As I was looking back on those years where I lived in my beloved Lebanon, my mother’s resting place I wondered: what would I keep in my mind of all those visual moments? Would it be interiors of old and sometime abandoned houses and palaces I relentlessly captured? Would it be the outburst of citizenship in 2005? Would it be the traces of occupation? Could it still be the fading scars of war? All those and others were in my mind as I was preparing to leave.
For most of my stay, I did not speak up. What remains within me and what I had to show are the same:
Lebanon’s nature is resilient despite all odds. Symbolic of it are Lebanon’s trees of course. Yet I do not see trees but hear them; it is the wind that makes a tree visible for me. The wind gives a tree its vibrancy and makes it speak in sentences interrupted by periods of calm.
All the trees in this exhibition are speaking to us in different ways; shouldn’t we listen to them? A small breeze, a lengthy shiver, an olive giggling sound different; yet all speak to us.
The Wind also shouts; Mare Nostrum, our mother sea, the Mediterranean usually so predictable, tries sometimes to make itself heard. The cry is louder as the wound is deeper.
Contorted, slanted, foaming at the mouth, this Sea is barely recognizable when it speaks. As a matter of proof, I’ve sometime kept easily recognizable elements of the coastline visible.
…And as I was watching these images, it became apparent to me; the wind is the strongest.
Whatever I may want to say, whatever the imprint one would want to impose, the wind will always be the strongest.
It is like Blowing in the Wind.