For Salma Al Mansoori, art is never static. In her exhibition “Who I Become”, on view until July 30 at Maraya Art Centre, memory, materiality, and personal history exist in a constant state of transformation. Through handmade paper, found objects, abandoned materials, spices, fibres, and fragmented surfaces, Al Mansoori traces the ways experiences settle into both bodies and landscapes.

The exhibition brings together multiple bodies of work created across different moments of Salmah’s life, revealing how her practice continuously shifts between research, archiving, material experimentation, and emotional processing. Central works such as “The Weight of Absence” explore the disappearance of oral histories and undocumented spaces, while other pieces revisit memories of Saudi Arabia, family collecting practices, and periods of personal isolation.

In this conversation, Al Mansoori reflects on the idea of becoming, the relationship between material and memory, Bedouin histories, papermaking as an archival practice, and the emotional states that shaped some of her most personal works to date.

— Salmah, first, I am curious about the name of the exhibition, Who I Become. During our last conversation, we talked about how personal your work is. Is this title connected to your own story?

— In that exhibition, we wanted to show different bodies of work, different materialities, and how the work has shifted and changed over time, while also contextualising the works in relation to one another.

One of the works is actually titled Who I Became. It is the found-object piece with the tiles. I started that work back in 2022, when I was looking into surface-making. But Who I Become functions more like a present-tense verb, this ongoing act of becoming something that is constantly changing and shifting, with different experiences layering onto each other.

So I think it is really about the act of becoming, and how that process still carries through into future works, even years later. That is kind of how I think about the title conceptually.

— If you look at yourself as a person and as an artist, how would you describe the ways you have changed over the past years, both personally and artistically?

— I have always wanted to be an artist. The difficult part was understanding what kind of artist I wanted to become, because I have always hated restrictions.

I believe experiences shape us constantly. We are never static — we shift, change, and evolve through what we live through. Over time, I have become more open-minded and more aware of the world around me. You let go of certain things, while holding on to what feels most true to you.

For me, identity exists in that in-between space: staying connected to your history and background, while still allowing yourself to grow and change. Our experiences affect the way we think, feel, and approach the world, whether positively or negatively.

As an artist, time has helped me develop technically and conceptually. Every new material or process — whether handmade paper or experimenting with surfaces and textures — comes with trial and error. I have learned to give myself time for research, not only visual or written research, but also material research: understanding textures, testing processes, and seeing what aligns with the ideas behind the work.

I think growth as an artist comes from allowing yourself the time to go deeper in every sense.

— I am really impressed by the central piece of the exhibition, The Weight of Absence. Could you tell me about it, please?

— The Weight of Absence came from reflecting on the name of the city I come from, Ghayathi. The name comes from the Arabic word “ghaith,” which refers to grace or relief and is often associated with rain. I remember Googling the history of the city’s name, and the explanation online said it was named after a Bedouin tribal leader. But because I know Bedouin naming practices in that region, it didn’t make sense to me. Usually, if someone is highly respected, later generations are named after them, but the name “Ghaith” was not commonly used there. I looked into family histories and genealogies from the area, and there was no record of someone by that name. So I started doubting the official story.

Later, during a trip to Saudi Arabia, I was having dinner with my uncle, and he told me another version of the story. He explained that before the formation of the UAE, people in the area discovered a groundwater source. A leader visiting a nearby region was told, “We found ghaith,” meaning grace or relief. Because of that discovery, the city was established and named after the word itself.

To me, it felt like a beautiful story because Bedouin communities were constantly moving in search of places to settle. The land itself gave them so much: routes for movement, fertile areas to grow things, and, most importantly, a source of groundwater. They raised sheep and camels, so access to water was essential. That also made me think about where groundwater comes from — rain — and what rain gives back to people. After rainfall, certain plants grow that feed animals and sustain life.

What interested me most was that none of this history was officially verified or documented. The Weight of Absence became about holding space for these stories rather than proving them historically.

I kept asking my family where the original well was located, but no one could identify the exact place because it had been demolished. Older generations had passed away, and my mother’s generation only remembered approximate locations. For me, it was heartbreaking that the very thing that defined the city’s founding had disappeared.

So the work speaks about the absence of archives and documentation, especially in smaller cities. I often use my hometown as a case study for larger global issues because many small cities around the world experience the same thing: they are never properly documented or written about.

The work itself was meant to hold space for that absence. Beneath the paper casts, there is an absence of an object, but the works also contain objects collected from the city itself. The materials — plants and fibres — came from areas surrounding water systems there. Through them, I was trying to document the city and its founding.

— I also noticed works that feel very similar to the pieces you created during your trip to Saudi Arabia with your uncle, Witnessing the Fragments. Are they connected?

— Yes! The curator wanted me to showcase these works, but unfortunately, they weren’t available because they are in different collectors’ homes. So I couldn’t access them directly.

At the same time, I was thinking a lot about different experiences and the layering of them. I took the exact same spices from the Saudi experience, but instead of working with them in Saudi Arabia, I am using them here in the UAE. So I was layering this whole idea of different experiences coming together onto one form of paper.

It is more about witnessing these different fragments and seeing how they affect one another. Maybe a visual from one place or one experience I have been part of resurfaces somewhere else. So it is really about tying together these different spaces and experiences I have lived through.

A lot of my work is also about processing visuals. That trip to Saudi Arabia is still with me to this day. I still go back to the same photos, and I still paint some of them. When I look at them, I immediately recall the memories of that experience. But there is also the smell and the spices from that place.

So it is really about layering different experiences together into one piece, rather than dedicating individual works to specific places.

— There is a table with different objects on it. What is it exactly?

— So, there are the tables, and then there’s another box that was part of the show.

The collecting aspect of the work connects a lot to my grandmother’s practices. I remember my mom telling me that my grandmother used to give me a bag full of paper, and at three years old, I would just sit there cutting it up.

Growing up around my grandmother really affected my practice, and both of my grandparents influenced me deeply. The idea of collecting was part of their Bedouin practices. My grandmother would collect things in bags and small boxes, while my grandfather collected things in these large metal boxes — tools for moving, spoons, and objects like that.

So this work carries this idea of collecting and containing. It’s about working with surfaces and collecting objects that represent people. At the same time, it reflects how I carried that practice of collecting into my own life.

Instead of collecting personal items, I collect abandoned objects — things that no longer serve a purpose. Yet I believe they still carry history within them. They might hold traces of someone, almost like the DNA of a person or a place.

— I can also see the works which are part of the I Was a Forgotten Moment series. Why did you decide to include them?

— These works reflect my emotional state during a very difficult period in my life.

They were created during a period when everything felt very unknown for me. The war was happening, I went back home, and I felt extremely isolated. I didn’t know what would happen next, and there were long periods when I couldn’t even make work. I couldn’t make anything; I couldn't even socialise. All of that affected the paintings in different ways. You can see it in the colours — they became darker and more muted compared to the more colourful works I had made before. So the work really emerged from that experience.

In these pieces, I was looking at fragmented and abandoned compositions I found around my hometown. The palette was shaped by my emotional state, but there were still hints of colour in the images I was drawn to.

I was also thinking about how abandoned objects become part of our landscape. Because life moves so quickly, we stop noticing the things around us. We move between work, family, responsibilities, and constant pursuits without really observing our surroundings.

At that time, I felt a strong need to slow everything down — my feelings, my process, my materials, my practice, my work, and honestly, every aspect of my life.