"One day he asked me: Who are you? Are you the darkness of the night, or the light that touches my face in the morning? I said: I am your freedom. Can you feel me, dear fighter? Can you feel me, free bird?"

Through art, I move beyond the limits of my body and identity.

I find myself becoming something else — a bird, water, air, or an undefined being.

In my work, figures are often without a fixed identity. They exist between human and non-human, where boundaries dissolve.

At the same time, I don’t see imagination as an escape.
I see it as something necessary — a space that allows us to continue living.

Reality and imagination complete each other. I cannot exist only in one of them.

In fantasy, there are no rules.
No need to control,
no need to explain,
and no fear of being judged.

Through art, I can say what I cannot always say in life.
I can express freely.

For me, imagination is not separate from reality — it is part of it.

It is a transformative force. When I draw, I move into a space of fantasy because I feel that fantasy does not limit me.

In real life, there are always limits. Each person carries their own — and I carry mine as a woman, as a Palestinian, as someone living within a traditional society and under occupation.

Your work resists realism and instead inhabits a space of imagination and fantasy. Do you see imagination as a form of protection, resistance, or reconstruction?

How has this role evolved in your recent practice?

Aysha

Yana

It feels like entering a story,
like opening a book that awakens my curiosity — not knowing where it will take me.

Through it, I begin to uncover feelings that I often avoid in real life, and thoughts that I escape from.

Warm Hand (2023) In the CityX Foundation Collection

And through this process, a question always remains: are we truly free?

At the same time, I feel a responsibility toward my people.

Many times, the work becomes personal, but it is never only about me.

It carries something larger — about my people, and about Palestinian women.

I am drawn to expressing emotions that are not only mine.

There are also influences from Palestinian imagination and stories.

My creatures sometimes carry a mythological presence,
yet they remain connected to lived experience.

As a Palestinian, politics is not something I choose to include — it exists within everything,
seeping through quietly, just like in life.

It carries multiple realities and their inherent clashes.

This tension is not something I consciously construct — it emerges naturally,
as part of what I carry within me.

My identity is always present in my work,
but not in a direct or literal way.

What can we express,
and what are we forced to silence?

For me, these contradictions are deeply connected to questions of freedom:
what is allowed, and what is not allowed?

We all carry contradictions — in our personal lives, in reality,
in what we accept, and in what we are forced to accept.

I am very sensitive to emotions and energy.

When a feeling becomes overwhelming — whether it is sadness, anger, or even intense love — I feel that I need to take it out of my body in order to breathe again.

Drawing becomes a way of releasing what I cannot express outside.

At the same time, contradictions are part of who I am.

I don’t begin with sketches.

My process is very close to how I experience movement or dance.

I give my body complete freedom — the same kind of freedom I allow myself when I move.

I believe that when a person lets go and becomes fully present, they become free. I try to enter that state while drawing.

I give my hand complete freedom. I don’t plan — I enter the work.

I fully immerse myself in the act of painting or writing,
and the process becomes a kind of exploration.

I try to discover what I have drawn.

You live and work within layered cultural and political realities. How do contradiction and hybridity shape your visual language?

Do you consciously construct tension in your work, or does it emerge organically through the process?

Aysha

Yana

This work explores the relationship between humans and animals, and the space that exists between them as a metaphor for human relationships.

At the center of the work, a man interacts with a cat. For me, this gesture is not simple — it reflects something essential about his character. The way a man treats a cat reveals his capacity for tenderness, care, and emotional presence.

The cat in this work represents the feminine. It is a symbol of a woman, and of love itself — sensitive, independent, and in need of care rather than control. Through this, I address my understanding of what a "real man" is: not someone who challenges or diminishes a woman, but someone who approaches her with softness, respect, and genuine love.

Color plays a central symbolic role. The cat is green, referencing both my own eyes and the color of grass, connecting her to nature and to the earth. The woman, therefore, becomes the earth itself — alive, sensitive, and rooted in nature.

In contrast, the man is represented through brown and beige tones, referring to soil and its different layers. He becomes the tree. His fingers transform into roots, symbolizing stability and grounding. These roots represent the emotional foundation of a relationship. When a man provides safety and tenderness, the woman remains, just as a cat stays where it feels safe.

However, when care is absent, fear appears. The cat becomes defensive and may scratch — not out of aggression, but as a form of protection.

Additional elements appear in the composition, including fragments of a woman’s hand and a small bird. These suggest the presence of another layer within the relationship — a desire for lightness, freedom, and emotional space.

Ultimately, the work reflects on the nature of love and relationships. It suggests that love cannot exist through control or dominance, but only through freedom, care, and mutual respect. Without freedom, love transforms into a form of confinement — and ceases to be love.

In works like Warm Hand, there is a fragile balance between intimacy and rupture.

How do you approach emotional vulnerability in your process?

And what does "fragility" mean to you today — personally and politically?

Aysha

Yana

Placing my work in a book is an important step in my artistic journey.

It is also an emotional moment,
because when I look at my older works and compare them to what I create today,
I begin to notice the changes —
in the lines, in the colors, and in the energy.

I often ask myself: what has shifted?

For me, the work never becomes fixed.
I am constantly changing and renewing myself.

Even if people can recognize my work today,
I don’t want to stay in one style forever.

I want to keep surprising —
to reach a point where people see a new work
and feel a positive surprise,
as if they are discovering a new language within my practice.

For me, it’s important not to repeat myself.
I don’t want to grow while staying the same.

The book does not fix my work —
it reflects a moment in time.

At the same time, it opens new doors:
new opportunities, new connections,
and new ways for my work to travel and be seen.

Your forthcoming monograph, produced with Mousse Publishing, documents a crucial phase of your practice.

What does it mean for you to translate such an intimate and fluid body of work into a book format?

Does publication fix the work in time — or does it open it further?

Aysha

Yana

Working with museums and institutions has always been a series of new experiences for me.
Each space carries its own energy, its own people, and its own way of engaging with art.

I don’t see institutions as fixed structures,
but as living environments where each project becomes a unique journey.

As an artist, what I expect above all is freedom.
Freedom to express,
to name my work,
to choose what I present and how it exists in the space.

This freedom is essential for the work to remain honest.

At the same time, I value collaboration —
the dialogue between myself, the team, and the space itself.

I’ve also become more aware of how different cultures connect with art.
Each place has its own sensitivity, its own way of seeing and feeling.
And this diversity enriches my understanding of my own work.

I don’t feel attached to one specific institution over another.
For me, every place holds its own importance.

Each new context is an encounter —
with new people, new perspectives,
and a new way for the work to be seen.

You have worked with leading galleries and institutions internationally.

What does a museum, foundation, or cultural institution represent to you as an artist? What kind of dialogue do you expect from institutions today?

Are there particular institutions or contexts you feel aligned with, or would like to collaborate with in the future?

Aysha

Yana

For me, art is not separate from life or technology.
It is part of it.

I see art as a tool —
a way to explore any field that creates curiosity in us.
It can be physics, chemistry, fashion, nature, or even medicine.

The role of the artist, for me, is not only to create,
but to research —
and then transform that research into something visible through art.

Regarding AI, I don’t see it only as a threat.
On the contrary, the more technology evolves,
the more I feel that the artist — as a researcher —
should use all available tools to create something new.

Of course, every new technology carries risks.
But it also opens new possibilities.

For example, I created a video called Amphibian.
At that time, AI existed but was not accessible.
I worked with a specialist and invested a lot into it.
Now, with AI becoming widely available,
people sometimes think it was made using simple tools.

But for me, this shift is not frustrating —
it is part of the evolution.

At the same time, I feel a certain tension.
The more technology grows,
the more there is a risk of control —
over our minds, our attention, and even our expression.

And sometimes, the limitation doesn’t come from the system itself,
but from us.

We begin to censor ourselves.
We create our own boundaries.

So for me, AI is both:
a tool for expansion, and
a space that requires awareness.

We are living in a time shaped by artificial intelligence, algorithmic visibility, and accelerated image production.

How do you perceive the AI era as a painter and poet?
Do you see digital technologies as a threat, tool, collaborator, or something else entirely?

And how does the saturation of images today affect your relationship to authorship and imagination?

Aysha

Yana

I don’t decide in a fixed or logical way which medium to use.

When I draw, I don’t sketch beforehand.
It usually starts from a feeling I cannot express with words —
so I turn to drawing as a way to release it.

With music, it’s similar.
Sometimes I feel that a song is coming, even before it exists.
I don’t force it. I wait for it.

My process is based on giving myself freedom.
I trust that inspiration will come, and I allow it to arrive in its own time.

The only time I work in a more structured way
is when I create a performance or a video —
then I plan.

For me, poetry and drawing are one.
The text is not separate from the image —
it is part of the work itself.

I don’t use text to explain the artwork.
Most of my texts are either translations of words already written inside the piece,
or poems that come from the same emotional space as the drawing.

The title plays an important role.
I see it as a small key I give to the viewer —
like entering a puzzle.

But I don’t solve the puzzle for them.
If I explain everything, the work loses its mystery,
and without mystery, it loses its life.

So for me, text and image don’t compete — they complete each other.

Your practice spans painting, video, performance, and poetry. How do you decide which medium carries an idea best?

Is there a hierarchy between text and image in your work — or do they exist as equal forces within the same ecosystem?

Aysha

Yana