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Original verse
سنتين، وقارتين،
ومئات الكؤوس،
وذكرى هاتيك القُبَل.
English translation
Two years, two continents,
hundreds of glasses,
and the memory of those kisses.
Drunkenness originates from a single verse written by the artist, tracing time through distance, repetition, and memory. The line unfolds as a quiet inventory—years passed, places crossed, moments consumed—where intoxication is not only physical, but temporal and emotional.
The calligraphic… text is suspended beneath a sweeping red form that moves like a current rather than an object. Rather than illustrating the verse, the composition allows language to dissolve into rhythm and weight. What remains is not excess, but residue: the aftertaste of time, distance, and accumulation.
I am not a calligrapher. I am a poet who writes by hand. The Arabic script in my work is my own — composed, not transcribed. Each piece begins as a poem written in the margins of a life spent between conflict zones, peacekeeping missions, and displacement. Fifteen years across Lebanon, the Arab world, and international humanitarian work left me with a particular relationship to language: as witness, as survival, as the thing that holds when institutions fail and borders shift. ENJZ — which means accomplish in Arabic — carries the initials of what I cannot afford to lose. The work asks what happens when a private text enters visual space. When handwriting becomes image. When a poem written in exile finds a surface large enough to breathe. The background does not decorate the script — it is the atmosphere the poem already inhabits: fragile, luminous, not entirely resolved. I make these works in Madrid. I think in Arabic. I am still, in some sense still in Lebanon.