An Interview with Asma Fayoumi

Asma Fayoumi was born in Amman in 1943 and studied fine arts in Damascus, where she graduated in 1966 with a project of abstract paintings, some of which were later displayed in her first exhibition at Gallery of International Modern Art in Damascus. Her experience working for Syrian television, alongside motherhood, enriched her artistic work. She is one of the most prominent artists of her generation who faced the challenges of gender discrimination throughout her rich career.

You were born in 1943 in Amman, Jordan, to Syrian parents. Your father held a prominent cultural role. Tell us about your family’s influence on your creative work and any early visual memories that left a lasting mark on your art.

My father was of Egyptian origin; his family came from Egypt. Our family had a deep love for cinema. He owned a movie theater and would travel to Cairo to bring back foreign films, especially titles from 20th Century Fox, since they weren’t available in Amman at the time. Sometimes he took us with him. That’s how we first experienced life abroad.

We’d watch films from morning until night. Above the cinema, there was a cultural club where my father invited Egyptian groupes to perform. He was also a poet. I recently published a book of his that he hadn’t managed to publish himself, titled "Selections from Andalusian Muwashshah". That rich cultural and artistic environment left a deep impression on me.

Our home had a garden filled with colorful flowers, something that captivated my child’s eye. Indoors, too, there were visual charms. My father's friend, the Turkish artist Ziya Suleiman, often visited. My father had acquired several of his paintings, and I once saw him paint a portrait of my sister. We were surrounded by paintings and books. My father let us read anything except books with dark themes, citing his concern for us.

The harmony between my parents also created a sense of calm, nurturing beautiful memories and emotions in us. When we moved back to Damascus in 1950, I was around seven. I had already started drawing in kindergarten in Amman. I began drawing as soon as I could hold a pen.

You studied at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Damascus and graduated in 1966, shortly after it was founded. What led you to study art? How do you view the college’s early curriculum compared to its later direction? And who were your classmates at the time?

In Damascus, I first attended the Vocational Applications School, then the First Preparatory School in Zaki al-Arsuzi. Our principal was Dr. Laila al-Sabbagh, a prominent educator in Syria. She supported young talent. On the school’s rooftop, there was a room filled with paintings, oil paints, and paper. Entrusting me with the keys felt like a gift; something precious. I would spend hours in that room drawing. Dr. Laila decorated the halls with my paintings. When I graduated and asked to take them home, she said, “No, my dear! Your hand stays with you, and these belong to the school.” That moment made me feel I had created something important, even though the works were modest. Journalist and politician Safwan Qudsi later wrote about our school exhibitions, though I didn’t keep the articles.

My brother and I often visited the studio of the artist and professor Nazem al-Jaafari. He painted portraits, and I loved watching him work. I also observed Professor Mahmoud Hammad several times while he painted. I was eager to explore drawing and color. I even extracted red pigment from flowers. I painted portraits and landscapes from my imagination.

By the time I finished high school, I was determined to study art. The school had promised to send me to Rome. But when my principal contacted the Ministry, they told her it was no longer possible, Damascus now had its own Faculty of Fine Arts. I was heartbroken, but I enrolled in the college’s second year, in 1961. I graduated with the second cohort. The faculty’s first location was in al-Afif, before it moved to Sahat al-Tahrir in 1962.

During the entrance exam, I noticed that, unlike me, many applicants had already trained at the Adham Ismail Institute or through private lessons. Still, I passed. I drew the statue of Venus. Fateh Moudarres passed by and said, “She’s drawing herself, she has a strong personality,” implying I had painted Venus in my own image. Moudarres was supervising the exam, and mine was the only work he commented on. Later, though, I found I didn’t align with his artistic views. He was a modernist, and I believed in academic, realist training.

Among our instructors was also the pioneering artist Nazem al-Jaafari, and later, I met Professor Nassir Chaura. My class had nine students, including four women, two of whom had been brought from the Institute of Applied Arts to boost female representation. My classmates included Faeq Dahdouh, Asaad Arabi, and Sakhr Farzat. They were highly competitive and all went on to become leading artists. I wanted to match them. I remember Jaafari, who had taught several of them previously, once said, “Watch out, Asma is catching up to you.”

Before our cohort, there were students who had studied in Egypt but returned after the dissolution of the union. Among them were Nashaat al-Zoubi, Ali al-Sabbouni, Mumtaz al-Bahra, Hala al-Kouatly, Khalisa Hilal, Lamis Dachwali, Khaled al-Aswad, and Mujib Dawood.

Tell us about your graduation project, Women, your experience with abstraction, and your professors - especially since you studied during the time of Fateh Moudarres and Guido La Regina, and the controversy around imposing abstraction on students.

In our third year, we drew portraits and nude models. Some mosques even raised prayers against us because of the nude figure drawing. But drawing the human body is essential, it’s nothing like sketching a statue. 

That year, Guido La Regina arrived. We had already mastered the basics of figure drawing, but he urged us to set them aside. To him, painting was about structure and color - pure composition. At the time, I painted in the style of Rembrandt, but I was eager to experiment. His approach encouraged me to explore art history and various schools of abstraction. La Regina encouraged us to move from form toward abstraction, to break from imitation and repetition. That’s when I began distorting the female body in my work. My graduation project became a series of abstract paintings rooted in realist studies of nude models.

Your first solo exhibition was held at Gallery of International Modern Art in 1967. What did it mean for your career?

I resumed painting immediately after graduation and held my first solo exhibition within a year. It took place at the Modern World Art Gallery, run by Mohammad Daddoush - who also owned a printing press - and his brother, the abstract artist Mahmoud Daddoush. The gallery was located above Roxy Cinema and featured some of my graduation pieces. I remember La Regina scolding me for not consulting him or asking for an introduction. But I wanted to stay independent, free from guidance or interference.

The exhibition drew a large crowd and caused quite a stir - perhaps because I was a young woman fresh out of college, and my work was abstract. Tarek al-Sharif wrote about it, and Abdul Rauf al-Kasm attended. I also recall Khouzayma Alwani saying, “The paintings all look the same.”

In a conversation during the show, I said, “Even waves in the sea, though they seem alike, are never identical.” I was thinking of Matisse, who once said, “Fig leaves do not resemble one another, but they all scream: I am a fig leaf.”

The exhibition wasn’t easily accepted, except by a few intellectuals. But from then on, I exhibited nearly every year. I showed work often at the Arab Cultural Center and took part in the annual spring and autumn exhibitions at the National Museum in Damascus. I first participated in that exhibition as a student. One of my abstract paintings was acquired, making me the first student to have work shown at the museum.

You worked at the Faculty of Fine Arts in Damascus - what year did you start, and what was your experience like?

I taught for only two or three years. Honestly, I wasn’t convinced by the system. It was impossible to properly support such a large number of students. This ties into a broader issue: admissions. Far too many students are accepted. Art is serious, demanding work. It requires instruction and real talent, qualities that are hard to cultivate with seventy students in a single class.

I started teaching around 1983, when the faculty was still in Sahat al-Tahrir. Professor Khaled al-Maz invited me to lecture in drawing. Elias Zayat later praised the students’ progress under my supervision. I had given each of them real time and attention.

But I was also working in television, and I had two children at home who needed care and school support. Eventually, I had to stop teaching.

At the time, the intelligence services investigated me for teaching without being a Ba’ath Party member, and for frequently visiting the Soviet Cultural Center. That kind of surveillance was common for anyone with a public profile.

If I could teach or advise students today, I’d say: read! Sadly, younger generations barely read. Mobile phones are killing culture. I used to look forward to payday just so I could buy books on painting and drawing.

Did your art influence your work in Syrian television?

I started working in television in 1969. It was like working in a newsroom: new sets and backdrops were needed every day. Some might worry about the pace and the disposable nature of TV visuals, but I approached it differently. I treated every backdrop like a painting. Sometimes I painted entire rooms, thirty meters wide. After work, I’d return home to my painting table and work on watercolors before bed.

Before I got married, I painted the children of a friend, capturing them in their stroller, with their large feet and small faces. That was how children first appeared in my work. After my marriage in 1972 and the birth of my two sons, they became my main subjects. I observed their movements closely and often painted my son Soumar. Childhood inspired me deeply; it's closely tied to creation, a powerful and beautiful prompt for painting.

I especially enjoyed working on historical productions. I would consult references - like poetic songs - when painting scenes such as the tavern of Qays ibn al-Mulawwah or Tarafa ibn al-‘Abd. I drew inspiration from miniatures and desert settings. Set design taught me how to research and expand my artistic horizons.

Sadly, it’s said that the entire television archive was destroyed in a fire in a Harasta warehouse. Lost in the fire were the reels of foundational shows like The Revenge of Zenobia, Tales of the Night, and Diary of a Thief.

If we look at Syrian visual art from the early 20th century to today, we see that few women were active in the beginning - and fewer still continued their careers. That changed in the 1980s, and the number of professional women artists has grown steadily since. How do you see women’s role in the Syrian art movement, and what obstacles do they face?

There were few women at the faculty in the early years. It’s true that around 40% of students were women, but many enrolled only to teach drawing, not to pursue art as a career. I remember classmates like Khalisa Hilal from Aleppo and Faten Aqeeli, who studied set design.

Today, more women have left their mark,like Sara Shamma, Manar Shouha, Rima Salamoun, and before them, Leila Nseir, Lujaina al-Aseel (who painted for children), Doha Qudsi the ceramist, Hala Mahayni who still paints, and Shalabiya Ibrahim, who lived in Syria and belongs to its movement.

To me, art doesn’t recognize gender. It responds to obsession and desire. As Sartre wrote in The Republic of Silence, “Art is human.” A child - boy or girl - might paint something remarkable.

Motherhood, of course, pulls a woman away from everything, not just art. That’s why many drift from the path. As Nassir Chaura used to say, “Art is a spoiled lover: if you abandon it, it abandons you.”

There are also barriers rooted in outdated thinking. Some gallery owners still believe women are less capable artists. That view persists, despite figures like Frida Kahlo. But in the end, talent is talent, regardless of gender.

Today, challenges affect all artists, men and women alike. Art reacts to the world around it. I admire those who stayed in Syria, like Omran Younes and Salah Hreeb. I’m saddened by how many have left. Syria needs its artists now more than ever. I believe many will return, just as Adonis does in the myth, who dies and lives again. As Asad al-Ashqar said, “The Syrian people are a prophetic people” - deeply rooted, and always giving.

Tell us about your artworks and their recurring elements (women, children, hands, faces, and the city). In a review of your exhibition Anxiety, Doubt, Certainty, critic Saad al-Qassem wrote that your name is historically linked to themes like the suffering of children under Israeli aggression. How have you engaged with the Palestinian cause over the years?

I see my paintings as a kind of diary. I paint the city as I experience it in the moment - especially Damascus, which is dearest to me. Sometimes I see it not as buildings, but as a source of light. While working in television, I visited every neighborhood and observed how light passed between the walls. That impression stayed with me, not in a traditional sense but deeply connected to stories and memories.

In one tradition, when a man married a woman from the house next door, the families built a passage between the two homes called a sibat. I also recall the late director Ghassan Jabbour filming For You, Damascus, with Ali al-Rawas playing a pigeon keeper. That image moved me, and the pigeon entered my painting. My art is a record of my life.

During the war on Gaza and after the Qana massacre, I was devastated by the loss of children and the scale of violence. That grief appeared in my work: children, hands raised to the sky … Whatever touches me deeply shows up on the canvas without planning.

Birds and plant leaves often appear too. So does the woman. The woman represents land and birth. For me, love of the land is embodied in the woman. The structure of my paintings doesn’t follow fixed rules. Sometimes I include a cross to express helplessness before the suffering and cries of children.

In the end, I don’t paint to please others. I seek what feels true.