Exhibition at Mlabbas

Mlabbas is an urban art goods store located at #28 Rainbow street in Jabal Amman, known for its vintage designed products starting from t-shirts to pins and an art space on the second floor for local artists.

Having had a rather experimental year with art, I was able to display in Mlabbas a theme of seven pieces. Mainly drawn with ink and acrylic color, these pieces were my attempt of merging design with self-expression in the form of portraits, and resulted in drawings about music, individuality and gender.

This exhibition will be held for the next two months. If you live in Amman, make sure to drop by. :)

Meena (Part XIV and the End)

"Exit" was the title of the poem he read through this interview, wearing a sweater of his making, jewelry and his points of view.

Living in a state of mind whose change was more frequent than his city's, Meena started having doubts. He knew that his soul was sewn in fabric that only a spot light can show, and that it was wearing out. He had such doubts that the future would be of comfort, and if the future is now, then somewhere in this second society is moving backward. It was not one of his usual deeds to let the world step on his feet.

Badr's comic book wasn't sold in the city, but minorities deliberated it amongst one another and individuals found it in the alleys. A tale told about three characters; a female, a male and an intersexed. They were deaf, so they would sign to tell their differences or to connect. In a world where all their differences made them one.

In this world, however, Darwich spent long hours in an office of signed documents and lined goals where people wait for their turn, giving back to a government that gives them trees that it later burns. When he returned home, Diya would prepare dinner while telling him stories about the day. But in the past few nights, Darwich dined on an empty table. Diya had been cleaning Meena's white sheets and organizing his music according to genre; for he knew that when people leave, music reminds them of where they come from.

To inhabit the place by the sea was still the friends' habit. Khader's resemblance to vogue musicians as he sang to the audience never fooled his friends who knew the passion hidden under his leather jacket. But they also knew as well as he did that the truth was considered weakness in their culture, and that it didn't sell. And even though he felt wasted, his own music was his shelter before sleep; his safe shell. He waited for a revolution to sing for, and when it came, it took away his son.

Through the many incomplete love stories Meena had told me, his was ever lasting. Those who didn't know him never tried to, for they thought their skin was cleaner, and those who knew him, knew he had yet another secret that he kept from - yet for - them, and that's what I now see clearer. His secret was in his story; his nature. His yearn to always go.