Tag: food

Interview by Adi Berardini

Jude Abu Zaineh is a Palestinian-Canadian interdisciplinary artist-curator working at the intersection of art, food, science, and technology studies, as well as maintaining a neon art practice. As she describes, her work “develops alternate archive practices and investigates themes of culture, displacement, storytelling, diaspora, and belonging, through decolonial and feminist perspectives.” Her bio art process often includes cooking Palestinian meals for community members and analyzing the bacterial culture, through scientific modes in Petri dishes, capturing its decay and shifts over time. 

I first met Jude back in January 2020, shortly after the opening of the group exhibition, Through Clenched Teeth at Forest City Gallery, which included her work entitled Maqlouba | مقلوبة’ featuring multiple orange glowing Petri dishes. Afterward, we all went out to London’s beloved bar, Poacher’s Arms, known for its karaoke rooms and basement vibes. At the time, Jude was near the beginning of her Ph.D. studies, bringing her to upstate New York, which she is now wrapping up. I feel fortunate to have met Jude and follow her practice and accolades at a distance, and grateful for her support of Femme Art Review and building up feminist spaces in a climate that often only shows interest in tearing them down.

Jude speaks more about the heartbreak of the relevancy of her work at this time of political and social aggression towards Palestinians by the Israeli government and military forces, and the cumulation of years of occupation and apartheid rearing its violent head. She discusses Palestinian resiliency and the power of art to foster connection during a time when it’s deeply essential.

Your practice is quite interdisciplinary since you work at the intersection of art, food, science, and technology. How did you first discover the connection of working across these disciplines?

I’m an artist first and foremost, but I’m very curious about the sciences. That curiosity drives the way that my mind works when I’m thinking through making artwork and all the things that I’m conceiving creatively that I want to materialize in the world. And then I’m also very food motivated. It just almost seemed like a natural coalescence of art, food, science, and culture. It all just came together when I was doing works that are rooted in bio art or in sci-art, eco-art, where it’s science forward.

I’m approaching a lot of the things that I’m doing in the same way that I’m working through doing something in the kitchen and I’m following a recipe. To me, working out of a lab or a science space is not any different than following a recipe. You have your sets of ingredients, your tools, and your methodology, you’re following a series of steps, and voila, you’re left with whatever the final product or output may be. That was like my introduction to familiarizing myself with these unfamiliar science spaces because I’m an artist working in an interdisciplinary way.

I’m not entering these spaces as someone who’s fully trained and has the language and the technique and all these things. But I’ve built that repertoire over the years. And it’s one of the ways that helped me break down those barriers, almost like my own imposter syndrome of working in these spaces—It’s not any different than me putting something together in my kitchen. Once I break things down that way, in my mind, it makes it more accessible.

Often, I’m talking to people who haven’t come across this idea of bio art or working with food or any of these like biological materials or in a scientific way. In the production of contemporary fine art, I’m breaking it down to almost small bites, (no pun intended). It demystifies how inaccessible science might seem to be and it makes it more accessible to people as viewers, as audiences and to engage with the work. Making all these spaces accessible has also been a driving force in my work. And sometimes it’s just as simple as to distill the work and to talk about it in ways that there’s almost like this universality to the understanding and the language.

Everyone knows how to do something in the kitchen. We all have to eat. So, when you start to mirror these relationships, it just clicks, and it makes sense. I don’t want to invalidate the work that scientists do, and the importance of what they’re doing by kind of bringing it down to this nominal and rudimentary level. But I just think about the context of my work and what I’m doing, and it helps it to be more palatable. And so naturally, the culture and the art and all these things come together very easily, because when I’m working and making these very culturally specific foods, then it just ties everything together.

I love the idea of making it more accessible because there can be a gender imbalance in science and tech as well.  

I think gender imbalances play in all aspects of these spaces. Even just thinking about the domestic sphere when we’re thinking about food and cooking and often where the labor falls and some of these are cultural nuances. It’s just kind of the patriarchy. I think that unfortunately, all of these spaces are gendered, and these disciplines are gendered, but it’s just how we break these barriers and break these boundaries and invite others to join in that change. It’s small changes, but it is overall a collective change over time.

Your 2022 exhibition In the Presence of Absence at the Art Gallery of Windsor [Now Art Windsor-Essex], curated by Noor Alé, explores your relationship with Palestine through archival images, literature, and cultural traditions. Can you speak more about your thought process around this exhibition and how it addresses belonging, diaspora, selfhood, and culture?

I think especially now, in hindsight, given both the political and physical aggressions that are happening in Palestine, I don’t think the work collectively reads that much differently. I just think that their level of potency has changed. It’s a really unfortunate thing for me when my work becomes extremely relevant because of these circumstances. Of course, we all want to make work that’s important and relevant and something [that can] create some meaning and maybe enact some change or whatever it may be. It’s just happening for all the most awful reasons. 

A lot of the pieces in the show were very much about building accessibility and community and thinking about representation and even education about the topic of Palestine, Palestinian identity, and the Palestinian experience, both from my own personal and direct lived experiences as a Palestinian and all the stories that I’ve inherited and carried throughout my life—My family and my lineage and just some of the atrocities that they’ve also directly experienced sort of get passed down. And I was trying to reconcile that relationship with a place that is my home that I connect with on so many levels, yet it is a place that I am exiled from, that my family’s exiled from.

We were forcibly displaced like many Palestinians, it’s unfortunately also a story that’s too common, sadly. And it was a lot of work about that longing for a place that exists that yet feels very out of touch because of all these racial and political boundaries that are so misplaced and so misinformed. It attempted to connect and reconcile that relationship but also invite others in the community who were feeling this sense of home and belonging and longing for a home that once was that may never be.

There is also a lot of nostalgia running through in my practice. I mean, just overall, but I think it was a beautiful opportunity for me to exercise that muscle, which was fun and equally heartbreaking. And I think right now I’m looking at it through this lens of heartbreak because of everything that’s happening.

I was particularly excited about one piece in the show, Hunā wa hunāk. I made this series of Petri dishes and put out a call for photographs for people who belong to the diaspora from the Southwest Asian and North African region, to submit any archival photos or photos that meant something to them about their respective homes and families. There is a lot of intersectional understanding and solidarity in terms of these exiled experiences and this hybrid identity of belonging and not belonging to more than one place. That also became this beautiful exercise of building community and sharing stories, and it was very wholesome and healing. All of these things are as equally heartbreaking as they are poetic.

That particular work meant so much to me because it was an invitation to others who are not in the mainstream narrative and especially not in these cultural institutional spaces. It’s not the type of audience who are typically at the forefront and who are represented. It was also very powerful to have people come into the exhibition and become a part of the work. I think it all boils back to what we were talking about earlier with your first question in terms of accessibility and representation.

You have recently taken the neon art world by storm. I was wondering if you could expand more about your neon practice and how you reference Palestinian symbols of resistance like watermelons, olive branches, and Arabic calligraphy. What first drew you to neon as a medium?

I’ve always been fascinated by neon as a medium and I’m very tactile. I love the sensory experience of physically making my work and handling my own work. And being involved in the process of making it and understanding the material in every way that I can.  

I think that I was thinking through language, the nuances of language, translations, and failures of translation, especially in the context of the East meets West journey. How again, there are barriers because of language, miscommunications, and misunderstandings. And sometimes in those tensions, there can be something wholesome and very human and a beautiful way to connect. I have made many Arabic calligraphy and text-based works communicating the nuances of language and sometimes like these funny little mishaps that happen in language.

The natural progression was that it makes sense to make these pieces that are text-based out of neon because neon at its most basic level is a communicative material. How we engage with it in the public sphere is through signage, and usually, it’s communicating some form of action like, “Come in, We’re Open” or a business name, and it’s usually very tied to capitalism and consumerism. And I love the idea of taking these expectations of a medium and using it to talk about and convey these very intimate and personal experiences that are on the opposite end of the spectrum; it’s not about this commercial usage. It’s like this vulnerability and intimacy that is also being put on display. I just also love the tensions of using that specific medium in this way. 

But neon is a tricky discipline or material to work with because it relies on a mentor and mentee relationship to learn the craft and the practice and hopefully become an expert in some capacity. There’s a big commitment. It’s also historically an industry that is white male dominant. And so, there are also barriers to entry in place in that you can’t just go into an art and craft store and buy the materials and buy the tools that you need and just on a whim start playing around and seeing what happens. It’s not that accessible. Long story short, I knocked on a bunch of doors and I was turned away—It was very frustrating.

I wanted to make the work myself and I couldn’t find someone who would take me on, even as an apprentice or in whatever capacity where I could just go in and do it myself. [I didn’t want to] come up with the idea and pay someone to fabricate it for me. It just felt like such a disconnect from the way that I work and the stories that I was trying to convey in my work.

I ended up going all the way to San Francisco and I was based in Windsor at the time. And now in hindsight, I’m so glad I was so stubborn and didn’t take no for an answer. I just kept trying and trying. Anyway, I ended up meeting this amazing neon bender, Meryl Pataky. She was just a wealth of information and knowledge and was keen about opening her studio doors to someone like me, someone so opposite of what the industry norm is. She’s the co-founder of this collective called She Bends and their whole mandate is to make neon accessible, especially to women and femmes, and people who are typically underrepresented in this discipline and industry.

It’s like the stars weirdly aligned and I got to spend some time with her in San Francisco, learning the basics and trying to figure out my way around this difficult medium. I just couldn’t get enough of it. And I kept at it and kept making work over the years in the space of neon. I’m grateful that I’ve had some amazing experiences since then [with] my work being curated into some shows that are all neon-based. 

I think it’s also like a metaphor and reflective of Palestinian resilience. And the determination in the face of all of these boundaries and barriers like literal apartheid walls and sieges. There’s still this really beautiful display of humanity and resilience and will to do the best you can with what little you have. And to me, neon has been such a reflection of that.

Then in terms of actual symbols I’ve been working with, I made this watermelon series in 2022. I’m very proud of this work, but I’m just so sad that it’s even more potent and relevant and needed today. The watermelon is such an important symbol for Palestinians and Palestinian resistance and liberation because the Zionist state has made the Palestinian flag illegal in all of its forms. And so, the watermelon became a stand-in for the Palestinian flag because it represents and mirrors the same colors of the Palestinian flag, red, green, white, and black. Artists and advocates started using the watermelon instead of the Palestinian flag as a symbol for protest advocacy liberation, and all social justice. 

Six months ago, I think it read differently than the work does today, which is also an interesting thing. In arts and culture, meanings are constantly changing. I think the meaning of the watermelon will always be tied to social justice and not just for Palestinians, but again, collective liberation and justice for all the places and all of the people that have been ravaged by imperialism and greed and colonialism and white supremacy and so on.

Here in London, your installation FORMations, as part of Southwest Seen, consisted of film stills displayed on the exterior side of Museum London. Can you expand on FORMations and how it reflects the natural ecology of food and flora in the region through Petri dish culture and references to your cultural heritage?

This work was a process response to the lockdown of COVID and everything being in limbo for almost three years. I was kind of in this space of isolation. I was in a new country and program and just felt isolated from all the facets of life and community. One of the ways that I was trying to reconcile that was by going on a lot of walks and trying to familiarize myself with my new homestead in upstate New York.

This was also a response to all the social distancing and all the social isolation that we had to be in because a big part of my practice where I’m making things in Petri dishes revolves around community gatherings around food. I cook and host a traditional Palestinian spread of food for people and that becomes the first part of the process of how I make the Petri dishes. After, I document the growth and decay over time. Then, all those images make their way into these large kaleidoscopic installations, and they manifest and materialize in so many ways beyond that. 

The challenge at the time was replicating that without being able to gather with people. A lot of us turned to a lot of different hobbies and a lot of different things to keep sane during that time. And for me, it was going on a lot of walks. It was solitary and very isolating, but I felt connected to the spaces that I was occupying differently. I was paying a lot more attention to my surroundings. I went urban foraging and gathered whatever things I could find on the sidewalks. I was also thinking about what I was eating and how I could collect, swab, and use my own leftovers and different specimens from around me that I could then corroborate and include in the Petri dish cultures. All of these Petri dishes that I made in the process of creating formations also became like an archival footprint of the specific moment, place, and time. I was spending a few months in upstate New York and then I would go to different parts of Ontario, mostly between Toronto and Windsor and the 401 corridor. All these things that I had gathered made their way into the experimental film that you saw through the building at Museum London from the outside.

I was also very consciously thinking about the work of Ron Benner outside. He has this tended garden, As the Crow Flies. It’s this beautiful, colourful ecosystem and landscape that is right outside this beautiful pristine new building. I was thinking also about a lot of the colors of that natural ecosystem and how can I kind of mirror and reflect that a little bit in the work and see it as in conversation, the inside and the outside, the built environment with the natural environment.

Most recently, you co-curated a show ‘As I Find My Place’ with Farnoosh Talaee at The Next Contemporary, which focuses on personal and collective journeys of exile, migration, and adoption, focusing on placemaking and place(lessness). I was wondering if you could speak more about your process around curating this exhibition and how it first came together.

It was a collaborative effort between me and Farnoosh and it’s all about this feeling of reconciling with reality and all of these awful things that we’re trying to make sense of, politically, geographically, socially. We were trying to find artists who could occupy the space that we knew had the vocabulary of making work that was in dialogue with these collective journeys of exile and thinking about placemaking and placelessness, migration, all of these intense journeys of trying to belong, but also understanding that there’s this not belonging that’s thrust on many of us going through these experiences.

I feel like I have such a responsibility when I’m wearing my curator hat. What are the stories, people, and dialogues that we need to see that we’re not hearing enough of? I think those are questions that are constantly going through my mind and that I’m constantly grappling with. I think as an artist, and as a curator, I’m always thinking through how we break down these barriers and how we let more and more people in. I know for Farnoosh, that’s an important thing for her too, and in her space at The Next Contemporary she’s very deliberate about curating very thoughtful shows that touch on all these things in that representation is important in an intersectional way. Right from the [start], we were kind of speaking the same language and thinking about it similarly. There’s a responsibility to what we’re doing and that was at the forefront of this project.

We have a beautiful roster of artists [Participating artists include Ibrahim Abusitta, Hiba Abdallah, Saks Afridi, asmaa al-issa, Basil AlZeri, Nuveen Barwari, Rehab Nazzal, Parvin Peivandi, Maya Perry, and Larissa Sansour] and they’re all engaging with these topics in different ways with different material explorations and bringing their own respective histories and personal experiences about these feelings of longing and belonging and exile. Both the installation of the works, but also the power of each of these artists’ works individually and as a collective—it’s so powerful.

You can check out more of Jude Abu Zaineh’s work on her website and Instagram.