a single image to something more open — an idea that could move across materials and take on different forms.

— You work across many materials — from textiles to metal to graphic design. Do you feel more connected to one, and which do you find most challenging?

— I wouldn’t say I am tied to any one in particular. It usually begins with an idea, and the material follows from there. I move between different mediums depending on what feels right for the work.

I am probably more interested in the process itself — just working with the material and seeing where it takes me. I do tend to push things quite far, sometimes to the point where they almost come apart, and then build them back up again.

In terms of difficulty, each material brings its own challenges. Metal, for example, can be demanding because of its weight and resistance. But then something like working with very delicate materials at a large scale can be equally challenging.

And, if I am honest, I often place myself in those situations deliberately. It is part of how I work — figuring things out by moving through that difficulty.

— One project that really stood out to me, especially in terms of the mediums you were combining, is Eternal Stutters of Memory. Can you tell me more about it?

— It was created for Sikka Art Festival 2025 in the UAE, and it builds on something I have been exploring for a while — the idea of translating sound into a visual form, and then bringing it back into sound again.

In this piece, I focused on the parts of my grandmother’s voice that I mentioned earlier — the ones that usually go unnoticed: the breaths, the hesitations, the small stutters between words. When we listen to a story, we tend to focus on what is being said, but for me, those in-between moments carry a different kind of presence.

The installation takes those fragments and turns them into physical elements. It is quite large — around 40 metres long — made up of hundreds of metal pieces. When the wind moves through them, they create sound, almost like chimes. So it becomes a kind of loop — something that begins as a voice shifts into form, and then is activated again through sound.

And there is something quite personal in that. Those quieter, almost unnoticed moments are the ones that hold memory most strongly for me.

— Do you ever struggle with burnout or a lack of inspiration? How do you deal with it?

— Yes, of course — I think it is part of the process. There are always moments where you feel tired or a bit burnt out, and I don’t think that ever fully goes away. I wouldn’t say I have properly learned how to take breaks yet, but I am becoming more aware of how important that is.

One experience that really helped me understand this better was my recent residency in London with Delfina Foundation. I was there for three months, and it gave me the chance to step slightly outside of my usual environment and routine.

The residency itself isn’t focused on producing work in a strict sense — it is more about developing your practice, meeting people, and engaging with a different context. You live there, you are introduced to different institutions and conversations, and you are given space to think.

For me, it was quite important because it allowed me to take a bit of distance — not to disconnect completely, but just enough to shift perspective while still being engaged in the work.

And at the same time, deadlines still play their role — they push you through those slower moments. So it is always a bit of a balance between giving yourself space and simply getting on with it.

— And when you are up against a tight deadline — how do you reset or find focus quickly?

— To be honest, sometimes the deadline itself does the job — it forces you to move. But aside from that, I usually walk. It sounds simple, but it really works for me. It is a big part of how I think as well — just moving, without a fixed destination, more like wandering.