Ali Cherri

Interview by Vanessa Thill

Ali Cherri is an inquisitive practitioner of history whose work takes him deep into the mud, through desert winds, into ancient emptied tombs, and through colonial museums at night. His practice spans video, sculpture, text, live performance, and installation, examining the physical and psychic afterlives of violence in situated contexts—from his home in Beirut to his work on location in Sharjah, Cyprus, and Sudan to his studio in Paris. I spoke with Cherri in August about light sleep, damming the Nile River, even more ‘authentic’ replicas, and the attempt to evade totalizing ideologies that runs through his work. In his newest exhibition, A Monument to Subtle Rot, on view in Paris through December 20, 2024, mud and bronze co-exist within a single statue. While these two heterogeneous substances seem to blend, a secret civil war of materials is taking place. A subtle rot is spreading, and the underdog (mud) is winning.

[This interview was recorded on August 26, 2024 and has been edited for clarity. Over the last month, and intensifying in the last few days, Israeli attacks on Lebanon have created a critical need for emergency aid. The artist suggests we support The Civil Defense, Lebanon’s national first responders. Cherri and Thill encourage you to donate here.]

Vanessa Thill (VT): What is your studio practice looking like lately? I want to know more about how your films and the objects coexist. Does one precipitate the other?

Ali Cherri (AC): My creative process starts with moving images; it’s how I think and conceptualize my projects. Even when working with sculptures, I approach them with a cinematic mindset. I consider how the audience will experience the space over time—how they will enter, what they will see first, and how they will move through the space. This approach is akin to framing and orienting attention in cinema. The relationship between sculptures and moving images is about managing time and space, and this interplay is fundamental to how I develop my work.

VT: In your film and sculpture works, you have returned to the motif of eyes, both open and closed. Can you speak more about this?

AC: The question of the gaze is central to my work. In cinema, the conventional shot-reverse shot technique doesn’t just show the protagonist but also reveals what they are seeing or who is watching them. I’m interested in reversing this dynamic: what if the museum viewer felt that they too are being observed, rather than just observing? Historical narratives are constructed around objects, but sometimes these objects resist or suggest alternative stories. My goal is to challenge and complicate the assumed one-directionality of the museum gaze.

In Somniculus (2017), the film begins with clips of eyes being gouged or removed, which symbolizes a loss of sight. This loss is positioned as a prerequisite for entering the museum and truly seeing. It’s about, first, metaphorically losing our accustomed way of looking before we can see anew. Another key aspect for me is how we construct historical narratives, particularly after experiencing violence or trauma. My interest in this stems from my personal experiences growing up in Beirut during the Civil War and its aftermath. I’m exploring how we can tell stories of violence and trauma, and whether it’s possible to construct a discourse around such experiences. In the context of colonial museums, where objects have histories of violence, I aim to make historical narratives more nuanced and less monolithic.

"The question of the gaze is central to my work. In cinema, the conventional shot-reverse shot technique doesn’t just show the protagonist but also reveals what they are seeing or who is watching them. I’m interested in reversing this dynamic: what if the museum viewer felt that they too are being observed, rather than just observing?"

VT: With the example of your film Somniculus, you focus the camera on the facial features of different sculptural busts. It definitely brings up a strong sense of the object returning the gaze, starting to come to life. Were you approaching these figures almost as co-actors in the way you shot them?

AC: Somniculus is Latin for "light sleep." In this film, I explore the question of whether the museum functions as a cemetery or merely as a dormitory. I am referencing Statues Also Die (1953), a film by Alain Resnais, Chris Marker, and Ghislain Cloquet, where cultural objects are fetishized and stripped of their meanings. Is this the death of these objects, or are they merely in a state of light sleep?

VT: You also filmed yourself sleeping inside several Paris museums for this piece. What was that like?

AC: It was an incredible experience to be in the Louvre in the middle of the night. The sarcophagi in the Egyptian section still possess a certain power. During light sleep, while our eyes are closed, we remain receptive to the world around us. It’s different from deep sleep, where we disconnect from our environment and enter the realm of dreams. In light sleep, we can still hear what’s happening, smell the surroundings, and all our other senses remain active. We are still connected to the world, but this connection doesn't happen through our gaze. So, light sleep in the museum becomes an encounter with these objects and the world, not in a vertical sense, but a horizontal one.

VT: What does a horizontal encounter entail?

AC: It means allowing yourself to be a body among other bodies, disrupting the usual hierarchy of standing, looking, and assigning meaning to things. What other ways are there of being in the world? How can we pay attention to things around us differently—not just more attention, but a different kind of attention that fosters new forms of desire? Desire is tied to the way we look at things, shaped by the structures around us. In our consumerist society, desire is often constructed by what we see in advertising, or through influencers. In a sense, we’ve lost the battle of the gaze, allowing capitalist desires to shape how we see. The question then becomes: how do we remain in the world, as desiring subjects, capable of desire outside of these capitalist frameworks?

“A horizontal encounter means allowing yourself to be a body among other bodies, disrupting the usual hierarchy of standing, looking, and assigning meaning to things. What other ways are there of being in the world?”

VT: Is there a sonic aspect to this question? In Somniculus, the sound design is such a huge part of the energetic feeling, at first hearing the HVAC systems and blankets rustling, then layers of buzzing, clicking, crackling sounds. In your other film works, too, like The Digger (2015), there's often a bleed between scenes where you'll have footsteps or other atmospheric sounds that kind of collapse space or create strange linkages between different shots. I wanted to know more about your approach to sound effects and scoring.

AC: I consider sound just as important as the image. I treat it as a central element. It’s also connected to the idea that words often fail to convey truth. I trust other sounds more than words, which is why my characters rarely speak. In The Digger, the only time we hear the protagonist’s voice is when he sings. Even in The Dam (2022), a feature film, a big part of it is without dialogue. It’s all atmosphere—just the wind and the desert. Constructing spaces through sound is essential because sound can define a place and translate its emotions in a way that words often can’t.

In The Dam, there are two main soundscapes: the brickyard and the desert. The brickyard is where an industrial system operates, with turbines, buzzing machinery, and constant activity—a space defined by the logic of production and an exploitative economy. Then, when the protagonist leaves the brickyard on his motorbike, the sound fades, and we transition to the desert, which has a completely different soundscape. Some of the same gestures from the brickyard are repeated, but now he’s creating something on his own terms. It becomes more like an artist facing his creation. These two spaces are distinguished by their soundscapes, which reflect the different regimes they embody.

VT: How do you create these sounds? Do you make a lot of field recordings?

AC: For The Digger, I shot the entire film without recording any sound. Every footstep, every little noise you hear was created in the studio because I wanted complete control over the sound. But with longer films, it's harder to do that. So, we do a lot of ambient recording. We usually start by defining the geography through its sound qualities and then explore how the narrative might alter the soundscape. For instance, at the beginning, the sounds might be softer, but in scenes with friction, they become more tense. If the scene involves water, it might build up into a roaring rush, or it could be as subtle as the sound of a leaking tap.

VT: I wanted to talk a little bit more about The Dam, your first feature film. What was the origin of the story?

AC: This film is part of a series I call "Geographies of Violence" or "Landscapes of Violence," which includes The Disquiet (2013), The Digger (2015), The Dam (2022), and The Watchman (2023). Each film is connected to places with violent histories, exploring the possibility of building fictional narratives from these spaces. For The Dam, the story began with the hydroelectric dam on the Nile River in Northern Sudan. There are three major hydroelectric projects on the Nile: the Aswan Dam in Egypt, the Merowe Dam in Sudan, and at the time I started working on the film, Ethiopia had just begun constructing the Grand Renaissance Dam. Tensions, especially between Egypt and Ethiopia, were rising over access to water. Ethiopia had to block the flow of the Nile for several years to fill the dam's reservoir, and Egypt even threatened to bomb the dam if construction continued. It became a significant regional conflict.

I decided to investigate these hydroelectric projects, focusing on the Merowe Dam in Sudan, which is considered one of the most destructive projects globally for both the local population and the environment. It was built by the dictatorship of Omar al-Bashir, which was still in power at the time. My original plan was to interview the displaced population and use the dam as a way to discuss the authoritarian regime. In 2019, we began shooting at a brickyard near the dam. Then the uprising happened—a coup d'état led to Omar al-Bashir's arrest, and we had to leave the country. The film evolved into a reflection on this significant historical moment, the end of thirty years of dictatorship. The dam became a metaphor for the obstruction of natural flows, with its disruptive impact on people’s livelihoods and the ecosystem. The popular uprising was like a force of water rising to break down these obstructions.

However, after the hope of the revolution, the country unfortunately plunged into another dark reality. We finished filming after Covid delays, and shortly after we left, a civil war broke out between two military factions, which is still ongoing. What began as a commentary on the political implications of water became a film about revolution, uprising, and the complex possibility of political change.

VT: How do you relate to the work now, given the current crisis in Sudan?

AC: In the years following what was called the Arab Spring, we all had high hopes. We observed the political shifts in the Arab region and realized that change doesn’t come easily. A revolution doesn’t unfold in just a few months. I believe these movements are steps toward the change people are striving for. The political landscape of revolution is complex—it’s not just about people taking to the streets and suddenly everything transforms. There is significant violence and resistance to confront. These regimes have endured for many years and have adapted to survive. It’s a long and challenging road.

What’s happening in Sudan now is deeply saddening. I remain in touch with the team; many have fled to Egypt or returned. The uprising has faced many obstacles and remains unfinished. I hope that these sacrifices will eventually lead to genuine and irrevocable political change. Despite the ups and downs, we still hold onto hope and believe in the fight for change.

VT: Is there something you would like to say about what's happening in your homeland now, with Israel bombing southern Lebanon?

AC: The tragic reality of the ongoing genocide in Gaza is part of a long history of violence that has spanned more than 50 years. I lived through the Israeli occupation of Beirut in 1982 and witnessed the devastation of Operation Grapes of Wrath in the 1990s. I come from southern Lebanon, an area occupied by Israel for 20 years. We often had to pass through military checkpoints just to reach our village, where my grandparents lived. They tragically lost their lives a few months after an Israeli attack on their home, which burned down. The loss and heartbreak were so profound that they could not endure living with the reality of losing their home.

This kind of violence has been a persistent part of life in the region for a very long time, and now it has reached dramatic proportions. It raises a profound question: how can we ever live together after so much violence? It is deeply saddening to think that this cycle of violence will affect generations to come.

VT: Would you say that grief is a relevant topic or mode in your work?

AC: Yes, grief is a recurring theme in my work. I often explore the concept of the wound as a metaphor for the traces of violence that remain with us. I don’t believe in a complete healing or undoing of what has been done. Instead, we have to learn to live with our history, trauma, and loss. The people we’ve lost and the wounds we bear are part of our reality. It’s about accepting these open wounds and trying to envision a future where they might lead us to something better. Even if it seems naive or like wishful thinking, it’s important to keep striving for that possibility.

“I often explore the concept of the wound as a metaphor for the traces of violence that remain with us. I don’t believe in a complete healing or undoing of what has been done. Instead, we have to learn to live with our history, trauma, and loss.”

VT: Could you talk about how you became an artist?

AC: I was deeply involved in what was called the post-war art scene in Beirut. I studied graphic design at the American University, where I was immersed in a vibrant community that included artists like Walid Raad, Akram Zaatari, Rabih Mroueh, and Lina Majdalani—who were a generation older than I am. Whenever someone needed help, whether it was for acting in films, designing books, or working on stage set design, I was there. My involvement in their projects provided my entry into the art world and gradually led me to develop my own work. I owe a great deal to this dynamic and politically engaged group of artists. They inspired me to create art and gave me faith in its power.

VT: Do you ever do live performance?

AC: Yes, I have participated in performances for others, and I'm currently working on a new performance for the Paris Festival d'Automne. This performance is text-based and features a reading from a book I published at the beginning of the pandemic called The Book of Mud. We’ll be presenting readings in Arabic, French, and English, accompanied by performers and a live musician. The book serves as a kind of 'bible of mud,' exploring themes from creation mythologies to landslides and deluges. It reflects on mud as a living material and its role at the end of history.

Exhibition views from ArtBasel Unlimited © courtesy of Almine Rech, 2024.

VT: You also make distinctive sculptures out of mud, in a process you have developed over the years. Tell me about these works—how do they age?

AC: My interest lies in the interplay between earth and water. When mixed to form mud, it embodies the materiality of imagination. Throughout history, mud has been central to numerous stories and mythologies—think of Adam, the Golem, or Enkidu from the Epic of Gilgamesh. Though the sculptures may appear fragile, they are actually quite stable. Over time, they develop a unique patina and texture that reflects their interaction with the environment.

VT: Does your new exhibition in Paris this fall include mud sculptures?

AC: In this new exhibition, I’m incorporating bronze for the first time. The pieces are a combination of bronze and mud, reflecting my interest in the narratives associated with each material. Bronze often represents statues of heroes and has a long-lasting presence, symbolizing the stories of the dominant. In contrast, mud represents the history of the dominated. I explore how these two materials interact—when combined, the moisture in the mud can cause the bronze to corrode. My current exhibition at Galerie Imane Farès is titled A Monument to Subtle Rot. It delves into themes of rot and contamination. Despite its low cost, mud has the power to undermine and erode the solidity of bronze, symbolically challenging the monolithic histories that bronze represents. The idea is that mud can gradually weaken and topple these heroic bronze figures, making them fragile and subject to collapse.

VT: I wanted to talk a little bit more about museums. How are you relating to Western colonial collections and the possibilities of substantive critique?

AC: Today, many historical and archaeological museums are re-evaluating their collections to stay relevant, and I’m often invited to participate in these discussions. While it’s positive that they are questioning their practices, it can also serve as a way to preempt more rigorous critique. As long as we work within the framework of these institutions, they have the advantage of staying one step ahead. This means they can manage and contain critique in ways that may ultimately benefit them more than us.

VT: What are your thoughts on restitution and repatriation? Do you see yourself having any role in this process?

AC: Repatriated objects often shift from one ideological framework to another—moving from being displayed as trophies in a museum like the Louvre to being exhibited in national museums in places like Benin, Nigeria, or Lebanon. This transition can represent a move from a pseudo-universalist ideology to a nationalist one. I wonder if it’s possible to take these objects completely outside of ideological frameworks. When objects become mere keystones, supporting structures, we stop seeing them for what they are. They become reduced to traces or witnesses of certain stories rather than appreciated for their inherent materiality and presence.

In my work, I often acquire historical objects from auction houses. Although these objects have monetary value, many are forgeries with legal documentation. If you’re told an object is 5,000 years old and later learn it’s actually a fake from the early 20th century, your perception of it changes. The knowledge we have about these objects influences how we approach them. They hold potential power beyond the binary of authenticity and inauthenticity.

For example, at the beginning of the Syrian revolution in 2011, Palmyrene busts began appearing on the black market. Most of these busts were forgeries, produced during the war on the Lebanese and Turkish borders using ancient techniques. This is a form of contemporary archaeology that reflects the Syrian revolution’s impact and deserves recognition in museums. It’s not just about historical proof; these objects can communicate a lot about the present as well.

“Repatriated objects often shift from one ideological framework to another—moving from being displayed as trophies in a museum like the Louvre to being exhibited in national museums in places like Benin, Nigeria, or Lebanon. This transition can represent a move from a pseudo-universalist ideology to a nationalist one. I wonder if it’s possible to take these objects completely outside of ideological frameworks.”

VT: Is this what you mean by objects that resist the institutional gaze?

AC: Yes. Some objects have a power that transcends the museum's attempt to frame and interpret them. In Somniculus, I aimed to show these objects as if they were characters in the film. The choice of objects wasn’t based on any single museum’s collection but rather on a sense of their inherent agency. My goal was to capture and present that agency on camera.

VT: Is your point about repatriation that there's no higher authentic past to which these objects need to be returned?

AC: Exactly. For example, if the sarcophagus currently in the Louvre were to be moved to the Grand Egyptian Museum, which the Sisi regime is building, it would merely become a tool of political propaganda. The museum itself isn’t a more 'authentic' place; it’s just another construct. Unless we return these objects to their original context—like placing them back inside the pyramids—they’re merely shifting from one institutional framework to another.

VT: History cannot be undone by relocating them.

AC: Exactly. History cannot be undone, and we cannot pretend that returning objects to a supposed 'authentic' past will restore what has been lost. This past is irretrievably gone, and we must acknowledge that. There are legal issues surrounding the conditions of sales, but it's not about the objects being more valuable in one place than another due to an authentic aura. I don’t subscribe to that notion.

VT: It's making me think about The Digger, your film that takes place at the site of a Neolithic tomb in the Sharjah desert in the UAE. In it, you follow a man who guards the grave site. Can you tell us more about what the empty grave can mean?

AC: The contents of these empty graves are now housed in the National Museum in Sharjah. The archaeological process takes us back through time, digging down through layers of history. There’s something transgressive about excavating the past to construct national narratives. Sultan Zeib Khan, the guard I filmed, worked at these cemeteries for 20 years. He began to hear voices at night, which he believed were the souls of the dead visiting. Suddenly, this scientific site took on a spiritual dimension. Discussions about ghosts and hauntings are typically excluded from archaeology. These people were resting peacefully, and we disrupted that by excavating and placing their remains in museums. This act has consequences, as it builds a modernist archaeological project around the traces of the past and the act of disturbing the dead.

Vanessa Thill

Vanessa Thill is an artist, writer, curator, and tenant organizer. She is a queer anti-zionist Jew who was born on Ohlone lands known as the San Francisco Bay Area, and has spent most of her life in Lenapehoking a.k.a. New York City. Thill has contributed critical writing to publications including BOMB, Cultured Mag, and The Art Newspaper. Her first book of poetry, Balsam, was published by Pacific Press in summer 2020. She has presented solo exhibitions in NYC and has participated in group shows locally and internationally, including at the Contemporary Jewish Museum (SF), Smack Mellon (NYC), Hessel Museum of Art (Annandale-on-Hudson, NY), Deli Gallery (NYC), Golestani Gallery (Düsseldorf), JTT Gallery (NYC), and Altefabrik (Switzerland), among many others. As the Exhibits Designer at Barnard College Library, she co-presented an interdisciplinary installation and study project 2021-2023, Undesign the Redline. Her experiences to date have led her to understand cultural forms as vital to the process of liberation.