By Marwa Gadallah
I get off the bus near Al-Ahram Newspaper’s offices in the Ramses neighbourhood at around noon and make my way across the street and underneath Al-Galaa Bridge where street vendors sell anything from clothing to food items. As I navigate through the busy streets around people and cars, I think about the COVID-19 pandemic and I wonder at the countless Egyptians who need to pass through these crowds to make a living every day.
As I approach Cinema Radio, there’s a room to my left where I find a collection of furniture. I see a set of round double reflection mirrors, each divided down the middle –either horizontally or vertically– into two sections, each offering a different reflection. Below them is a cabinet set named Isfet, which, in ancient Egyptian culture, represents “chaos and darkness,” the opposite of another piece of hanging furniture named Maat, which represents “order and light.”
The art piece is called Duality, Lina Alorabi‘s collection of furniture inspired by ancient Egyptian culture and designed for the furniture brand Don Tanani. It’s part of the Cairo International Art District (CIAD), “a city-wide exhibition” organized by Art D’Égypte, “a privately owned Egyptian multidisciplinary firm founded by Nadine Abdel Ghaffar to support the Egyptian arts and culture scene.” It was on display from September 15 to October 27, 2021, and sought to “revive the artistic heart of Cairo” by exhibiting in six locations in downtown Cairo. Duality was exhibited at Cinema Radio, which houses a theater and cinema that premiered significant Egyptian films in the earlier part of the 20th century, on Talaat Harb Street.
Elsewhere in the room are other furniture pieces. Lina Alorabi only appears at the entrance of the exhibition room –with no bio– whereas the design studio’s name, Don Tanani, is evident everywhere in the space. It echoes a practice that is typical of capitalist corporations where receiving proper public credit for your work is often unorthodox. The other project at Cinema Radio is outside: Mohamed Banawy’s outdoor installation Extraordinary Friends is composed of seven tall grey zig-zagged structures with round coloured objects –that look like traffic lights– protruding from them. The installation represents “a meeting postponed for many years because of the burdens of life” and social media. The coloured protruding objects are the “windows of light in your soul” that are sparked by “extraordinary friends.” The artwork blends in so easily with its environment that I feel I could have easily missed it had I not been looking.
I wonder at the passersby who come here on a daily basis to work or fulfill errands. How much time do they have to actually find this piece and absorb all of its abstraction? Perhaps this exhibition was meant for only the people it was advertised to; on newsletters, via Instagram posts or maybe a poster in an upscale café. The obsessive use of abstracted ancient Egyptian themes throughout the exhibitions, as a whole, makes it even more apparent that the average Cairene –let alone people from elsewhere in Egypt– is not among those people.
It’s a five-minute walk through back alleys among run-down buildings to al-Nabrawi Street where Arabic-script calligraffiti arranged in colourful patterns decorates the walls of apartment buildings. The group exhibition Fragments of a Land is in the Access Art Space on the first floor of an old apartment building. The works, which include Caroline Berzi’s painted plastic work, Diaa Eldin Daoud‘s ceramic work and Sudanese artist Al Tayeb Dawo El-Beit’s wood art, adorn the walls of the exhibition space and are surrounded by sculptural works by other artists like Ahmed Karaaly.
I leave the apartment building and cross the narrow road to The Factory Space nearby where the group exhibition Tangled Structures is being held. Amado Alfadni’s installation revolves around the Bint El Sudan perfume that was created in 1920, its popularity and the campaign that took place during the 1990s that aimed at “Arabizing Sudanese identity” and encouraging Sudanese women to use whitening products to make them look more “European.” However, only the British salesman who created the perfume is named whereas the names of the Sudanese merchants who provided him with the essences are not mentioned, likely owing to the lack of sources.
In Cup Of Tea With Fathi Mahmoud, Yasmine El Meleegy uses pieces from renowned Egyptian sculptor Fathi Mahmoud’s (1918-1982) porcelain products to create a collage of a man in a suit. Part of an ongoing history tracing project, this work is inspired by Mahmoud’s support for student activism against British presence in Egypt in the earlier part of the 20th century as well as his work in porcelain production. As I look at the recognizable logo and pieces, I think back to my grandparents’ home when I’d be doing the dishes or taking out the porcelain from the cupboard and how common Mahmoud’s products are in many households across Egypt.
Elsewhere in The Factory Space, Sherin Guirguis’ sculpture Qasr al-Shoaq looks like a large jewelry pendant inspired by visual elements in the Arab world and, while a beautiful piece, the artist’s intention that, as the label states, “these decorative pieces and their rocking movements reference a woman’s body as she walks down a public street” serves to objectify women and reduce them to the movements and shifts of a mere object. This is counterproductive to the artist’s intention of portraying women as “exuding power and agency,” especially for the fact that women are constantly harassed on public streets in Egypt.
The Factory Space also exhibited the work of non-Egyptian, European artists who, unsurprisingly, brought a deal of irrelevance to the exhibition floor. Alberto Reguera’s live painting performance, curated by Lucía Sollinger Muñiz, meant “to raise awareness on climate change and its impact on Egyptian monuments,” resulted in a work of abstract art with shades of blue spread out across a sheet of paper and a square canvas block coloured in gold. How this work is relevant to climate change, Egyptians, Egyptian monuments or Alexandria’s flood crisis I cannot say.
Sandrine Pelletier’s work I can talk is a testament to her privilege; one that Egyptians do not easily have. It’s composed of a set of tiles that together read, “I can talk shit about the system and take a plane home,” but are mixed around, with the word “system” almost blacked out –for obvious security reasons. While Pelletier clearly intends to carefully highlight the issue of freedom of expression in Egypt and the serious gap in her privileges compared to those of Egyptians, one might argue that –in a time and place like this– the fact of that privileged statement is just being rubbed in our faces because it isn’t like we don’t already know. We live it every day.
In Excavated Cleo, Esmeralda Kosmatopoulos presents a sculpture of Cleopatra’s head, which Kosmatopoulos “defaced” by “slicing out her face.” To add insult to injury –and colonial-inspired exoticism– the sculpture is joined by one hundred other sculpted representations of Cleopatra’s nose, which the artist created based –nope, not on how she was depicted in Egyptian culture but– on the white gaze: depictions from the Renaissance, 19th century “orientalist fantasies” and, well, Hollywood. Kosmatopoulos even led workshops with children who sculpted their own versions of Cleopatra’s nose based on images she gave them.
The 6 Shops are a series of spaces that lie next to the Factory Space on al-Nabrawi Street and once served as actual shops, including an ahwa kitchen. Each shop displays an individual project. As I walk from one shop to the next, I notice the sweepers nearby, as well as the men sitting at a nearby ahwa. Mohamed Abou Elnaga’s We Are Inside is composed of four large vase-shaped objects with different patterns on them and structures stuck to the top of each one in an attempt to “reconstruct and produce imaginary models and shapes of the idea of an ancient god.” Aya Tarek and Udo Prinsen’s Oracle of Lies: The Maze –about a lying oracle that everyone believed– involves a series of projected digital artworks of various figures, including human body parts, as well as English voiceover. While the content of the voiceover is abstract to me, I appreciate how the artists make use of the old run-down shop without attempting to repair or beautify it, adding a touch of familiarity to their abstract work. The Blue Hippo Project makes use of the ancient Egyptian hippopotamus as its base element, allowing artists the chance to each design and interpret a hippo –all sculpted by Alia Gheita– in their own ways. I immediately think of this in relation to a potential school art project that could encourage Egyptian students to express their own ideas by giving them a common base and guiding them in different directions based on their respective interests and capacities.
As a theme, Ancient Egypt appears tirelessly in many of the artworks and, besides The Blue Hippo Project, it has been abstracted in such ways –from Abou Elnaga’s large vases to Kosmatopoulos’ Cleopatra’s nose– that rid it of any real meaning and turn it into a Western fetish made significant by virtue of the white gaze, not Egyptian interpretation of the implications of Ancient Egypt on contemporary Egypt. At this point, the exhibitions close and I go home.
Perhaps this project is meant to serve the inclinations of the Western ethos –and the white gaze– and going as far back as European Renaissance art, white culture has traditionally favoured the male gaze and continues to do so.
I return the next day to view the remaining exhibitions. Unlike al-Nabrawi street, Abdelkhalek Tharwat is a main street full of hustle and bustle. Abdelkhalek Tharwat Shop is where the group exhibition Verve is being held. Upon entering, I find Marwan Sabra’s lovely book art, which is made of intricate and detailed paintings done in gouache on handmade paper as well as pages of song lyrics. The book recounts the story of Umm El Shour “who is thrown in the Nile as a sacrifice to the gods” and, as a result, becomes the bride of the Nile.
On the same wall, Hossam Dirrar’s project Between body and culture is composed of three photos of a woman in a belly dancer’s attire in various positions. Dirrar’s intention is to “redefine and revision the view of movement, beauty, and femininity away from a sexual gaze.” But, if that is the case, why was the woman photographed lying down in suggestive positions? Why are many parts of her body exposed but her face hidden, rendering her anonymous and then, perhaps, insignificant in this context? Why has Dirrar completely neglected the significance of modesty to most Egyptians and decided to “view femininity” in the form of a partially unclothed woman? Perhaps this project is meant to serve the inclinations of the Western ethos –and the white gaze– and going as far back as European Renaissance art, white culture has traditionally favoured the male gaze and continues to do so. As I recall the various events of sexual harassment that most women as well as myself have experienced by men in the streets of Egypt, with almost no support from onlookers, including other men, I wonder the extent to which any man has the right to cook up his own definition of femininity at all. The exhibition displays other artworks, including paintings, sculptures and photographic prints.
As night falls, I walk to the Kodak Passage on Adly Street where Tarek Naga’s solo exhibition Chaösgnösis: The Quest for the KöreKösmu is being held. Named after the Kodak store that operated there in the 1990s, the Kodak Passage was redesigned by CLUSTER into a gallery space with “1930’s art deco light fixtures” to “serve as a catalyst for urban redevelopment and revitalization of surrounding buildings, shops and passageways” –to suit white tendencies, no doubt, rather than the cultural inclinations of ordinary Egyptian folk.
Naga’s exhibition revolves around three adventurers embarking on a journey “to unlock the mysteries of the KöreKösmu” in the year 3039 while, simultaneously, three mystics embark on the same journey in the year 1239. The artworks are composed of abstract paintings, intricate ink drawings, sculptures and a video installation. While the paintings and drawings look beautiful, the abstract nature of the work makes it difficult for me to make any connections between it and the description of the artwork and thus derive meaning.
Although I did not attend these exhibitions on opening night, I did go through the images on Art D’Égypte’s social media pages and I noticed that most of the visitors belonged to a particular “class” of Egyptians: the so-called elite. I could barely see anyone wearing the hijab, which is very common here. It particularly stings because women with hijab are not allowed into many spaces in Egypt, including beach clubs and restaurants, as well as media representation unless it serves a very specific, often degrading, purpose. This shows that Art D’Égypte is not for everyone. Or maybe not for anyone around here? The French name “Art D’Égypte” couldn’t have demonstrated it better: Fart D’Égypte, an Instagram page dedicated to critiquing the art scene in Cairo, calls it “modern day, hip, chic, colonizers.” While few others have critiqued the event, in her article, Mariam Elnozahy describes how –in its collaboration with government ministries– Art D’Égypte engages in “government-led artwashing,” which employs art to “reinforce social agendas” at the expense of other more significant social issues.
Hundreds of years from now, will the Egyptians of tomorrow glorify our tyrants as we glorify the despots of Ancient Egypt today, with little to no mention of the conditions of the people they governed?
Moreover, Art D’Égypte’s fetishization of Egypt by presenting its ancient culture not only as abstracted but as irrelevant from its contemporary context is taken further at its exhibition Forever is Now, which ran between October 21 and November 7, 2021 and turned the Pyramids into a fashion runway for a group of abstract geometric sculptures made of wood, glass or metal, with little significance for the average Egyptian, as the art critic Nihal Hany points out. On the one hand, this represents a long-standing Western tradition that exoticizes the cultures of “the Orient” and perhaps the organizers of Art D’Égypte sought to make this an attractive venue for Europeans as many of its sponsors and artists are, indeed, white. On the other hand, glamourising ancient Egypt, and particularly the Pyramids, obscures the harsh reality that ancient Egyptian rulers were despots and that each massive pyramid was commissioned by a pharaoh for their own individual glorification at the expense of ancient Egyptian labour and lives. I’ll add that if ancient Egypt had not been governed by a set of tyrants, the Pyramids may have not come into existence at all.
While I cannot, as an Egyptian, relate to ancient Egypt’s customs and traditions –but I do acknowledge that it did make significant contributions to civilization– I can see parallels between it and Egypt as it stands today. And I wonder: Hundreds of years from now, will the Egyptians of tomorrow glorify our tyrants as we glorify the despots of Ancient Egypt today, with little to no mention of the conditions of the people they governed? Does ancient Egypt seem irrelevant to many Egyptians because historical documentation has prioritized the culture of the elite over the lives of everyday Egyptians? Is the New Administrative Capital –along with its monorail– a modern embodiment of the Pyramids? More than that, artistic takes on ancient Egypt –white or Egyptian– tend to eliminate Nubian culture and the state has yet to acknowledge a history of enslavement of Nubians in ancient times and displacement in modern times. The space taken up by white artists should have probably been given to Nubians whose work would be far more relevant to an Egyptian public –of which Nubians are a significant part– and could help address the anti-Black sentiments that are still quite common in Egyptian society.
Art D’Égypte is a somber reminder of what happens when Egyptians internalize colonial perceptions of how Egyptian culture –which to the West is usually only relevant in its ancient forms– should be depicted. Art becomes irrelevant to the ordinary Egyptian and, then maybe, not art at all. I ask: Had the West not been so obsessed with a particular version of Egyptian culture, would we –as Egyptians– have taken such a keen and fetishized interest in it? While the white gaze will continue to hover over us at every turn, I think we need to consider what lens we view our existence and history through and who we invite to use our space to make depictions of our culture.
I would like to thank N.A. Mansour for patiently editing this article and pointing out the parts that needed to be worked on as well as encouraging me to think of important ideas that I’d missed as I worked on this piece.
Marwa Gadallah is a graphic designer and illustrator. She edits for Hazine.info. She is currently training as an Arabic calligrapher and has done comic and illustration work. She is also interested in the issues of knowledge and resource accessibility in the Arab world, particularly within the arts.