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Oddly reminiscent of the skyline of Dubai, the peaks and troughs of the red block shapes on the bar graph are punctuated in the centre by one spike, soaring and towering above the rest. Except unlike the Burj Khalifa, which is a celebration of engineering accomplishments and a symbol of national pride, this soaring statistic represents violence and pain - the over 1300 Palestinians who died between December 2008 and February 2009. The surge is sharply contrasted with a mirror graph running beneath to illustrate the number of Israelis killed during the same time. Numbering in the tens, the difference is quite striking. The visual graphic was put together by a team called Visualizing Palestine (VP) who collate facts and figures from official sources to tell the Palestinian story. Positioning itself as non-political and aiming at attracting the attention of the design and technology community, VP is combining the team members’ skills to create social change as well as to further their own knowledge. 'We are a group of people, not necessarily Palestinians, who are all very keen to develop our careers and apply our relevant skills to something worthwhile,' says Joumana Al Al Jabri, one of the group's founding members. 'We see this as a unique way to engage people who aren't necessarily already engaged and our work is based on a basic human state of being.' Working from their partner design company Polypod in Beirut, Al Jabri and Ahmad Barclay work together on the research side, pooling documents from internationally recognised sources such as the UN, World Bank and Amnesty International. They distill information, come up with concepts and then work with a team of graphic designers to create the infographics which are shared online and placed on a series of products such as t-shirts, mouse mats and posters. 'Organisations like the UN produce a lot of very valid work in the form of reports and we believe that in order for them to become effective someone needs to continue this. We [at VP] aim to take this extremely valuable content and turn it into something that we personally are interested in and that others can digest,' says Al Jabri. 'Communication in this world is the key to everything.' The VP founder, Ramzi Jaber, who came up with the concept while living in Palestine and organising the TEDxRamallah conference, says that in today's environment, where we are blasted with information from so many different sources, creating something visually impacting was essential. 'We are a visual species,' he says. 'Our brain processes images three times faster than text, proof that our work is more effective than words. As humans we have been seeing much longer than we have been speaking or reading.' Setting up in February 2012, the VP team have very clear goals, continues Jaber. 'Firstly, we only use data statistics from international organisations that are reliable and nobody can argue with. The second principle is one of equality and humanity, we want to navigate our way through media bias.' However, almost more importantly than all of this, is to produce work that people will be interested in. 'We want to be on the edge of design and technology,' says Jaber. 'This is something that really is important.' For Al Jabri, the work, she says, is almost equivalent to studying for a PhD. 'There is a very big learning curve and we are expanding our knowledge every day. This is certainly the most freeing and exciting work I have had so far. It is multi-disciplinary and in terms of potential in communication, design and research it is unparalleled.' The infographics are causing quite a stir online. One of the first visuals released last year to illustrate Khader Adnan's hunger strike to protest against detention without charges, received 15,000 likes on Facebook in the first 24 hours of posting. Also, the most recent bar graph, Timeline of Violence, was shared four times more than an Economist infographic over the same two day time frame. 'Figures like this are really encouraging,' says Barclay, 'that means we have been seen by a good percentage of the people who are active on the ground.' However, while it is still difficult to know the exact knock-on effect of a graphic, Tamara Ben-Halim, is doing her best to track their work. From her base in London, Ben-Halim works on communications and she is attempting to measure the impact of VP. 'There is no doubt the graphics have been a viral success,' she says. 'The highest amount of users viewing the images are in the US, which is great news for us. We are now looking at interactive visuals and animation.' The images are free to download and people are encouraged to spread the word as well use them in whatever capacity they desire. So far professors have begun to use them in their courses, human rights groups have taken them to lobby governments and NGOs have included them to boost their campaigns. 'People connect with Palestinians,' says Jaber. 'People connect, people feel and they want to act. We are giving them a means to do just that.' The team has produced eight infographics to date, that focus on issues such as road segregation, water sanity and population displacement. It can sometimes take from as quick as 72 hours to as long as months for an idea to move through from the concept stage to release pending on the timeliness of the topic and the ease of sourcing the data. 'We don't want anyone to be able to argue with us,' says Jaber. 'Of course there are many opinions out there about who is to blame and the complex politics of the situation but until now we have had not one complaint regarding the actual facts in our graphics. They cannot be questioned, they have been proved from many sources.' Barclay agrees: 'Palestine is one of the most documented regions on the planet so there is no lack of information and it comes from the most reliable sources. There is a gap between the information available and the perceptions of it and that is what we are working on.' In the future, the graphic model that they use is also something that can be applied to other parts of the world, says Barclay. It is about taking information and putting it into an easily digestible format. The graphics are clever, aesthetically pleasing and so, they are very successful. Jaber also says that in the future he hopes to move into more positive imagery as people respond even better to a message that leaves them feeling uplifted. 'The most powerful thing is collective action when communities come together and I have learned that people come together through stories. So that is something we have to do, we have to tell people's stories and hopefully when statistics are bridged with change, we will start to have a positive impact.' Photography: Natalie Naccache

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Although most awards and prizes bestowed upon artists in the creative world focus on financial benefits, one unique accolade is still committed to the present – 30 years after inception. The Deutsche Bank Artist of the Year award selects, recognises and lends support to upcoming, promising, international talent every year. The award aims to highlight the artistic works of the present day, as well as spreading the creative messages of its artists to the wider public. The Artist of the Year endowment is positioned as an integral part of the Deutsche Bank art programme. Through Deutsche Bank’s own substantial collection, exhibitions and joint projects with partners, each annual winner presents their work in a solo exhibition. These have so far been held at the Deutsche Guggenheim. However, for the 2013 edition, the Artist of the Year exhibition will be held for the first time to launch the Deutsche Bank KunstHalle in Berlin. By opening this dedicated exhibition hall, Deutsche Bank has cemented its cultural engagement with this cosmopolitan city. As a globally-focussed award, the exhibitions will move on from the KunstHalle, Berlin, to other international institutions. The winning artist will publish a comprehensive catalogue of their works and an additional ‘exclusive edition’ (designed by the artist themselves) is also published in line with the solo exhibition dates. A selection of the artist’s works on paper will be acquired for the Deutsche Bank Collection. Pakistani-based artist Imran Qureshi is the Deutsche Bank Artist of the Year 2013, based on a recommendation of the Deutsche Bank Global Art Advisory Council. The Council comprises internationally-renowned curators Okwui Enwezor, Hou Hanru, Udo Kittelmann and Victoria Noorthoorn. Winning artists are selected for their attention to detail: they address social issues in a unique way and have created a substantial oeuvre. One of these must concentrate on the media of paper and photography – two main focus areas of the Deutsche Bank Collection. On the cold concrete stairs and ramps of a former dry dock in Sydney Harbour’s Cockatoo Island, red blood runs in rivulets meeting long striped stains of rusty orange metal. Take a closer look, however, and the blood becomes an intricate blossoming of ornamental flowers, weaving their way through the streaked rust stains to the deep waters of the harbour. The blood and rust run together forming islands and long trails – something the artist terms ‘shoots of hope’. The work is Imran Qureshi’s installation ‘They Shimmer Still’, originally created for the 2012 Sydney Biennial. Qureshi trained in miniature painting and his work is reminiscent of the traditions evoked by the 16th and 17th century Moghul artists who first created these intricate images. He takes tradition and blends it with modernity in one sweep; combining the ideas behind ancient Islamic forms and contemporary abstraction, effortlessly. It has been said that Qureshi ‘includes his own observations in the reality of today’s Pakistan into his work, while reflecting on the fact that everyday violence is not only a problem in his native country, but in every religion, culture and society worldwide.’ Born in Hyderabad in 1972, Qureshi now lives and works in Lahore, Pakistan. He gained a BA in Fine Arts from the National College of Arts (also in Lahore) and has held three solo exhibitions in London, Oxford and Karachi. Qureshi has been exhibiting his work since 2003 and has showcased his unparalleled creations around the world. Photography: Supplied

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In his landmark work, A Timeless Way of Building, Christopher Alexander spells out a vision for the future of architecture. In it, he states, there is a DNA to all buildings that can be identified and recreated in a new form by simply following their mathematical dimensions. Tareq Qaddumi, a Palestinian architect based in Dubai, inspired by this theory, took a stately mansion in the centre of Jordan’s one-time capital and resurrected it in a modern form. He measured the geometrics of the original Beit Abu Jaber, the one-time residence of the merchant Abu Jaber family, who lived in As-Salt, north of Amman. The now dusty brown three-layered structure is noted for its adherence to classical geometry, known as the Golden Square, complete with protruding Greco pillars. Using this formula and with painstaking precision, Qaddumi then constructed a new house based on the same formula amongst the wheat fields of Beit Ziraa, an area to the south of the city. ‘Beit Abu Jaber looked complex and I didn’t know where it was from. It was on a hill, it negotiated a building on its side and opened up to a vista on the square,’ Qaddumi remembers. The architect’s creation is a three-bedroom seasonal residence named Villa Beit Ziraa, a summerhouse for his parents and thus serves the same purpose as the Beit Abu Jaber house did a hundred years ago. ‘It is a similar idea to Albrecht Dürer’s etchings where he would draw a fish, shift the dimensions, stretch and pull the same fish and make a barracuda. It is just the same elements but you can make an enormous amount of permutations,’ explains Qaddumi, referring to the German romantic painter noted for his developments in the way Renaissance artists composed objects through geometrical calculations. With its fair-faced reinforced concrete exterior and entrenched underpinnings there is a new sense of purpose to this building. It is not just a radical shift from its prototype in As-Salt but also a move away from contemporary Jordanian architecture, where concrete is ubiquitously donned with a stone façade. Even when Qaddumi’s parents opted for this design for their new summer home, the architect says they still needed a little gentle persuasion and a few visits from their son to explain the idea fully. ‘An architect has to stretch someone’s views on the utilitarian function of a house and make a connection between them and the world. It becomes an edifice to how people see them,’ Qaddumi explains. ‘When we finally built it, there happened to be a farmer going by in his tractor who asked what kind of factory was going to be built,’ he laughs. Two straight processions of diametrically aligned trees face the property and connect it to the terrain with mathematical precision, reminiscent of the eco-system itself. These groupings also align with the two main points of view of the home, so that from either terrace the user faces a strict formation of olive trees. Qaddumi explains it also works in negotiating the alignments of buildings and trees. As such, the topography of the area also played on the look of the house, anchoring the structure into the ground on one side for harmony with the environment, while raising other sections for residents to appreciate the views of the surrounding farms and pastures. Qaddumi reasons about this decision saying; ‘there are two ways to look at architecture and nature. One is the voyeur tradition where you build your little Italian villa and from your balcony you appreciate the view of the surrounding nature. The other is the one where the house folds out of the landscape and becomes more interactive. I don’t know if my parents are either of these, but my dad, being Palestinian, loves gardening.’ He adds, ‘There is a dichotomy between wanting to be there and not. The house is entrenched in some parts where you walk in and you are kind of dug in a little into the ground, and on the other side it kind of floats above it.’ Qaddumi’s embracing of nature is evident inside the building too, as a cool northwesterly breeze sweeps through the rooms from a duct at the base of the house. It filters across a pool of water outside, losing energy, causing the air to cool, before exiting from a channel on the upper level. A similar effort to find an organic form of cooling was also implemented in the design of the building. ‘A house can be seen either as an interior space or a series of roofs,’ he says, explaining that Villa Beit Ziraa adheres to the latter principle. ‘The idea was that the house would be an extension of the landscape so that there are three floors which cascade and shade each other,’ says the architect. The highest level of the house was built simply to cast shade over the other terraces rather than to act as a communal space. It works with the original Beit Abu Jaber residence formula where views turn away from neighbouring buildings and instead face the town square below. Qaddumi says the wide terraces, which form the other two roof sections, were modelled to reflect the residents’ Palestinian childhood. ‘Sleeping under the stars was a very romantic thing for my mother and father when they were children so I wanted a space for this, although I don’t know if they have ever slept there yet.’ The prominent concrete beams and high ceilings are also reminiscent of traditional architecture in the area. ‘I would walk around with somebody and they would say that the house reminds them of the vaults in old Levantine houses. You don’t get vaults anymore but you do get beams, so we used this to evoke these memories. The essence of Middle Eastern architecture is keeping the DNA of something old and taking it to the next step. Modern means it is a modern interpretation of a building rather than creating something alien [to its aesthetics],’ he explains. By sticking to this DNA, the villa expresses the original language of Beit Abu Jaber. The Greco pillars might take a more modern form but they are still there, dancing out from the structure in strict formation. The stonework still bears a resemblance to the original house in As-Salt but here it can be seen growing untamed from the earth, which Qaddumi describes as putting in a new language to a classic story. ‘Every stone was turned to uncover [the message of] this building. All the elements, the stairs and the pillars, were brought together. In the countryside, you go to search for the truffle hidden in the ground, this house is the result of a similar search.’ Photography: Ghassan Aqel

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When Fariborz Mohebati left his native Tehran on a leisure trip to Europe, he could not imagine the path his life would take. But in 1980, when he and his family were in Germany, the Iran-Iraq war broke out at home and they were left stranded on the continent.

Unable to return, his family went to England, where a young Mohebati went to school and fostered dreams of travelling the world. Pursuing those ambitions, he spent 15 years in the US before moving to Beijing and opening one of the city's most successful Middle Eastern restaurants - Rumi. With no background either as a chef or restaurant manager, Mohebati was sailing into unknown territory but with a degree in finance behind him and a natural love of his national cuisine, he was well equipped for the business project. It was a friend who suggested China and so, following the path of ancient traders along the Silk Road, Mohebati packed his bags and arrived in Beijing in 2006. Taking inspiration from the great Persian poet of whom he and his wife, Bita, are big fans, they plumped for his name for their restaurant. 'Besides, Rumi is roughly translated in Chinese as "to be fascinated with", which made it a perfect name for a business activity,' says Mohebati. Situated on Gongti North Street for about six years, the place smoothly combines Middle Eastern tradition with modernity. Silvia Minciarelli, director of the design studio Spaces in Beijing, created the interior using light colours to dominate the space with white tables sitting on a grey, stone-like floor. The white walls also provide an atmosphere of clean comfort, while long mirrors expand the space inside. Outside, a large terrace is used for dining during Beijing's long summer days. Sitting in front of a steaming cup of tea on one of the two small mezzanines overlooking the hall, Mohebati does not hide his pride in telling us that business is going well. 'Customers come back because,' he says, 'we have always kept the menu completely Iranian. We have tried to keep it authentic and have not changed anything to meet the taste of Chinese customers. This has worked well for us because it has encouraged Chinese customers to come here.' Offering traditional Iranian food, ranging from appetisers to sweet pastries, Rumi's menu is also characterised by the signature dishes of lamb and chicken kebab, served with fluffy white rice and a selection of breads and salads. Chefs follow the traditional way of cooking, but are open to experimentation. They use the same concept for the food as they do for the design – fusing classic Middle Eastern elements with contemporary ideas. Although Mohebati has had success, he says that working in China has given him his fair share of problems. 'Language is a barrier of course,' he says, 'and then there is the bureaucracy, that can cause a headache every four months.' One of the main issues is finding the right people to do the job, he explains. 'The most important thing is to have someone working for you whom you can rely on, whom you know has the business's best interests at heart. To build something alone is impossible.' On a personal level, he has had less trouble adapting. His wife loves the country and Nadia, their daughter, goes to a Chinese local school and Mandarin is her first language. 'At the beginning, Chinese people are not as straightforward as you might expect them to be but once they get to know you, they open up and you find out they are really helpful,' says Mohebati. 'It takes time however, you have to work hard building that kind of relationship.' Commenting on the growing Middle Eastern population, Mohebati says that there are plenty of people passing by, including businessmen, diplomats and tourists but few decide to stay for long. 'I could not find a single example of a Middle Eastern person settling down in China,' he tells us. 'Most people from the region, come here on business or have been posted here by their company on a short contract. Then they become nostalgic and go home.' But for Mohebati and his family, Beijing is the place they would like to build around their future. 'We have no plan to move away. We have settled down for good,' he concludes. Photography: James Wasserman

Van Cleef & Arpels

The Van Cleef & Arpels' Zip^TM necklace is able to transform flawlessly into a necklace. This multi-functional piece that can metamorphose was on show at this year's edition of Design Days Dubai.

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Right in the heart of Riyadh, a small group of fashionable young Saudis, laden with shopping bags, quickly glance up with intrigue at the striking black and white Arabic letters that spell ‘alāan’ (‘now’) above the entrance of a sleek yet beautifully crafted ultra-modern building. They hurriedly walk on by towards more designer stores before disappearing into the city’s bright lights; the opportunity to experience something new at this cultural addition to the staunchly conservative capital has passed them by. Venture through Alāan’s doors and you are greeted with a microcosm of art, design and education in the making. The peacefulness feels a million miles away from the city’s infernal gas guzzlers and cacophony of commercialism. This multifunctional contemporary art space boasting a majlis (styled as a bookshop-cum-café) and a restaurant holds the first fully curated project of its kind in Riyadh. It’s the vision of Alāan’s founding directors Neama AlSudairy and her brother Mohammed, and a place where the entire founding team other than Mohammed are women. Raw talent and ability is the focus here, irrespective of gender. Neama, an anthropologist who later went on to study fine arts in New York, Boston and Paris, passionately believes that art is an intrinsic part of our existence. Sat in the majlis sipping coffee and surrounded by books ranging from the British Museum’s Hajj exhibition portfolio (featuring Saudi contemporary artist Ahmed Mater’s Magnetism, a stunning vision of the Ka’aba) to guides on how to create your own advertisements, I ask Neama about the degree to which she sees anthropology and art as intertwined. ‘I definitely feel as though art is essential for human development. There is this innate desire to communicate and express which goes beyond basic questions of food, water and shelter,’ she shares. ‘It is that intangible desire that is behind all forms of creation and this is why art has such universal potency, beyond any one medium or region or language.’ For Neama, the name of the gallery reflects ‘a sense of urgency and opportunity’ and ‘the time has come,’ she says, for a new art space such as Alāan, which opened in October 2011. Alāan provides a sanctuary for Saudis and local expatriates to immerse themselves in an emerging contemporary art scene unique to the Kingdom. There are varied entry points for different audiences, with newcomers to art often visiting the gallery as an add-on after the main purpose of their trip: the dining. Others come through the doors to take part in specially designed exhibition workshops, screenings and meetings with the artists. Helping Saudis develop a creative flair, who, unlike Neama, may not have had the opportunity or family support to pursue artistic goals, is also imperative for the gallery. Alāan is offering a vehicle for social expression and pedagogy not only through art, but with video, photography, contemporary design, art history and youth outreach projects to tap into nascent Saudi talent. ‘While there has long been a cultural appreciation of poetry and works in the oral tradition in Saudi, there is a real groundswell of support now also for students in the Kingdom interested in exploring other creative fields and the potential to see the visual arts as a career,’ the gallery's founder explains. Alāan’s inaugural exhibition Soft Power, curated by its founding curator Sara Raza (a PhD candidate at the Royal College of Art, London), showcased the works of two highly talented emerging Saudi contemporary artists, Sarah Abu Abdallah and Sarah Mohanna Al-Abdali, as well as the established, internationally recognised Manal Al Dowayan. Not artists who shy away from exploring sensitive social themes, their works were cleverly connected to provide a glimpse into the quotidian domestic lifestyle of Saudi women. In a press release for the Soft Power exhibition, Reza writes that it will be successful in probing and encouraging 'alternative ways of looking and being seen’ and ‘provides a space for contemplating the interwoven narrative of three dreams in collision and harmony that aim to raise questions, yet not necessarily provide answers.’ Visitors journeying through these dreams were able to pick up on the artists’ quirks, frustrations, hopes, questioning of cultural norms, depictions of female beauty and subjects many might consider taboo. Abu Abdallah’s photographic series Misfit shows dirty and uncomfortable living conditions inhabited by a veiled woman, while Al-Abdali, whose hybrid practice fuses graffiti art with intricate detailed drawings, explored traditional marriage rituals in her series Four Wives. Earlier this year, Alāan’s interim exhibition Vitra Miniatures shifted away from fine arts and highlighted another of the gallery’s interdisciplinary passions – design. It supports Neama’s belief in exploring the connections between fine art, design and functionality. Vitra Miniatures offered an aesthetic journey through 188 years of seminal furniture design, from the radical years of the industrial revolution through to the 1990s. Chronologically laid out in a way that allows visitors to mingle among the illuminated glass-covered displays, one hundred miniature replicas showcase the most curious and widely sold chairs in history. The journey covers early pioneers such as Thonet, Rietveld and Frank Lloyd Wright, modern masters like Eames, Le Corbusier and Mies van Der Rohe, contemporary classics by Frank Gehry and Marcel Wanders, and new icons like the ‘vegetal’ chair by Ronan and Erwan Bouroullec. The retrospective element is useful for visitors completely new to industrial furniture design, as each miniature boasts a precise and perfectly detailed reconstruction. What also makes a visit to Vitra Miniatures so worthwhile is the documentation that accompanies the exhibit: a timeline of the designs, informative wall-mounted panels and a booklet with photographs and original drawings. With a lack of museums, Riyadh desperately needs more spaces that encourage the study of global history. Alāan certainly has the potential to influence. Neama tells me how art organisations abroad and regional multi-platform organisations such as The Pavilion and Traffic in Dubai and the Townhouse Gallery in Cairo are inspirations. ‘But even with these larger influences, we found the greatest inspiration from talking to people in Riyadh – artists, art lovers, students, designers – about what they felt was missing,’ she says. Alāan is starting to go deeper in its outreach, too, by inviting schools from Riyadh to the gallery for drawing and screenings, publishing Hamzat Al Wasel (its quarterly newspaper that is distributed for free) and offering internship placements in education, development and marketing. Mohammed, who focuses on Alāan’s business and marketing strategies, from managing overall finances to acquiring design merchandise and commissioning local designers for the gift shop, is at the core of any potential future development. With a good balance between showcasing a treasure trove of homegrown Arab talent and producing hands-on educational material relevant to the history of art and modern western design, Alāan’s resilience and hard work to overcome a range of social and financial challenges is beginning to pay off. It is now firmly established on the Saudi art scene, along with galleries such as Lam Art and non-profit organisations such as Edge of Arabia. Slowly, more and more visitors, both young and old, are walking through Alāan’s doors and entering a new world of art, blissfully disconnected from Riyadh’s 24/7 shopping and mall culture. Photography: Ahmad Reda

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In collaboration with Cadillac, we travel to Cairo to speak with the founders of Studio Zafir. A concept store that offers quirky homegrown products, it was set up by Nada Abdel Salam, Noha Zayed and Ahmed Kamel. The store also stock the founders' T-shirt brand, Zafir which come in witty slogans referencing Egyptian pop culture and social issues.

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A little known law that requires all newly built museums in Italy to allocate a percentage of their budget to a public sculpture led to the construction of a remarkable building in Port Sudan two years ago. Visual artist Massimo Grimaldi entered a sculpture competition for the newly built National Museum of the 21st Century Arts (MAXXI) in Rome with a novel concept. In a break from tradition, he suggested that the prize money be used to build a clinic in Sudan and its progress screened onto the exterior walls of the museum. Equal to two per cent of the museum’s budget, this humanist gesture would constitute as its public sculpture. Grimaldi won the prize and duly donated the proceeds to Emergency, an Italian NGO who built and now run the remarkable Port Sudan Pediatric Centre. The 18-bed medical facility has all the amenities needed to cater for the city’s rapidly expanding population. There are three outpatient clinics, hospitalisation and sub-intensive care wards, a dispensary, service areas and most importantly professional staff, modern equipment and spotlessly clean rooms. As the first free pediatric clinic in Africa, the hospital has been a lifeline for some of the continent’s most underprivileged mothers and their children. Many of the patients here are recent arrivals to a nearby refugee camp, victims of debt, drought and war now living on a desperate equilibrium between life and death. The clinic they use is as good as any that can be found elsewhere in the continent and at the very least offers their children a better chance of life. Raul Pantaleo, the architect and one of the board members of Emergency and partner in Tamassociati, explains: ‘During the war, a lot of refugees moved to Port Sudan so right now the city is in the middle of nowhere and rapidly expanding. The clinic is based in a huge area of poor people and it’s the only medical facility for children available to them.’ He explains that the clinic, like others built by Emergency, are designed to meet Italy’s own standards of construction and medical requirements, which ensures world class treatment for all its users. ‘The principle is that we design a hospital exactly as we would do in Italy,’ he says. Pantaleo explains that the design of Port Sudan Pediatric Centre is a concoction of traditional Sudanese architecture and his own take on the users’ needs. ‘The idea of the design was similar to the workings of traditional Arabic houses,’ he says. ‘There is a fence around the hospital, like that of many Arabic homes, and small windows. So it all fits with the traditional idea of a sort of inside building.’ The outer walls cast a shade over patients waiting between consultations on the hospital’s grass lawns. Screened away from the smoky, dusty brown streets of Port Sudan there is a sense of escape from the intense equatorial sun, at this eden of hope, growth and revitalisation. Gardens have also established a communal space for the neighbouring refugees to enjoy, something Emergency manages to work into most of their projects. ‘Gardens are not a marginal part of our designs, they are somehow the centre of our projects. We want in two years for there to be a real garden and real trees. What makes the building friendly is the garden; it’s somewhere that makes them feel comfortable. They can sit down and the kids love to walk on the grass. It’s like a playground for them.’ It is not just children who take advantage of the space: ‘It has become something of a meeting point for the whole community as it’s the only place where there are shadows and water in the daytime and light in the nighttime.’ Port Sudan Pediatric Centre occupies an area close to the ancient city of Suakin and its aesthetics found their way into many visual aspects of the structure. ‘It was completely built with coral stone. Nowadays, everyone in Port Sudan is using concrete bricks but before building we decided to use traditional coral stone and brick for the façade,’ says the architect. Environmental damage that could be wreaked from quarrying coral stones were countered by using disused stones that can be found scattered across the city. It has helped the building reach the agreement between modernity and tradition in its design. The white walls and contemporary take on sleek Roman-style pillars somehow seem compatible with Port Sudan’s cityscape and will likely endure for future generations. ‘The façade is a sort of sketch of traditional architecture in the area,’ says Pantaleo. ‘It’s not possible to cut coral stone anymore, for environmental reasons, but there is a lot of stone around the city because nobody uses this material anymore. It was also very difficult to find someone skilled in cutting coral stone, so we had to make a workshop to teach the people to cut the stone correctly.’ To counter the climatic extremities of Sudan, Pantaleo turned to traditional ways of cooling and as with all Emergency projects, local advice and skills were central to the successful outcome of the project. ‘There are fantastic people in Port Sudan called the Beja, who are desert people and are one of the biggest populations in the region,’ he says. ‘We had technicians come in for the building who worked there permanently with local people. We only used a special technician for finishing, like tiles, but all the rest was built by the local community.’ Wherever possible, the design was approached with sustainability in mind, from gardens irrigated using recycled waste water to the modernist twist of the region’s famous wind towers, once fixtures of Port Sudan’s wealthier homes. ‘This lets air into the basement and refreshes the whole building with cool air, which cuts down on electricity,’ the architect explains. Walls follow a traditional concept for cooling from Turkey, one of the many occupiers of this coastal region of East Africa, with grill skins adjoined to the building that ensure ventilation from fresh, natural and cool air. ‘Our buildings are quite simple, but they are still very rooted in their traditions. When it was unveiled the people couldn’t believe there was such a clean and efficient hospital for free, just for them. It was a sort of miracle and a wonderful feeling because they perceived that we really do take care of them. It is a matter of respect,’ he says. To ensure that Port Sudan’s population has some sense of ownership towards the building, Emergency has trained local staff so that the clinic remains a Sudanese enterprise. ‘Apart from a pediatrician and a nurse, the rest are all Sudanese. We want to keep a high standard to the clinic. We don’t just build a hospital and then move away.’ Photography: Massimo Grimaldi & Emergency NGO

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Seated around one big desk in her modest office studio in Madinat Al Sultan Qaboos in Muscat, Nadia Maqbool and her staff of nine animatedly bounce off ideas for future designs among each other. The usual layers of hierarchy have been stripped away and each individual is instead treated as an equal, from the young graduate to the long serving team member. ‘Occupying one big space allows design discussion to be unhindered. Our biggest investment is our staff. If they feel valued, challenged and are able to keep on learning then we hope that they will be devoted and dependable,’ says Maqbool of 23 Degrees North (23dN), a thriving architecture and design firm which the Omani native runs alongside her English partner, Stuart Caunt. ‘Our vision is about like minded, motivated and creative individuals coming together and creating an end product that they can be proud of,’ explains the 33-year old. In 2011, after a stint in the UK, Maqbool and her husband returned to Oman, partly to escape the economic slump and seeking a new adventure. With previous experience working for design firms in Europe over the years, the architect and her partner decided it was time to set up their own practice. ‘We always nurtured the idea of doing something together and we felt we had the confidence to start our own venture,’ reflects Maqbool about how founding 23dN came about. ‘It is more or less an umbrella where young and talented people come together to create positive design change,’ she continues. ‘The firm has been growing from strength to strength and today it feels like a home away from home.’ The affable Maqbool cheekily admits that the company’s ethos played a large factor in how she came up with the venture’s name. A reference to the latitude of Muscat, the architect explains how she wanted the title to reflect the fact that it is a homegrown business. ‘We are proud of setting something up from within Oman and wanted our staff and our clients to be proud of that too. We wanted to promote the idea that anything we did as an office would be a result of a successful team and not any one or two individuals, so we stayed away from anything like Nadia and Stuart Architects LLC. After what seemed like an eternity, we came up with 23dN – it’s playful, it’s curious and it certainly works!’ Maqbool points out how, in several ways, 23dN stands out among other similar practices in Oman. It is the first Omani architecture studio to be recognised on an international level – its founders are both qualified architects with the Architects Registration Board (ARB) and the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA). Maqbool is proud to say that, so far, she is the first and only Omani woman in her field who has received the accolade. Moreover, the architects are fully committed to creating good design at a competitive fee. Comparing the UK to Oman, she laments that the biggest challenge she finds herself facing is the lack of appreciation for good sustainable design. ‘We constantly find ourselves trying to convince them that such an approach to design creates value and that it doesn’t necessarily have to cost more,’ she shares. ‘23dN is certainly not a commercial business and we strive to put ourselves in our clients’ position to understand their expectations, concerns and priorities. Sometimes this requires us to do extra work or to “bend” a bit further to find the best solution.’ So far, the firm has completed the refurbishment of a residential building within The Wave, Muscat’s popular multipurpose waterfront community. Added to this, 23dN was commissioned by the Ministry of Heritage and Culture to design the visual identity of the country’s National Museum, which was completed last year. The architect notes that 23dN is quickly being recognised as a company that demonstrates cultural understanding and can offer a quality-focused design approach. To illustrate this, she mentions the Eco Hotel project in Oman’s Jabal Al Akhdar, also known as The Green Mountain and one of the highest points in the country. Slated to be completed by the end of the year, the resort features a cliffside restaurant, a pool and spa, integrated within the geographical features of its surroundings. A firm believer in merging the principles of sustainability with creative design, she says, ‘Our references for design discussions are always local before they are foreign. The hotel is a good example of a project that started out as a very pragmatic brief to suit western luxury, but quickly gained momentum after site visits and client discussion, unveiling layers of cultural sensitivity to do with community, landscape, materiality and scale.’ Maqbool is ambitious. She plans to put in place sustainable structures throughout Oman – no mean feat in this region – and a concept she says she brought back from her studies and work experience in the UK. ‘The low cost of energy in the Gulf doesn’t encourage green solutions but we hope that the moral framework of a Muslim society is something we can stimulate to encourage sustainable building,’ she hopes. The research arm of 23dN, which is an integral part of the firm’s identity, is also looking to develop a self-sustaining farm in the coastal town of Barka. The project, she says, is in its early stages but through the firm’s studies, they are exploring high-tech sustainable solutions such as saltwater greenhouses and solar desalination to complement conventional organic farming. Maqbool and Caunt are also working on a design model called the Lifestyle Home, which is specifically for Omanis who have been granted land from the government to build their own property. ‘This model is our effort to provide well-designed and affordable housing solutions that include all the containment for it to be upgraded in the future, as funds become available and to suit the families’ needs.’ Maqbool, who completed her schooling at the Glasgow Mackintosh School of Architecture (MAC), credits the direction she is taking in her professional life to her earlier education. ‘The MAC taught us to try and learn from the embedded wisdom of the past by referencing historical masterpieces. It actively discouraged glossy architectural designs that lacked substance and instead promoted a good knowledge of history combined with the skills to interpret it within a modern day setting. This was perfect for me and is something we now try to strive for at 23dN within an Arab Muslim context.’ According to the mother of one, Oman’s architecture is environmentally and culturally sustainable. Referencing the mud-brick settlements outside Muscat, Maqbool notes that these communities were all designed and built using local labour and material. However, she does point out that architecture is taking a more superficial route in the city and consequently, more research needs to be done relating to the preservation of old buildings and villages outside Muscat. ‘Our firm is partnering up with heritage and conversation experts in the country to assist them with the grassroots work. We hope that the wisdom embedded within these traditional structures can be filtered back to our designs and although our research is still at a preliminary stage, it is something we are committed in doing.’ Noting that there is a considerable lack of community spaces in Oman, 23dN has taken upon itself to become an agent of change and to design public space projects to encourage social interaction between members of the community. Maqbool mentions that her team is currently working on preserving Bausher Dunes – the last remaining sand dune in Muscat – and developing the site into a public venue for family use. The firm presented the proposal to the Muscat Municipality in the summer of 2011, but Maqbool remains optimistic that it will have a positive effect on any future plans for the area. ‘The public space projects focus on playful interventions to existing urban situations that invite Oman’s diverse residents to explore the city as an urban playground,’ she says. Ask Maqbool about the firm’s longstanding goals, she shrugs and responds, ‘Things are changing rapidly so we are careful not to talk about the long term. At the moment we’re committed to developing 23dN. It would be great to see Oman have a presence in some of the international architectural festivals like the Venice Biennale. If we can support that in any way, we would jump at the chance.’ Photography: Nadia AlAmri

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An elegant black 'K' marks the entrance to the small Beirut-based office of product design company Kashida. Set up by Lebanese graphic design graduates Mirna Hamady and Elie Abou Jamra, their modest office in the center of Hamra is the headquarters for a product design and furniture line that ships all across the region. Kashida was born out of an ambition to capture the beauty of Arabic script; merging contemporary Arabic typography with modernist design and functionality. Its designs lie sprawled around the office: bold 'Ayn' side tables line the walls, their graceful curves transforming the letter into a 3D form; a mahogany framed mirror 'Ha'a' sits on the wall in the shape of a turquoise pomegranate; and brightly coloured Pop Coasters are stacked on a shelf, a design that would surely make Andy Warhol go weak at the knees. Hamady and Abou Jamra peer over their laptops at opposite ends of the only desk in a rather snug room. Behind them the view of the city is inspiring – rows of old apartment blocks with shuttered windows and plant-filled balconies and the sound of car horns bring the immediacy of Hamra’s main street to the room. 'One of the most important things is understanding the proportions of Arabic script,' Abou Jamra says. 'Our carpenter was in the process of making the Ayn table, it was beautiful – the details of production, the joinery – but it missed the aspect which defines the whole point of what we're doing. So we had to do it again.' Kashida's collection stands at 20 pieces that vary in style, from the literal to the calligraphic, typographic and experimental. Discovering a shared love for Arabic calligraphy and typography during design school, at first the pair went separate ways – Abou Jamra to work in the 125-year-old German type foundry, Linotype, working with prestigious Arabic type designer Nadine Chahine, while Hamady joined a branding company. But a student aspiration to blow up Arabic letters into 3D had never left their minds, neither had the ambition to run their own business. They decided to rejoin and develop the concept – this time giving the letters a function, by bringing them into the home. Hamady and Abou Jamra can be seen as part of a renewed interest in Arabic typography, in which designers are pushing the field forward to update traditional and redundant calligraphy forms and create modern typefaces, more suitable for the contemporary world. 'Some people say, "This is trendy." I disagree. It's not new, it existed hundreds of years ago and it will exist in the future,' Hamady says. 'The only concern is how to make it contemporary.' By rejuvenating the Arabic alphabet in the visual world, Kashida is also connecting itself to the larger preservation of Arab culture and identity. Arabs are looking at their culture and roots more,' Hamady says. Abou Jamra continues, 'While we were growing up, people would say we're not loyal to our identity and that things are shifting towards Western culture. Now things are moving in the opposite direction.' Kashida is a celebration of Arabic script, a brand that so literally connects design to the language, meaning as orders increase from non-Arab speaking countries, it is essentially spreading Arab culture. 'This is our heart, how we grew up, it's our background,' Abou Jamra says. 'The beauty is in sharing it with the world.' Hamady compares the interest in the Arabic alphabet to the global fascination with Chinese logograms. 'People would have Chinese tattoos and no one would get what it meant. It was just the beauty of the letterforms.' Kashida's alphabet, on the other hand, is literal and modernist, sometimes abstracted to the point that the letter is merely hinted at. Abou Jamra clutches a batch of Kashida's current MDF prototypes; a bin, an ashtray and a stylishly curved desktop business card holder. The duo's creative process might start with an idea for a specific piece or from the charm of a typographic or calligraphic style. Hamady flicks through a huge pile of sketches that show their thought process as they experiment with a letter's form, before moving onto the prototype. Their production process is small, organic and entirely local – the duo work with carpenters and craftsmen between Dekwaneh, Mount Lebanon and Saida. 'We've finally got a chain of producers we can rely on,' Abou Jamra says. 'Everything is local, it's part of the brand.' The pair started production in Tripoli, Lebanon's northern coastal city known for its highly skilled craftwork, but made the difficult decision to relocate when sect clashes made the process uncertain. 'We love the city, it's such a beautiful place,' Abou Jamra says with genuine sadness. 'But it wasn't reliable.' Kashida's central focus lies in creating designs that translate to people's everyday lives. Abou Jamra and Hamady both insist on the functionality of their pieces. 'We're about providing people with designer items that are not over luxurious. We want people to love the designs, to use them and let them become a part of their everyday life,' Abou Jamra says. One of the main problems they think regional design faces is designers not creating pieces with functionality in mind. 'We love a product we've produced – we Instagram it, we post it on Facebook,' Abou Jamra says. 'The problem comes with trying to transform this idea to the people.' While Kashida's business is growing, the duo have certainly faced problems along the way. Lebanon lacks an advanced level of product design education at university level. Abou Jamra and Hamady learned their production skills as their business was forming; 'It's very self taught. We learned from spending weekend after weekend with various producers,' Hamady says. 'We were in the wood and dust trying to build our understanding.' For them, product design in Lebanon is underdeveloped, with some production techniques and materials not even available in the country. This hasn't stopped designers from carving out their own place in the region, who in the gap left by the lack of multinational design companies have taken a DIY approach to building a design world with a more independent feel. Having built a solid customer base that has stretched beyond the Arab world to the US, Australia and Europe, Kashida is now receiving commissions to customise its designs, with requests for everything from Quran stands to entire libraries, all in their characteristic typography. Kashida has clearly found a way to connect space and script with customer friendly designs, and with plans to open a flagship store and expand its international sales, the duo's product design business looks set to grow even further. Photography: Natalie Naccache

Urban Series

In collaboration with Cadillac, we travel to Istanbul to speak with Alex Varlik, founder of Georges, a boutique hotel housed in the city's most historic building in the Galata district.

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A troupe of travelling acrobats are preparing for another show at a temporary location. They are an elite group in Palestine; the skills they perform are known to few in the country. Named the Palestinian Circus School, it is part of a new wave of circus movement sweeping the world and a dramatic shift from the dancing bears and balancing plates of yesteryear. Instead the group is more concerned with extreme physical endurance and choreographed poetic movements. It has taken countless hours of practice and training and all of this has been achieved under occupation, not to mention under additional strains of societal misconceptions and a marathon stretch of bureaucratic hurdles. The school is currently searching for a fixed lease to build a more permanent structure that will better advance the circus’s goals. The first plan to refurbish a building near Ramallah with the support of the Belgium government fell through when they could only obtain a lease until 2015. With millions of dollars of investment at stake, the circus school needs infrastructure and a home that will last generations, not years. 'We need a safe place to teach the art of circus because there are certain specific dimensions of wideness and height,' explains Shadi Zmorrod, the founder of the Palestinian Circus School. 'We want it to be a culture centre for the northern villages and refugee camps of Ramallah and the surrounding areas.' Despite these challenges, the school has been successful in changing the lives of young Palestinians who were born or lived during the two intifadas, which dramatically changed the dynamics of the country. Since a small group of volunteers established the school six years ago, the Palestinian Circus School now has branches at some of the West Bank’s most deprived cities, and dedicated courses to lift youngsters from the grips of poverty, strife and depression. 'Now we are 13 people working full time, so we are 13 families living as part of the circus school,' says Zmorrod. The plans of this group are ambitious but within reach, as the circus director explains: 'In terms of being a circus art, we want to have a circus ball in every house in the West Bank. Our aim is to build a professional circus school where we teach artists and build self-respect, trust and teamwork in people across Palestine.' Different groups in the West Bank cities cater to different needs and Zmorrod uses Hebron as an example. 'It is mostly used as a social programme, where we work with boys and girls from 10 to 14 years old and use circus as a tool to bring them together to work and trust each other.' The school instead aims to empower students. Achievement, self-discipline, learning and opportunities for expression are powerful tools in their struggle against the grimmer realities that many of the students face in daily life. 'Another dimension to our work will be in partnering with teachers or social workers on how to use circus in their own organisations and refugee camps,' he says. Students will also be able to learn management skills so they can 'create their own small businesses for financial support, as well as presenting and promoting their own shows.' This is achieved by bringing a sense of ownership to the school’s classes. The students are encouraged to set themes for their shows that tackle the problems faced by themselves and other Palestinian teenagers. Topics used as inspiration include the almost impossible costs of weddings in Palestine, and stories of the underpaid or unemployed who turn to crime to meet the competitive costs of marrying their loved ones. Another uphill battle for Zmorrod is to convince people of the skills and artistry of the circus, rather than outdated clichés. This is particularly important in terms of welcoming women to the school. The director explains how many Palestinians hold to the idea of women acrobats performing in inappropriate costumes. To counter this, the circus school troupes organise performances across the West Bank to show the true art of the circus. Although the current outcome of the school and the occupation are inseparable, the image of a Palestine consumed by conflict is something the school has worked hard to move away from. Zmorrod says the essence of the school is for its students to be regarded as performers on the same level of those where the art form is more developed, rather than a novelty act. Shows in Italy, Belgium and France have helped change these misconceptions, along with provided funds from ticket sales, but Zmorrod feels there is still more to be done. 'We want to be treated the same as the other circus schools around the world. We really don’t want these people to feel pity for us, and to achieve this we need to reach a professional level of performance,' Zmorrod tells. The circus school is not just about teaching skills but making the school a world famous establishment that will reverberate with national pride. The circus school has already transformed troubled, violent youth into dedicated conscientious citizens, 'the sweetest, most caring' people you can meet, he shares. 'Some of the people see the shows and know that they are all Palestinian and ask us "are these people like us,"' Zmorrod continues, 'this is what we have to show them. That you can achieve this if you really want to.' Photography: Tanya Habjouqa

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The Holy City of Mecca attracts an estimated 13 million visitors a year from across the world, who flood into its streets and religious sites; three million Muslims alone arrived last year for the annual Hajj pilgrimage. But what about the contemporary and creative life of the city beyond its famed landmarks? Once a small town named 'Bakkah' fringed by five hills, today’s Mecca residents spread from the heart of the city into the mountains, with the cool black granite of the Holy Kaaba at its epicentre. Beyond the borders of Al Haram, the holy mosque, the contemporary life of Mecca is pulsing, chaotic and visually rich. Inhabited for more centuries than Rome, the multitude of cultures who have passed through the city has left a permanent imprint on its soul. Only accessible to Muslims, some visitors to Mecca never leave, and you can find vibrant sub-communities of different nationalities in the city's outskirts. The mass myriad of cultures that influx Mecca every year – whether from Burma or Burkina Faso – also make it a great place to enjoy perhaps an unsung aspect of the day-to-day life of the city: its street food. Kabab miro is a traditionally found dish, consisting of finely minced camel meat that’s mixed with cracked wheat and fried in a wok. Found in the side streets of Mecca, it’s a favourite among the locals, and a generous meal costs a little less than seven dollars, and is served in kitsch looking restaurants. You can also take kabab miro home as takeout, and wise Meccans often order the meat raw so it can be cooked later at home. Kaki Bakery is the most well known bakery in the region and another example of Mecca’s beloved food culture. With multiple branches around the city, its central factory produces many types of breads, rusks and other pastries. The most traditional rusks are scattered with poppy seeds. Mentioned numerous times in the narrations of the Prophet, the tiny black seeds are said to have healing powers. The name Kaki, like so many other professions in Mecca, is likely taken from the name of the family who first began the bakery, which has now served generation after generation. As one of the oldest bakeries in the region, it occupies a special place in the heart of Mecca’s residents. Mantu is another gift from Mecca’s multicultural make-up. A traditional dish from Central Asia, particularly the medieval city of Bukhara, the love for mantu has spread all over Mecca. Nearly every district has its own deli-like mantu shop, where the doughy parcels of steamed meat or vegetables are stuffed until plump, and arrive smothered in deliciously herby dressings. A full meal costs roughly eight dollars a plate; the perfect pit stop to refuel before heading back into the human flood that fills the city's streets every weekend. For those living outside of Mecca, weekend visitors and pilgrims must enter via taxi, leaving their cars behind in the car parks scattered outside the city. Only residents of Mecca have permission to drive through its streets, although canny Hejazi neighbours from Jeddah, a short 70km drive away, use back roads and short cuts instead, parking in secret spots or even valeting at a nearby five star hotel. Those who do choose to enter via taxi will find that ‘taxi’, as in many busy Arab cities, is a term used fairly loosely. The cars’ drivers are often chancers looking to make some extra cash, and the roads inside and outside of Mecca are often frantic. ‘My sister and her husband parked their car and took a taxi while visiting Mecca during Ramadan. It was after sunset, but the guy was still driving like a lunatic and she was freaking out,’ explains Maha Alkhalawi, a young Saudi-American graphic designer who visits Mecca every weekend. ‘It turns out that the reason he was driving like that is because he’d placed an order at Al Beik. And he had ten minutes to take them there and go back and pick it up. It was his way of making some money while waiting for his food!’ This sets the tone for the rapid pace of Mecca. There is the story of the late Sheikh Abdul Wahab Al Fadl who, born and raised in Mecca, struggled to find his favourite ‘Akel Jawi’ restaurant after returning to his beloved hometown after living abroad for 35 years. The Indonesian restaurant was a popular spot among locals while he was growing up, and as he asked locals for directions, one man sarcastically replied, ‘Yahou! Which cave have you been sleeping in?’ He was referring to the Quranic verse of the ‘cave sleepers’ (Surrat al Kahf), in which young men hide in a cave to escape the wrath of the Roman emperor Decius, only to fall asleep and be woken again 300 years later. In the street life of Mecca, a decade can bring a century of change. Ironically, my experience of Mecca is not very different from that of the cave sleepers and Sheikh Abdul Wahab. A lot of my childhood memories from the Holy City have been relegated to just that: memories. I visit Mecca every Friday, and within just one short week I notice the difference in the city. These changes are inevitable, put into place to better accommodate the city’s residents and the millions of visitors that flock here every year. However, these changes bring with them a new dynamic for the social fabric that makes up the community. Many families collect memorabilia, either from the city itself or from their ancestors, to decorate their homes with – a way for human nature to cling to memory and tradition while so much change occurs us. The house is transformed into a ‘home museum’ in homage to this ever-changing environment. In one family’s home, who have lived in Mecca for three generations, I stumble across a typical collection: from the first telephones used within the Kingdom to oil lamps and irons made from heavy metal, once used to smooth the creases in traditional garbs. In recent years, artists have also been doing their part to hold true to their memories and experiences of Mecca as well. Ahmed Mater, a leader in contemporary art, attempts to capture the essence of Mecca in his large-scale photography, while sculptor Saddek Wasil, who was born in Mecca, collects discarded metal to form his spiritually inspired sculptures. Dr Sami Angawi is making admirable efforts to create a conscious catalogue of the city’s architecture. The work of Nasser Al Salem, who grew up in Mecca, is heavily influenced by the traditions of Islam, such as the abstract representations in his Kaaba series. Although diverse, each artist is using their work as a way of coping and expressing their grief or excitement for the new future that is being drawn for Mecca. ‘I feel happy when I’m in Mecca. I don’t take food with me – I take food from here and there. It’s very bohemian,’ artist Ahmed Mater shares. ‘Mecca is full of tunnels – something unique to Mecca because it’s mountainous. It’s a disaster and it’s full of life.’ One of Mater’s projects, a series currently still in progress, is a collection of 100 found objects Mater has picked up from all over Mecca’s streets. ‘I collect everything about Mecca,’ he says. ‘I’m telling the life of the street.’ Objects include an old plastic viewfinder with postcard images of Mecca, old cassette tapes, the laminated TV channel list taken from a room in the Fairmont Hotel, a 1917 copy of National Geographic with a cover story titled Mecca the Mystic, and a 1979 edition of Time magazine featuring Mecca under the title Islam, The Militant Revival, which Mater found on Ebay. ‘I bid 10 dollars... and I won,’ he laughs. The collection awaits to be curated into a historical timeline, but provides a more material view of Mecca’s vibrant visual culture. Mater describes the city’s chaotic streets, from the kamikaze mopeds to the neon-lit shisha cafés that attract a mix of young people and more affluent classes. Of course, Mecca will always be a city full of traditions. Calligraphy schools, once part of the social fabric of Arabian cities, are slowly fading, however private tutors and group lessons still exist to ensure the art form is kept alive through future generations. Likewise, some items from the traditional wardrobe, such as the umama (turban) may have faded out of fashion, but there now seems to be a revival on the street. Mecca has always been known for its flamboyant flair; the colours and fabrics for men’s outfits are limitless, as are the options for headgear. There are many specialised shops that sell all kinds of fabrics and accessories for men. The real shopping in Mecca, however, is its plethora of souvenirs. As low-rise courtyards, narrow streets and cultural sites are continually swallowed up by the city's multi-billion dollar developments, it’s an interesting time for Mecca. Indescribable to many, and one of the most expensive places on earth per square metre, the city continues to inspire creativity as well as faith. Photography: Sal Kurdi-Serafi and Ahmed Mater

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Rare is the cultural institution that combines an edible rooftop garden with a public library, walk-in cinema, e-publishing empire, gourmet restaurant and thousands of square metres of exhibition space, all encompassed within the walls of two 19th century palazzi. But SALT doesn’t do things by the book. Since it opened in April 2011, the organisation has been hailed as a model for galleries, libraries and museums across the globe. In 2012, Art Review declared that ‘SALT has definitely changed the art ecosystem of Turkey.’ Aside from the rooftop garden and chic eats, SALT’s statistics speak for themselves. It has hosted 21 exhibitions, 158 public talks, 70 film screenings and 300,000 visitors, all in under two years. At the time of writing, Pippo Ciorra, senior curator at Rome's National Museum of the 21st Century Arts (MAXXI), is due to discuss contemporary architecture at SALT’s walk-in cinema. No event better sums up the institution’s declared motive that looks to ‘move away from one way communication.’ SALT may be a non-profit institution, but it fulfils its lofty aims not within one staggering building, but two. The twin cultural icons of SALT Beyoğlu and SALT Galata lie a ten minute walk from each other through the atmospheric streets of old Istanbul. SALT Beyoğlu is dedicated to large-scale public exhibitions. A good job it occupies a six storey mansion on Istiklâl Caddesi, the city’s premier shopping street. Entering is akin to browsing a cultural department store. Istanbul’s intelligentsia loiters in the bookstore or dissects art in the contemporary café. Audio terminals lead visitors on artistic aural journeys. Short films shot on mobile phones offer a civilising injection to those who’ve dropped in from Mango or H&M over the road. Its current exhibition is a full-blown retrospective of Egyptian artist Hassan Khan. Participants in one of the accompanying shows – audience interaction is a big theme at SALT – are invited to write critical reviews of their own Khan experience on Facebook and Twitter. If anything, SALT Galata embodies even more of the institution’s collaborative aims. It’s housed in the old headquarters of the Ottoman Bank. Inside, the former bank remains a medley of marble floors and granite balustrades. The ceilings are twice the height of those in your apartment. The glass-fronted Ca d’Oro restaurant serves artichoke hearts artistically sandwiched between disks of beetroot. But in the basement lies the beating heart of SALT’s raison d'être: the archive and research zone that forms that basis of much of the institution’s activity. Vasif Kortun, SALT's Director of Research and Institutions, explains how these archives influence so much of their work. Kortun is the enthusiastic overseer of many of SALT’s projects, and he remains one of the most prominent cultural voices in contemporary Turkey. But when we ask him what his favourite archive-based exhibition is, he’s momentarily speechless. ‘Aye, wow,’ sighs Kortun. ‘That’s a hard question.’ 'SALT's second Open Archive project, It Was A Time Of Conversation, worked visually and spatially very well,’ claims Kortun, re-finding his voice. The show highlighted several key Istanbul exhibitions from the early 1990s, revisiting both art and archives to question collaboration, democracy and Turkish society two decades ago. More importantly for SALT, when the Open Archive exhibition was dismantled last year, it continued life in a new form, emphasising that ‘it’s not an end, never a finality.’ Here, all knowledge is processed for later use in films, discussions and publications of all descriptions. ‘We don’t look at archives in a classical way any longer,’ says Kortun. ‘We’re not a vault, and we’re not simply sitting on them.’ Instead, the director explains, it’s what you do with the archives that arouses interest. So which archives are accessible to the SALT curators? The list is spellbinding, and includes archived materials from the Ottoman Bank, Istanbul Biennial, Atatürk Cultural Center, and archives from the city’s Italian consulate, which date from 1847 onwards, as well as key historical biographies of over 200 artists and digital copies of much of the Ottoman Empire's French press from 1850 to the 1930s. Can SALT also access the archives of, say, the Turkish parliament or Dolmabahçe Palace, I ask? ‘Yeah,’ says Kortun simply, summing up the wealth of knowledge the institution has access to. In a word, wow. These archives are open to the public too. Visitors today may browse thousands of digitised pages on big screen iMacs at SALT Research in the Galata building’s basement. This research centre meets ‘Library 2.0’ standards, meaning its diverse literature can be searched and shared, watched as a video or debated in cyberspace. More interesting still are SALT’s new research grants. The institution is offering six individuals – from any country and educational background – the means and encouragement to create a cultural product from its extensive archives. The recipients of the grant will be chosen by a five person selection committee, including three people from outside SALT. What sort of archival projects does SALT hope to assist, I ask? Perhaps Arabian influences on Ottoman cuisine? Or 1950s architecture on Turkey’s Black Sea coast? ‘Well, the programme just opened last Friday,’ laughs Kortun, ‘so we’ll have to wait and see.’ These research projects could expand into lectures, a video series, exhibitions themselves or even as part of SALT’s burgeoning ebook database. Kortun is keen to expand upon this latter platform. Indeed, SALT really isn’t just about the exhibitions. The institution sees e-publishing as one of the biggest democratic revolutions in contemporary culture. Unlike printed books, ebooks are open to intervention, change, revision, online discussion and sharing. So passionate is Kortun about this new medium, he claims that SALT is a ‘post-paper institution.’ The days of perusing 60 dollar exhibition guides after touring the show are long, long gone. 'We're living beyond the Gutenberg Galaxy,’ continues the SALT director, in reference to the demise of the mass market printing press. ‘The days when the printed book was the main means of communication are over.’ More importantly, digital books are not only free to publish, but also cheap and easy to distribute. ‘When you print 1000 copies of a book, 500 remain in your attic as you don’t have space to store them!’ laughs Kortun. ‘Then you send a copy to colleagues which costs another 20 to 30 euros per piece. It becomes an extremely inefficient way of communicating with the world.’ Coverage is another key factor in today’s linked-in cultural world. By digitally publishing catalogues, guides, biographies and art tomes, SALT’s ideas ‘could be put online and read minutes later in Mali or Hong Kong or Kiev.’ With this in mind, SALT are creating an e-shelf of books, with three new titles available in spring 2013. Does Kortun see digital publishing as an aim for other cultural institutions? ‘It’s absolutely critical,’ he asserts. Like so much of SALT’s work. Photography: Aydan Cinar

Exploded House

Driving through Bodrum and up the switchback roads through the hills that lead to the Exploded House, owner and resident Vedat Semiz is in a good mood as he describes the building project, which was completed in 2001 and has become a major point of interest in Turkey. Bodrum has long held the title of being one of the premier holiday destinations in Turkey, for both Turks and tourists from overseas. The Aegean port city’s natural environment, with its forests of trees, flowers and rolling hills, is a welcome relief from the intense urban sprawl of Istanbul and Ankara. The fact that building restrictions have been put in place to protect Bodrum from overdevelopment is reassuring. All new developments are restricted to a maximum size of 75 square metres, to ensure the forested areas surrounding the city are preserved. The Exploded House defies those laws. An architectural feat, the building’s deconstructed structure is an ingenious solution to Bodrum’s building restrictions. It bend the rules, without sacrificing the local environment. The project is the result of a long-term fascination with Bodrum and the creative cunning of Semiz. A former businessman and now in his sixties, Semiz shares his memories of travelling to Bodrum from Istanbul in the 1970s, before the peninsula became an international holiday hotspot. During this time, select artists, intellectuals and members of the political class would escape to Bodrum to relax along what is known as the Turkish Riviera, a collection of blue water bays, beaches, boutique hotels and restaurants. By the mid 90s, Semiz’s love for Bodrum has solidified; he opened the Ada Hotel located in the local village of Turkbuku. At first, his family would use the 14 room boutique hotel as a glorified home-away-from-home while visiting from Istanbul, but as more tourists flocked to Bodrum and the hotel rose in popularity, the priority and focus was given to paying guests. In the late 1990s, Semiz decided to build a house on a plot of land he owned near the hotel, on a grassy hill that overlooks the village and a nearby bay. The plot, where the Exploded House now stands, is an easy 15 minute drive from the city centre, above Turkbuku and surrounded by nature. Semiz's checklist for the property was clear: it must be spacious enough to host parties, to accommodate his family, as well as house part of his vast collection of antiquities, amassed during 35 years of travelling. Building such a large house was not possible under the current construction codes. But by ‘exploding’ the house into different buildings, Semiz found a detour to help him design the home of his dreams. ‘I had the concept. I was lucky to find the right interior designer and the right architect,’ he explains. ‘I needed the space to protect the collection and it was a good meeting point for family and work.’ The house can easily accommodate four people. There is a master bedroom, study, guest room, living room, kitchen, and dining area. While this area is far larger than construction laws allow, the separation of the buildings means it technically bypasses the law. With the exception of the guest room, which is located across the swimming pool, the individual edifices are connected by a glass vestibule, but are technically considered to stand alone. The house is the only one of its kind in Bodrum. Traditionally, houses in Bodrum are made from brick and use shutters to shield the intense light reflecting off the water. They are almost always built close enough together to create shade in the alleyways between houses. Their exteriors are painted white to project a uniformity that does not distract from the surrounding environment. The Exploded House is different, more contemporary, Semiz says. While the exterior is stone, the interior uses flat concrete, which is low maintenance. Expansive glass windows come down at the touch of a remote to turn the living room into a shaded balcony that looks out over the hills and water. Rainwater is collected on the flat roof to provide cooling for the house, an aesthetic and inventive touch. While the house may play with the local restrictions on construction, the design respectfully coexists with the surrounding landscape. The contours of the house follow the terrain and no trees were felled during the construction, nor were any non-native plants introduced. ‘We did not even move the big rocks from their original places,’ Semiz explains, who, after years living the fast-paced life of an international businessman in the industrial chemical sector, rejects modern day extravagance and consumerism. It is this philosophy of purposeful living coupled with style and an appreciation for great beauty that makes the Exploded House such a successful project. ‘Today what [mainstream society] are doing all around… is really silly,’ Semiz says. ‘It's pure consumerism. I don't like it. The nature needs respect.’ Semiz's vast antiques collection is carefully spread around the rooms of the Exploded House. But this is no museum. Instead, the collection is displayed in a contemporary fashion that allows it to be both admired and considered in a comfortable way. There’s a 14th century dark brown wood table from France, World War I pistols, Byzantine bowls, Arabic calligraphy from the Ottoman period, a recently designed chair made from an Indonesian teak tree and a flag from the Turkish War of Independence, all gracing the house’s rooms. Turkish architect Gokhan Avcioglu of Global Architecture Development (GAD) and Turkish interior designer Hakan Ezer worked with Semiz to realise the project. Ezer previously worked with Semiz on the Ada Hotel and as interior designer wanted to create a spartan, Bauhaus-like atmosphere in the house, capturing a sense of ‘inside, outside’ for the home. The windows were designed to descend fully, ‘so the residents would be inside in the shade and enjoy the outside,’ Ezer says. Special textiles were used for the curtains so they would fly around ‘like calligraphy.’ ‘It is very simple, you don't feel the design at all. You just feel the texture,’ he says. ‘I always try to give a very natural life, a very real life to the people [I work for],’ Ezer explains. ‘I think it is quite a nice place to have parties and to seek nature. To be in nature and to feel the nature and changing light all around you.’ Photography: Justin Vela

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Hip hop, 1980s Brooklyn, Bedouin motifs and modern London are just a few of the influences on the moodboard of Mayada Khammu. Full of fierce urban attitude, the 24-year-old fashion designer draws on both her South West London upbringing and deep Arab roots in her designs, which range from heavyweight gold necklaces to graphic tees imprinted with the images of fallen Arab leaders. A self-described 'street couturier and contemporary urbanite', Khammu lives and breathes the street style that is at the heart of her debut label, Young Blood. Hip hop pulses through the air of her studio. After graduating from Central St Martins and Kingston University, Khammu’s independent streak led her to set up the space in her London home, the birthplace of Young Blood. Khammu always believed her destiny laid in fashion. ‘It’s part of my DNA,’ she confidently smiles describing how from making lookbooks for her Barbie dolls at age six, she has gone on to participate at last September’s London Fashion Week. ‘Fashion was always the main goal and the main aim.’ The daughter of a Jordanian mother and Iraqi father, Khammu was born and raised in London. On holiday in Iraq as the first Gulf War struck when she was three years old, her and her family fled the country in the middle of the night through the desert to Jordan. Her design ethos is inspired by the more peaceful history of the desert though, with heavy references to the nomadic and Bedouin culture of Jordan. ‘It’s your heritage, you can’t escape it and it’s you,’ she says. ‘Growing up in London, both feeling British and being Arab, I relate to my own work and I feel that many others are, and will do.’ Khammu’s references, however, are far more nuanced than London-meets-Arabia. Images of street style from across the world litter her lookbooks. When asked if there’s one era of modern history that has particularly inspired her, Khammu answers without hesitation: the 1980s. ‘Ray Petri’s Buffalo culture, street couture and Gianni Versace have had great influences on me and my work.’ Ray Petri is clearly a big influence. The Scottish-born designer’s distinctive ‘Buffalo’ sub-culture is now synonymous with the rebellious youth culture of 1980s London, with his surly styling appearing on the pages of The Face, i-D and Arena magazines. Buffalo became a subculture in its own right, a tough, tongue-in-cheek urban uniform that united the city’s alternative artists and Khammu proudly advocates his influence in her work. The name for the Young Blood label was lifted from a 1985 edition of The Face that features Ray Petri editorial, and refers to the young models as ‘young bloods’. Seeing the similarity between Petri’s rude boys of 1985 and second generation Arabs in London today, Khammu’s appropriation of the term straddles east and west. She sees Buffalo culture alive on both the streets of Baghdad and the subways of New York City. ‘Young Blood and Mayada Khammu more generally is the best of both worlds,’ she explains. ‘This line is honest. Why can’t fashion reflect social explanations behind modern culture. Why can’t it be the voice for culture? A voice for why people are who they are, rather than being what fashion and trends are.’ In Khammu’s hands, Buffalo street culture and her Bedouin background seem almost seamless. ‘Young Blood is urban, but a lot of it comes from Bedouin culture. Like the colours I’ve used.’ Black and gold, which predominate traditional Bedouin dresses and jewellery, can be seen throughout the collection, along with acid hues that symbolise the interiors of the nomads’ colourful tents. ‘The colours of black and gold and the excessive material used for garments is a Bedouin influence, but it’s also a personal one I get directly from my grandparents,’ Khammu says, showing a picture of her grandparents who she describes as one of her greatest influences. The mystic culture of her Bedouin ancestors is also of great interest to the designer, as well as the more modern influences of her mother, a forward-thinking psychologist whose approach to the role of women in the Middle East helped Khammu not only develop her own strong sense of self, but also her brand’s. ‘As you grow up you want to hold on to your heritage, but you also want to be that modern woman. Women should be proud of their sexuality,’ she says. ‘I can identify with the girl I am designing for because I am that girl. I always wanted to design something that’s true to me and this is me.’ Young Blood recently caught the eye of Brooklyn-based hip hop artist Angel Haze. The young, fiery female rapper wore a Young Blood cross pendant during a recent magazine interview as she discussed poverty and development, a collaboration that came about following Khammu’s exposure at London Fashion Week. Hip hop is second nature to the designer. The music rages throughout her collection, and she talks passionately about the genuine rhetoric of hip hop and the inspiring poetry it has provided her with, particularly the words of the late Tupac Shakur. As well as Haze, she’d love to dress Beyoncé and rapper ASAP Rocky. ‘Hip hop is urban poetry, it’s real and so is the Middle East. And fashion needs to sometimes represent this, rather than the culture of excessiveness and luxury that has become the trademark of Middle Eastern trends,’ says Khammu, speaking about the worlds of fashion and hip hop. It may be trendy, but Young Blood is also a poetic pursuit for authenticity, treading the line between the subversive spirit of hip hop and offering a fresh representation of Arab culture. Still 24, it’s this boldness in Khammu that took London Fashion Week by storm in 2012. Participating in the Vauxhall Fashion Talent Scout initiative, a launch pad for emerging designers, the designer describes her experience as invaluable. ‘It really gives you a taste of how fast fashion is. This industry is 24 hours – sleep isn’t an issue, it consumes you,’ she says. Her own self-imposed working hours are endless, and her work ethic and ambition is admirable. ‘I find myself in the zone,’ she explains, and her future plans are just as wide in scope: ‘a fully established brand in Mayada Khammu, but also Young Blood not just as a label, but a collective for all types of artists who can come together.’ Khammu also hints at a future project, currently a well-wrapped secret, a collection of clothing that aims to raise money for children in regrettable conditions in the Middle East. Bringing together the heritage of her past with the social concerns of today and some pure hip hop swagger, Khammu is fulfilling her fashion destiny and staying true to her roots, too. Photography: Celia Topping

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A self-proclaimed 'Gulf futurist', Sophia Al Maria's hotly anticipated literary debut is not your usual Arab-American memoir It's Sophia's first day at her new school and, like most teenage girls, she's feeling self-conscious about what she's wearing. The public school uniform under her ill-fitting abaya suddenly seems out of place as a glossy clique of girls strut past, as does her Bedouin uncle's beat-up truck she's riding in. Fresh off the plane from the States, the private international school in Doha is a far cry from the middle America state school she's left behind. 'It was like 90210 if it were acted entirely with international exchange students cast by Benetton,' she writes, referring to the 'offspring of ambassadors and oil barons' that are now her classmates. 'But the weirdly utopian assortment of cultures had boiled down into a patty-melt pastiche of an America I knew from experience didn't exist offscreen.' This is just one house-of-mirrors moment from The Girl Who Fell to Earth, the literary debut of artist, filmmaker and writer Sophia Al Maria, a sharply told memoir of her upbringing between Qatar and America. Embracing autobiography, science fiction and 1990s pop culture in equal gulps, it's a frank and funny tale of the pangs of girlhood. Suburban America, the urban boom of Doha and lonely student years in Cairo are seen through the eyes of a library-dwelling misfit: from first loves and fashion faux pas to an obsession with David Bowie (The Girl Who Fell to Earth's title is poached from Bowie's flame-haired alien alterego in 1976 science fiction film The Man Who Fell to Earth). Floating between cultures and social classes, she tapes the Ziggy Stardust album over her father's Surat Al-Baqara cassettes, fights boys to play Nintendo in her Bedouin family's majlis and rebels with her own signature 'glitter-grunge-via-Gulf' wardrobe. It's painfully personal. Does it freak her out that her innermost thoughts are now out there on the bookshelves of the public domain? 'I'll tell you this – it's more like having your baby exposed to the elements. The umbilical chord is cut so I can't really feel it anymore. It's not kicking in my belly, but I know when it is hurt and hear when something good is happening,' Al Maria explains. 'It had been such a harrowing process to write the thing – I'm 29, which is perhaps not the best age to attempt memoir. And so in a way, to jettison it out into the world was the only way to purge myself of a lot of the issues discussed in the book and move on to other ideas and projects of more interest to me.' The Girl Who Fell to Earth is a more mainstream departure from her artistic output to date. A 'sci-fi Wahabi', her artworks (featured in last year's Gwangju Biennale), videos (her blog shows MIA's Bad Girls music clip imitating her style) and essays (most prominently published in cult magazine Bidoun) can all be bracketed under the title of 'Gulf Futurism', a mindboggling aesthetic link between the simulacrum structures and hyperreal lifestyle of the Gulf and the world's inevitable future dystopia. The ideology, which Al Maria shares with fellow futurist, visual artist and composer Fatima Al Qadiri, also borrows heavily and lovingly from sci-fi pop culture. 'The Gulf is a projection of a global future – one where extremes are rendered at their most,' Al Maria explains. 'The way class is so extremely and racially divided, the way interiors are so cold and exteriors are so hot and inhospitable the physics shatter glass in buildings, the make-believe fantasy elements of urban planning, and so on.' After signing with an agent in 2008, Al Maria's original book proposal was therefore not autobiographical at all, but a 'baroque young adult post-apocalyptic "The Hunger Games in the Gulf" type series, called Qasida. My agent took one look at my planned masterpiece of SF/fantasy and said "um, that's a hard genre to break into." ' Instead, the agent suggested a proposal for a memoir, based on Al Maria's essays, and 'freakishly' publishing giant Harper Collins picked it up. 'And then my stomach dropped. Because I actually had to write this thing.' The daughter of a tough farm girl from Puyallup, Washington and a Bedouin boy from Al Dafira, whose cultural differences are so vast they jokingly refer to themselves as the alien and girl next door in TV show Mork & Mindy, Al Maria bares all about both sides of her home life in the book – the good, the bad and the ugly. How did her family react to the memoir? 'My family are honest and straight people. And I occupy a bit of an autonomous zone where rules are confused. So in a way it was my attempt to explain myself to them as much as the readers,' she says, who also used the book as a way to challenge misconceptions of the Gulf as a sterile, artificial society. 'Another thought I had during the writing was this – life in the Gulf is highly sanitised for outside consumption, right? Decorum. Social graces. Whatever "honour" is,' she explains. 'But in my experience life in Qatar and the UAE is one of deep, almost primal experience. Whether it's having scarlet fever as a kid or cramps as a teenager, feelings of being trapped or feelings of total rapturous freedom, I felt it all there. More than in the States. So in a way the book was trying to blow up that conception of cold steel and glass.' It's testimony to Al Maria that The Girl Who Fell From Earth toys with its own genre – she describes it as a 'memoir' in air quotes. 'I pitched it as not Not Without My Daughter,' she says. 'It was intentionally punching a hole in the Arab/Muslim woman memoir of woe.' The portrait of the close tribal bond and tough love of her Bedouin side of the family, who are struggling to deal with the rapid urbanisation of Doha as they are relocated from horsehair tents in the desert to stocky apartments behind twelve-foot walls of concrete (to protect the women's privacy), is filled with warmth and delicious humour. 'This is going to sound strange but I was reading a lot of a writer called Pat McManus. He's a Pacific northwest outdoorsy writer, whose books I think right wing libertarians read.' More likely references for The Girl Who Fell to Earth include 'soothing' popular memoirist David Sedaris, Vladimir Nabokov and Joan Didion ('for her clarity of prose and sharp observation') as well as old diaries, home videos, movies from her childhood and, of course, memory 'as a sort of poetic guide'. A Clockwork Orange – both Anthony Burgess' original novella and Stanley Kubrick's wickedly subversive film adaptation – remains a constant influence. Al Maria praised Burgess' use of language as she took Brownbook to Thamesmead in London, where Kubrick shot some of the film's scenes. Currently based between cities, with no 'walls' to call her own, Al Maria was in London to gather the crew for her first feature film, a thriller set in Cairo about 'a girl who goes on a vigilante killing spree targeting men.' Are there plans to adapt The Girl Who Fell to Earth for the big screen too? 'I think it would be better if someone else who loved it as a sort of fictional tale wanted to breath life into it,' she says. 'All that navel-gazing can make you go a little cross-eyed. I want to do as much non-me-focused, non-identity-politics, non-confessional stuff as possible.' Photography: Celia Topping

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A former Soviet city on the old Silk Road, it's easy to fall for Tashkent's culture clash charm Almost any cityscape in Uzbekistan is enough to make you draw your breath. The detailed mosaics of the ancient cities of Samarkand, Bukhara and Khavi are centuries old and testament to the great trading route The Silk Road. In more recent years the capital Tashkent has blossomed into a city that is the political, cultural, scientific and industrial centre of this Central Asian nation. Fusing tradition and modernity, with a myriad of secrets hidden behind its many façades, Tashkent is as welcoming and enticing as the smell of the flat freshly baked bread that welcomes the people of the city each morning. In the more modern parts of the city, a wide selection of art galleries, museums and designer shops will please even the most discerning of visitors. The 375 metre TV tower can be seen from almost anywhere in the city, and its antenna is a constant presence, a Soviet structure with a graceful dodecahedral stem and observation deck. The tallest tower in Central Asia, the views are unparalleled. From the architecture to the food, the sounds and the smells, the influences of the many cultures to have inhabited this city is still prevalent today. For the artistic eye, you don’t have to look far. A relic from the Soviet times means that Tashkent is home to an esteemed art school and the classical techniques of art are entrenched in its society. The Art Academy of Uzbekistan attracts students from all over Central Asia and Russia and there are many studios and galleries peppered throughout the city. Tashkent is also home to one of the only metro systems in Central Asia and with stations resembling masterpieces and representing famous Uzbeks, it is a journey of discovery within itself. One station, Kosmonavtlar, is dedicated to the space exploration of Soviet times, with murals of famous cosmonauts Yuri Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova. Other places worth a mention are the Tashkent Photography House next to Amir Temur Square, the Palace of Forums and the Tashkent Clock Tower – home to an antique shop and a boutique jewellery store. The best time to visit Uzbekistan is in the spring and autumn as the continental climate makes it snowy and cold in winter and uncomfortably hot during the summer months. Photography: Mukhiddin A Lee

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Hard-hitting yet beautiful, Ayman Baalbaki's paintings offer a glimpse into the turmoil he had experienced during a lifetime of conflict The past few decades of struggle in Lebanon have inspired a plethora of artists who have lived through the country’s tortured history. Painter Ayman Baalbaki is one who needs no introduction. Over the last ten years or so, he has tapped into Lebanon’s soul through his paintings and installations that are a reflection of the political turmoil he experienced while living in Beirut. Often seen in the city's streets with his trademark turban and hoop earring, the 38-year-old has used his paintbrush to explore themes such as conflict, refugees, destruction and the post-war reconstruction era. The feeling of displacement is all too familiar for the artist. Born in 1975, the year the country's fifteen year civil war began, Baalbaki was a baby when he and his family were forced to leave the suburb of Ras el Dekwaneh and fled to Wadi Abu Jamil, a neighbourhood in downtown Beirut. After the war, the area was bulldozed in the name of development, thus Baalbaki found himself displaced once again. ‘Despite the fact that I am originally from the South, I don’t feel like I belong there. In Wadi Abu Jamil, we were on the front line of West Beirut. It was a refugee platform for people from different religions and cultures. All those who couldn’t find shelter would carry their cultural luggage with them to wherever they were headed,’ the artist shares. Baalbaki says that his experiences, emotions and ‘mixed feelings’ are usually reflected in his work. Bombed buildings, piles of rubble and destroyed hotels are depicted in a captivating array of colours on canvas, which when observed closely depict a temperament that is portrayed through his violent brush strokes. ‘I have a temper. It doesn’t always show but in some situations my temper flares up. It was war and displacement that made me tough. I developed an aggressive and defensive force in me. The violence I have witnessed was translated into painting,’ he explains. Baalbaki’s paintings of Beirut’s destruction are based on archive material. However he says his memory forms the basis of his work. ‘I gather documentary material, my own photos and download images from the internet. It nourishes my eyes. The variations I discover inspire me to approach a subject from different angles. I can paint a building and then change it totally from my own memory. Here in Lebanon, it isn’t easy to photograph monuments because the authority and militia don’t like it. They consider the camera a dangerous weapon. They would laugh if they knew that my intention was to paint them,’ he grins. Baalbaki’s works are thought provoking and dramatic. However, what sets the artist apart is the warmth that shines through his paintings. His freedom fighter series, more commonly referred to as Al Mulatham, is one of his most popular. Here, a young man’s face is shrouded in a keffiyeh, leaving only the eyes to be seen. The floral textile background provides a softening effect to an otherwise confrontational, hard-hitting portrait. Baalbaki explains how the flowers found in his works are his method of incorporating a feminine touch. ‘By putting flowers in my paintings, I recall my grandmother more than my mother. They remind me of a certain era and environment, the dresses of my grandmother and my aunties, mattresses and textiles on the washing line. I consider this to be the feminine side of my work. For several generations, including that of my parents, the word 'metwall' has been used pejoratively and has meant that something is bad taste, as a reference to the colourful dresses of peasants from South Lebanon.’ Over the years, Baalbaki has branched out and experimented with mixed media installations. However, he maintains that painting remains his main strength. 'In Paris I studied public art at the École Nationale Supérieure des Arts Décoratifs). At the “Art Decos” several of my teachers kept telling me that my painting is stronger than my installations. I treated installation work as 3D painting.’ One of the artist’s most acknowledged installation works is Destination X. Initially showcased three years ago as part of Arabicity, a group exhibition curated by Rose Issa at Liverpool’s Bluecoat Gallery, the roof of a battered old Mercedes-Benz car is piled high with mattresses, chairs, fans, suitcases, kitchen appliances, a bicycle and tables. The bulging luggage acts as a poignant visualisation of families forced to flee their homes during the Lebanese Civil War. Baalbaki points out how the common themes of loss and identity found throughout his work come back to the Al Mu’allaqat, a collection of seven odes by pre-Islamic poets. ‘Growing up during the war, my father would prevent us from going out by forcing us to recite the verses. If we learned and understood them, we were allowed to leave the house.I discovered by chance that there is a strong connection between the essence of these poems and my work.’ Tattooed in Arabic on Baalbaki’s hands is an American Indian proverb, translated as ‘love without doubt, strength without guilt.’ Asked about the meaning behind the distinctive markings, Baalbaki says ‘it’s very personal’ but shares how he developed a liking for them after seeing his grandmother’s arms inked by Bedouins. Hailing from a family of artists and having witnessed the struggles his family encountered first-hand, Baalbaki says he always wanted to paint. ‘I didn’t know if I would relive my parents’ experience, but I was ready to explore the adventure.’ The artist, whose apartment-cum-atelier in Sanayeh is decorated with artworks produced by his family, admits that the situation has improved for artists in the Middle East, compared to 20 years ago. He says this is all thanks to prestigious exhibitions and the recent global interest in art from this region. Ask him what he finds most striking about his own work, the modest Baalbaki immediately responds and smiles, ‘No clue. Someone else would have to tell me. I can’t see it through someone else’s lens. I don’t like comparing my paintings. Time will show if there is uniqueness or not.’ Standing on his apartment balcony overlooking Beirut’s ever-changing skyline, Baalbaki reflects on his past. He says he loves his country, despite all its shortcomings. ‘But at the same time, I do dislike it. I think I will always have mixed feelings about this place. In the end, Beirut will go back to being Beirut. The places I love so much have an undecided fate and I don't know what will happen to them.’ Photography: Natalie Naccache

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Some might argue that a place ravaged by conflict does not always make the most fertile ground for ingenuity, but taking a closer look at Palestine might make one believe the old adage that hardship begets creativity. Despite the absence of formal arts education, there is no shortage of Palestinian cultural centres, cinemas, theatres and art institutes. Nestled atop a sunny hill sits the A.M. Qattan Foundation, one such institute whose mandate is to nourish talented young cinematographers, artists, painters and musicians held back by the stringent movement restrictions and checkpoints that define everyday life in the West Bank. Just a 15 minute walk from the bustling cafés and street merchants of downtown Ramallah lies a villa dating back to the 1920s with a lush courtyard that houses the brainchild of the Qattan family, long renowned for its philanthropic efforts. Mahmoud Abu Hashhash, who runs the foundation’s Culture and Arts Programme today, has been a part of the programme from its humble beginnings in 1999 when it ran on an annual budget of 80,000 dollars (today that figure has risen to more than 1.7 million dollars). Sitting in a small room furnished only by a desk and dotted with books, booklets and brochures, the bespectacled poet and author of three books explains that the programme encourages individuals to find their niche in performing arts, literature, music and visual art. This, he says, has paved the way for the Young Artist of the Year Award, a biannual event that supports young aspiring artists and provides them with monetary prizes and an opportunity to exhibit their work. In 2004, the prize was renamed after the late Hassan Hourani, a talented Palestinian artist who perished in a tragic drowning accident. ‘There were very few art institutions when we started off,’ says Abu Hashhash. ‘We offered a model to support artists and writers and help crystallise new ideas and fresh voices,’ he adds. ‘This became the framework for the Young Artist of the Year Award.’ Today you’ll find Abu Hashhash planning for the 8th Annual Young Artist of the Year Award, in addition to other projects aimed at developing curators and technical experts, and investing in art production. ‘We need much more than an art space. We need quality experts,’ he explains. A relatively new biennale – pronounced ‘scene’, a play on the Arabic letter and English word – focusing on video art and performance is also in the making with the help of more than half a dozen other art and culture institutions in Palestine. Reaching out to Palestinians in the diaspora, the Young Artist of the Year Award (dubbed YAYA) attracts dozens of artists annually, but this year many seemed to have been influenced by international headline-making events. Drawing inspiration from Mohammed Bouazizi, Damascus-born Majd Abdel Hamid presented multiple portraits of the Tunisian street vendor, embroidered by himself and women from a West Bank village near Salfit. The installation, a mesh of pop art and traditional crafts with nine faces rendered in bright colours, resembled Andy Warhol’s iconic silkscreens of Marilyn Monroe. Occupying a significant presence in this year’s YAYA exhibition, the video and sound installation This Mined Land of Ours explored the constraints of physical boundaries and space by also drawing on political events from the previous year. Mirna Bamieh used video footage from the day Palestinian refugees in Syria commemorated the anniversary of the 1948 Nakba(‘catastrophe’) by diverging on the Syrian border. In her piece – which won third place – Bamieh digitally deleted the sky and earth from the video, and with it the barbed wire and land mines, to show the refugees marching into open unconfined land. ‘These Palestinians challenged death to return to a memory they never actually physically experienced,’ says Bamieh. Yazan Khalili and Reem Shilleh, co-curators of the most recent YAYA exhibition along with Mohammad Musallam in Gaza, say their concept was based on spatial interactions. In addition to the ten finalists who produced work for the competition, Khalili – himself once an award finalist – and Shilleh – the foundation’s events and outreach coordinator – commissioned three groups to produce artwork that connects people with the art space. The work of these three groups was then spread across three designated routes that guided people through the city to various locations. Shams/Ard, an eco-design architecture firm, installed street furniture made from recycled materials across Ramallah. Two artists created graffiti in different spots around town, while a two-sister team – an architect and an industrial designer – came up with the concept of a YAYA bus or shared taxi cab based their own ideas of adapting public transport. ‘This year, the YAYA took place under the umbrella of Qalandiya International, the biennale held a few months ago,’ says Khalili. ‘That drew a large audience, which meant more exposure for the award.’ Shilleh adds that they received about forty applications for the award. ‘Of those, ten were selected as finalists, all of whom had already studied art before, which was a first in the award’s history,’ Shilleh explains. The award’s exhibition, which showcased different Palestinian contemporary art, was not thematic nor was it constrained to a specific geographical area. This was a deliberate act, says Abu Hashhash, aimed at encouraging different forms of artistic expression. ‘The award was not subject to any dictates or bias. We wanted to have diverse themes that drew on these artists’ experiences and from the Arab and Palestinian narratives,’ he says. And while the foundation has become an art reference in Palestine, to use the words of Abu Hashhash, it has also worked on going beyond supporting ‘traditional’ art projects. ‘There used to be a dominance for painting. We opened the door for video art and installations,’ he says, explaining how it has given a new voice to the diverse Palestinian stories that challenge dominant stereotypes and inaccurate media portrayals. The geographical segregation of Palestine from the rest of the world has almost always been reflected in the local art scene, portraying a sector working in sheer isolation. To address this issue, the Qattan Foundation created the Culture and Arts Programme in 1999 – in a step deemed novel and ahead of its time – to address the needs of a society hungry for alternative self-expression. With so many physical barriers, including the separation wall – which itself has become a tool for some artists – the programme saw the need to help ambitious Palestinians explore new horizons. ‘The idea is that artists can play an effective role in our society,’ Abu Hashhash says, noting that this has meant investing in not only the more popular realm of painting, but also in ‘new’ art that makes use of audio-visual and visual elements. The physical impediments to movement have also prompted the foundation to help create more artistic collaborations between Palestinians, the rest of the Arab region and the world. The foundation helped reopen the Gaza Music School, which provides ‘the first ever structured long-term music education programme’ in Gaza, after it was levelled by Israeli forces in January 2009. The school, now owned and managed by the Edward Said National Conservatory of Music, caters to the needs of more than 120 students who study both eastern and western instruments – such as piano, kanun, oud, nai and guitar. As part of the revival of Palestinian cinema, the foundation has also been funding filmmakers to produce short/medium fiction films. Recently, nine short fiction films were produced by Palestinian directors with the foundation’s help. ‘Our main methods of support are scholarships, funding, motivational awards and study abroad opportunities to support ingenuity in dance, theatre, music and cinema,’ says Abu Hashhash. It all strives towards the same result: nurturing the excellence, innovation and originality of young Palestinian artists. Photography: Tanya Habjouqa

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