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Current Work:
(2022 – Ongoing)
(2000 – 2022)
Writings:
(In progress)
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Contact
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(2022 – Ongoing)
(2000 – 2022)
Writings:
Information
Contact
This research project targets the cultural and social legacy of my hometown Ras Rumman, having been a witness to the changes that have taken place in the area. By tracing a timeline of memories, events, and personalities – the project aims to evoke collective and individual memory not in the form of an archival inventory or a romanticized past, but as an attempt to understand and resurrect the spirit of a once dynamic and vibrant neighborhood. The project also examines the psychology and lived experience of its inhabitants, who themselves have been resisting the violence of urban development and modernization that is working to enclose, cut off, and erase the area from Manama’s modern history.
Exhibited
From ‘One End: Always Present’ (2023) at Al Riwaq Art Space, Bahrain. Group show with Aziz Motawa and Mashael Al Saei.Milk Teeth
Photographs and ink pen. 59x42 cm
Photograph and ink pen. 59x43 cm
During the 1970s, completing elementary school was considered a significant achievement, according to which the Ministry of Education issued to students an ornamented certificate worthy of framing. In ironic fashion, Hussain's (or Abdul Hussain at the time) certificate contained an error. His year of birth was listed as 1963 instead of 1962, as if the ministry had discovered the trick of the elder brother (in ‘Milk Teeth’) and deliberately tampered with Hussain's age as punishment.
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Photocollage and tracing paper. 59x43 cm
“The misery and stupidity of human nature is presented with great power, but there is no compensation; and sex, which in Sanin possessed a lyrical quality, is now sordid and meaningless.”
“The message of On the Brink seems to be ‘Everybody wants sex; it is the only reality underlying human existence.’”
Excerpts from (The Origins of the Sexual Impulse) by British writer and philosopher Colin Wilson, published in 1963.
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Single-channel video and audio commentary (8:40)
Since the 1970s, Rasrumman has suffered under the weight of urban development and civil modernization, which to this day work to surround and exclude the area from the context of Bahrain’s modern history. Its people, despite the difficult conditions they live in still cling to their area, as it tells the story of their cultural and social legacy. By examining a collection of old, forgotten photographs that remained stored in a small box within a Ras Rummani house for decades, the memory of a place and the psychology of its people can be resurrected through an excavatory process that seeks to decipher the stories of an unrelenting community.
Ongoing
B&W photocopies, China ink, and pen, 63x50 cm
She had always woken up for dawn prayer, and she would always find it standing in her yard. She says to it: “Did you come back again? Didn’t I say, don’t come back? I want to sleep with my children in peace.” She pushes it towards the door of the house, opens the door and forces it out. Shortly afterwards, when she goes to wash for ablution, she finds it again. She repeats her actions and takes it out into the street, then goes back on her own. This time, she doesn’t look back, she knows it’s still behind her.
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B&W photocopies, China ink, and pen. 63x50 cm
She wakes up in the middle of the night to check on her children. They’re all in their beds, except for him. She knows where he is. She puts her cloak on her head and goes out into the street. She walks to where the neighborhood grocery is. She finds him as usual, collecting the scattered
soft drink lids. She says to him: “I’m tired with you, how long will this last?” He doesn’t know what she’s saying, he is in a deep sleep. She takes him by the hand and brings him home and puts him to bed. She tries to sleep; morning is near and she has to wake up early to prepare breakfast for the family.
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B&W photocopies, China ink, and pen. 63x50 cm
He was a dreamy child, but his naughtiness often led him to receive punishment. The one punishment that I don’t think he will ever forget was when he was tied up to a huge wooden trunk that was famous in the whole neighborhood. Here naughty and disobedient children were punished and set to obey orders. Her heart was breaking for what her son was going through. In a deeply patriarchal society as the one she lived in; his punishment was also hers.
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Photocopies, collage, and black and white pen. 28x21 cm
Sharaf was a calm boy with a shy smile. As one of my cousins, we used to play together a lot, and sometimes fight for silly reasons. When he was around ten or twelve, he almost died drowning. During a routine check of the sewage system by the municipality, a loafer boy pushed him into the sewer manhole. The workers rescued him at the last minute. He was rushed to hospital to undergo a clean-up operation for his stomach. Sharaf, the skinny boy grew up, finished school, got a job, married and had children. Two years ago, he died of COVID-19 at the age of sixty.
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Photocopies, collage, colored crayons, watercolor, black pen. 32x24 cm
I'm so sorry, my son. I didn't mean to punish you so harshly, In fact, it wasn’t only you that I meant to punish. But you and your brothers made me lose my mind with your constant fighting, especially today over lunch.
Don't you realise that I’m tired? I got up early to make you breakfast and help you get ready for school. Then I washed your clothes, cleaned the house, and prepared food – which you all quarreled over as I was serving.
Taking care of you drains my health and nerves on a daily basis. I also have your father who comes exhausted in the evening and needs my care and attention. So, what's left of my energy?
Forgive me, my boy. I love you very much, I love you all, but in the end, I am a human being. All I need is your appreciation, and to excuse me if I get mad at you sometimes.
Believe me when I say I don't sleep when I lay my head on my pillow at night... Crying for myself, while at the same time feeling afraid that I have fallen short with my children and their father, despite knowing that I have done my best.
- From Ali’s mother