Syrian artists find bittersweet success in exile in Beirut

BEIRUT — The opening of artist Khaled Takreti’s new show in Beirut has all the hallmarks of a see-and-be-seen event in the Lebanese capital. There’s location, with a gallery tucked behind the Four Seasons. There’s money, with paintings starting at $30,000. There’s people-watching, with a number of impossibly beautiful women gliding around the slick white space on improbably high heels.

Arabic, French and English are all being spoken interchangeably, though frequently with the elongated syllables of the Syrian drawl. Yes, Paris-based Takreti is himself Syrian — but his talent is revered far beyond Syria or the Middle East, a transcendence that means he can draw a crowd from anywhere.

But even with Syria’s war decimating everything in its path, including the nation’s great ancient artistic heritage, its contemporary art scene is thriving here. The galleries, patrons and many Syrian artists themselves — like at least 2 million other Syrians — have found refuge here in Lebanon.

Even in a new country, they have been working hard to build on the momentum they had been rapidly gaining in the immediate years before Syria began to come apart. In this exile, Syria’s artists — mostly unknown to the world — are having greater access to markets, buyers and renown than ever before.

While Takreti’s first two collections after the war were, as he describes, “very dark,’’ the new show, titled “LOL,’’ is anything but. The canvases are deceptively cheery, their bright pop-style camouflaging a scathing social critique of vanity, consumerism, gluttony and, even if not readily apparent, the Syrian conflagration.

Takreti’s satirical paintings, which have the exactness of photography or digital art, burst with neon-colored exuberance. This new palette is intentional, as the war has gone on longer than most wanted to believe was possible.

“From when the problems started, the colors left me and my work became white and black and very sad. I became depressed,” says the 50-year-old artist.

The colors in “LOL,’’ he says, were an attempt to “to allow happiness into my heart.”

“There would be exhibitions, but a painting was cheap; the sales wouldn’t feed bread,” says Tarek Butayhi, a 32-year-old Syrian painter who left Syria two years ago after his studio was destroyed, and who now is based in Beirut. (Today the gallery, Art on 56th, represents him, and his paintings sell for at least $3,000.)

Things began to change after several developments helped expand opportunities for Syrian artists. Modest reforms in strictly controlled Syria opened it up to outside visitors and created spaces for local initiatives, both commercial and nonprofit, to support artists and promote their work. Artists from the Arab world in general became more visible, when, like other businesses and consumer trends, art was also globalized. And after 9/11, with the Arab world thrust in such ugly manner into the world’s consciousness, global curators and artistic institutions became curious about what beauty the region might have to offer.

Christies and Sotheby’s opened in Dubai (2006) and Qatar (2008), respectively, catapulting the market in Middle Eastern art. Ayyam Gallery also opened around the same time in Damascus, selling Syrian paintings at prices unimagined by most local artists.

“For us Syrians, the prices were crazy,” says painter Butayhi. “Or we knew nothing of what we were worth.”

Ayyam framed the talent of Syrian artists as the region’s best-kept secret, emphasizing their finer technical skills in comparison to other Arab artists, though its pricing model was also controversial in some quarters.

“Prices doubled after him,” says Noha Wadi Moharram, artistic director of Art on 56th, referring to Ayyam founder Samawi. Her Beirut-based gallery represents several Syrian artists.

As art became more lucrative in Syria, Butayhi felt he had a future as a working artist, though how long it would have taken to make it, he’s not sure. People were producing, he says, and beginning to connect with galleries outside, and seeing their work sell.  

“We didn’t know where it was headed, it could have stayed 10 to 20 years like that, or….” he says, trailing off. “But now, we’ll never know.”

Despite exile, the Syrian artistic community has managed to stay cohesive, thanks to social media, which has alleviated any geographic separation and the “all at once” emptying of the country.

“It is really extraordinary what Syrians have done in preserving that momentum,” says Ayyam artistic director Farhat. “They all have different political views, but for the most part, they have greater goal in mind: to maintain it, preserve it, to sustain it.”

A large part of this effort has come from gallery owners and others from Beirut to Dubai who have sought to ensure the well-being of Syrian artists, whether inside Syria or throughout the Arab world. Ayyam shipped all 3,000 of its artworks from Damascus to Dubai and moved most of its artists from Syria to the UAE, Lebanon and France. After the moves, Ayyam worked closely with its artists to find proper studio spaces.

Both gallery owners and artists acknowledge that to some extent, the war in Syria has meant more attention to their work.

“Syrian art is in en vogue now, everyone wants to see and study it,” says Moharram of Art on 56th. “Local and regional art collectors knew about Syrian art before, but for European or international collectors, only because of the conflict are they learning.”

Syrian artist Fadi al-Hamwi, who was in residence at Art Residence Aley, bristles at the idea that war has created a moment for Syrian art. “It’s dangerous to say this; we don’t need a war to spotlight Syrian artists. It’s not like nothing was already happening — there was much before this tragedy.”

Ayyam’s founder, Samawi, believes the art speaks for itself. “The origin doesn’t affect what sells,” he says. “They are buying great art. The fact it may have come from the Middle East is just an added advantage.”

Abdallah, the sand painter, says he can’t do anything about the fact that some might be coming to his work because of what his happening to his country.

But any recognition he or Syrian art might be receiving now, he’s quick to point out, is bittersweet success.

He says, “I want to tell you, [for an artist], any success outside of his country, something is missing.”