As artist Anuar Khalifi’s work goes on exhibit at The Third Line, we discuss paint, poetry, and more
Whether it’s through fashion, language, poetry, or the written word, exploring one’s identity unwittingly became a common denominator across this issue, taking us straight into a conversation with Anuar Khalifi.
Known to address colonialism and capitalism through his work, the Moroccan artist is back at The Third Line gallery as we speak, his second solo exhibition running until 19 May.
Titled Mirror Ball, it features artworks that continue Khalifi’s exploration into the complexities of personal identity as well as the experience of living between two worlds, “both seen and unseen” — he divides his time between Spain and Morocco.
Here, we take a few moments to catch up.
Who is Anuar Khalifi?
A Moroccan painter first. My work and my journey has always pointed south, even if it exists between shores geographically.
Let’s discuss your friendship and collaboration with Yasiin Bey — how did you both meet and how did the Negus project come about? Can we expect any upcoming projects between you both? And were you a fan of his music beforehand?
There are two ways to answer this question. There is the inward reason and the outward one. 10 years before I met Yasiin, I painted a triptych titled The belly of the beast. In one of the three paintings, there is an empty room with references, artifacts, and images; they are tools to get out of the space in which the character is trapped, the belly of a beast. In that room, with all the artifacts, there was a vinyl of Yasiin’s album, Ecstatic. So yes, I was a fan beforehand.
Then Sunny Rahbar, our gallerist, introduced us. But even before that we had some friends in common and share admiration for the same spiritual teacher. You could say we were somehow swimming in the same waters. He is a brother, a friend, and a teacher. We have an ongoing project named AyyA, which is the name for a variety of projects that merge tradition with innovation, serious thought with contemporary caricatures, and abstract ideas with concrete projects.
How did you begin painting?
I’ve been using drawing as a form of expression since I was a kid, but painting became my main artistic practice in my late twenties, when I was living in Tangiers for a long period of time. I started painting because I needed a medium to express and explore both myself and the world, as well as my place in it.
You grew up in the same town as Salvador Dalí in Spain. Has his surrealist work had any influence on your oeuvre?
Well, I was not born in the same town, but close enough — in the same region. When I was young, and we had visitors in my town, one way to show off was to take them to Dalí’s museum. But I’m more inclined to surrealist painters like Magritte and Max Ernst. For me, simplicity is a way to the point of transcendence. I like Dalí and his technique is amazing, but I see him as a Spanish rockstar.
Your portraits/characters are adorned in traditional garments such as the Moroccan fez. Can you expand on your use of symbolism throughout your work?
Al maani qabla al mabaani. Meaning precedes form. We are the people of meaning, and things have meanings. The fez, for example, I use because it was one of the last garments to disappear when Western clothes were adopted in many Arab countries. The fez was also banned in some places, like Turkey. The long fez used by the dervishes symbolises the tombstone of the ego. It’s also a symbol that has been used to caricaturise us. I find this kind of symbolism and language fascinating, which is why I use it throughout my work. Things have meanings, and I try to use things to point to different layers of meaning in my paintings.
What music are you currently listening to?
A lot of Cheb, who is 100 percent Moroccan and represents what Morocco is with his music. I consider him one of the country’s best artists. I’m also listening to Charif Megarbane, who is a producer and multi-instrumentalist from Lebanon. He’s about to release an album with Habibi Funk.
Are there any young artists you think the world should know?
I believe that art captures time and space, so any work of art of any artist at his youth is still relevant. I think good art transcends novelty and fashion — a young Van Gogh painting is still a young Van Gogh painting.
What can people expect from your ongoing show at The Third Line?
Mirror Ball is a very personal exhibition. It is a journey, or many journeys that are all the same one. It’s a collection of characters that are all seeking something. Aren’t we all? I have tried to capture each of them at a moment in time and space on that journey. In a way, it’s my own journey, but I ask myself the same questions that I guess we all do. Who am I? Where do I come from? Where am I going? I’m trying to explore these questions and propose answers that are steeped in our tradition, but also try to make sense of this modern – or post-modern – world that we live in.
You recently performed/DJ’d with Yasiin Bey to raise money for Turkey and Syria. Can you share how that project came about?
We originally planned a collaboration with Bünyamin from Les Benjamins and AyyA, but the earthquake happened. Instead, we decided to do something to contribute and try to help. We delayed it on purpose. We all know how fast the news cycle moves in the digital age. We delayed in order to remind people that, although the devastation was no longer making headlines, it was still happening. We also made a capsule collection with Les Benjamins, with all proceeds going to help those in need.
At times, there seems to be a focus on childhood as a theme to some of your work. Is this a conscious effort? Is this where imagination comes in?
I work with my memory, and I have always painted, so I don’t think it’s something I do intentionally. I don’t really know what age my characters are; they seem to have been growing up as I have been, although they’re always younger than me somehow. But I do like to connect to my childhood because of the simplicity, the transcendental simplicity of being a kid. I intentionally try to express that in my work.
Has anyone ever told you anything surprising about your work?
Every reaction is surprising. A painting is something we could say is bidimensional while the artist is working, but it becomes three-dimensional when another person looks at it. It adds a new layer of interpretation. A subtle line or dot can change the whole narrative. Sometimes, even a question that might seem absurd at first propels you to change everything.
When did you realise you wanted to be a painter?
I’ve drawn and painted since I was a kid, and I always wanted to be one, I guess. It was only in my late twenties that I took painting seriously as an artistic practice. I never knew how the art world works, neither do I really know now.
Is there a reason why the medium of paint is very specific to your practice?
Paint fascinates me because of its complexity. I’m in love with it. I can’t control all of its secrets. Painting is a medium that speaks to me while I paint. It communicates with me. There is a dialogue. And it allows me to capture things that I cannot with other mediums.
One of the focal points of this issue is poetry. How has poetry – Arabic poetry in particular – influenced you or your work?
I will tell you about Muhammad Ibn Al-Habib, who is a Moroccan Sufi shaykh and has written one of most beautiful diwans there is. I recite it often and try to live by his poetry. One of the verses translates to ‘truly created beings are meanings projected in images’.
From the GQ Middle East website.
