Fadwa al Qasem فدوى القاسم's Blog

سأكتب عن شابة تتجول القارات الخمس، تذوق ملح العالم، ملح التراب، ملح البحر، ملح الجسد، عرق، دموع، رضاب 
تشرب كثيراً. تدخن. ترتدي قميص ازرق رجالي بأزرار، وبنطال جينز قصير، وحذاء رياضي
لا تؤمن بالقيود، الحدود، الملابس الداخلية
لا تسألني ان كانت جميلة. ستقابلها يوما ما. سيأتي دورك. وستتركك
وطنها شراع كالجوري أحمر
حلمها الانتقال من موت بائس إلى رحمة البشر

My Wonderful for Today
It took me close to 40 years to be able to say I Am What I Art, although that was always what I thought I was!

Ever since I was a girl, all I wanted to do was draw and write; to make marks with pen, pencil, colour, crayon, chalk, stick on sand, wave finger in the air, or even imagine these marks in my mind.

When I was a little girl, I never thought "I want to be an artist" or "I want to be an author". I just enjoyed the rippling pleasure of making marks. I also didn't think about what others might consider to be good art, bad writing. I didn't ponder if I should write in English or in Arabic. And I didn't carry the stigma of being labeled as an intruder to Arab literature because most of my education was in English. All that came a while later.

When I was that little girl, the true pleasure was to let the marks be whatever they decided to be once they hit the surface.

Going to school, and in particular, doing O'levels in the UK (GCSEs they're called now - I think), spoiled that feeling for me. I was now told by teachers, art teachers who were teachers not artists, that my art was wrong. Not good enough. That I was not supposed to draw that way. They pushed and squeezed and shoved me into their own tiny perception of an art student and what art looked like.

I kicked and screamed all the way. But they kept on squeezing. Apparently, teachers believed you were supposed to kick and scream as they broke you into conformity. You were a rebellious child. You wanted to do things your way. Well, that's no good! They have to 'fix' you, and you have to go through that same process of being melted down and reformed the way they were. They went through it; why shouldn't you? They turned our alright, didn't they? To me this process was like being put through a meat grinder. Bits of me were being minced into oblivion. How could they not see the blood?

I failed art O'levels. I was not surprised, although it still makes me sad. I didn't stop making art. But more in private. Shyly.

Somewhere around my late 30s, I started to get comfortable again with my own creations of art. As well as my own faults, shortcoming, but also my strength, my creative spirit, my gypsy woman. I discovered that all long I have been what I art. Doing life as art. Growing back the art limbs that were minced in the creativity crushing machine. I learned to have the 'audacity' to call myself an artist, an author, a creative person. And best of all, I started to teach art journaling to others who, like me, thought they were not creative.

And that's my Wonderful for today!

"It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." Pablo Picasso.

Fadwa 

My Wonderful for Today
It took me close to 40 years to be able to say I Am What I Art, although that was always what I thought I was!

Ever since I was a girl, all I wanted to do was draw and write; to make marks with pen, pencil, colour, crayon, chalk, stick on sand, wave finger in the air, or even imagine these marks in my mind.

When I was a little girl, I never thought "I want to be an artist" or "I want to be an author". I just enjoyed the rippling pleasure of making marks. I also didn't think about what others might consider to be good art, bad writing. I didn't ponder if I should write in English or in Arabic. And I didn't carry the stigma of being labeled as an intruder to Arab literature because most of my education was in English. All that came a while later.

When I was that little girl, the true pleasure was to let the marks be whatever they decided to be once they hit the surface.

Going to school, and in particular, doing O'levels in the UK (GCSEs they're called now - I think), spoiled that feeling for me. I was now told by teachers, art teachers who were teachers not artists, that my art was wrong. Not good enough. That I was not supposed to draw that way. They pushed and squeezed and shoved me into their own tiny perception of an art student and what art looked like.

I kicked and screamed all the way. But they kept on squeezing. Apparently, teachers believed you were supposed to kick and scream as they broke you into conformity. You were a rebellious child. You wanted to do things your way. Well, that's no good! They have to 'fix' you, and you have to go through that same process of being melted down and reformed the way they were. They went through it; why shouldn't you? They turned our alright, didn't they? To me this process was like being put through a meat grinder. Bits of me were being minced into oblivion. How could they not see the blood?

I failed art O'levels. I was not surprised, although it still makes me sad. I didn't stop making art. But more in private. Shyly.

Somewhere around my late 30s, I started to get comfortable again with my own creations of art. As well as my own faults, shortcoming, but also my strength, my creative spirit, my gypsy woman. I discovered that all long I have been what I art. Doing life as art. Growing back the art limbs that were minced in the creativity crushing machine. I learned to have the 'audacity' to call myself an artist, an author, a creative person. And best of all, I started to teach art journaling to others who, like me, thought they were not creative.

And that's my Wonderful for today!

"It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child." Pablo Picasso.

Fadwa 

I'd like to tell you about my mom.
My beautiful mom.
My mom who called me "Sit Al Banat" (roughly translated: lady of ladies), ever since I was a little girl.
My mom who receives everything life gives her and makes it her joyful ally.
My mom who was wheeled into quadruple bypass open-heart surgery with a smile on her face and came out (7 hours later) with a smile on her face.
My mom, a creative artist, from whom I inherited my love of art, music and life
And from whom I learned that it's never necessary for me to prove myself to anyone, or to compare myself with anyone
And that I have strength inside me that has nothing to do with my being male or female
My mom from whom I learned that we all contain hope and optimism, that hope and optimism are things you must work on, and that by looking after them we maintain  our humanity
My mom whose name is Amal (hope in Arabic)
My mom is the perfume, the jasmine, the orange blossom of my life
My mom is my inspiration.

That red liquid?
Not to worry.
It's not your blood.
That barefooted crying child?
That demolished home?
These torn clothes lands smiles?
That piercing cry?
Not to worry.
It's not in your language / accent / dialect / voice.
And that prayer?
It's not to your God.

Fadwa

هذا السائل الأحمر؟ لا تهتم. لا يشبه دمك.
هذا الطفل الحافي الباكي؟ هذا البيت المهدم؟ هذه الملابس، الأرض، الابتسامة، الممزقة؟
هذا الصراخ المدوي؟ لا تهتم. ليس بلغتك / لهجتك / لكنتك / صوتك.
وهذا الدعاء؟
ليس لربك.