The artist reflects on trauma, loss and change, as well as on the importance of recognising the fragility of the human body, inside and out.
Canvas: Your work often touches upon very personal and emotional situations. Can you share where this comes from?
Hana El Sagini: My work comes from a place of adversity. I started my career as an artist in 2014 after I left my job of more than 12 years. This change took place because I felt that something wasn’t right, so I left the corporate world to spend more time with my father, who was an artist – my family comes from a long line of artists. I decided to open an art school for children so I would have some structure and an income, but then two months later, my father passed away. I went through this period of reflection on trauma and loss, so my work went in that direction, questioning what it all means and how one overcomes it.
I did three solo shows with this energy after his passing and then I completed my MFA in Switzerland. It was very stressful and there were lots of changes during that period of time, so my work began to look at the theme of change and how it can impact you at any time. My 2022 MFA graduation project, A Dialogue Between A Wooden Moth and Blue Slippers, talks about the idea of this moth waiting peacefully for its destiny but maybe a slipper will come and hit it on the head. Or maybe the moth would eat the slipper. I played with the materials and made the slipper out of fabric that moths eat, so maybe the moth is stronger than it thinks. It’s ironic because it’s a very small action that we might do, hitting an insect with a slipper, but if you make it large scale it becomes a murder scene.
Audience engagement has always been an element within your installations. How has this developed over time?
I grew up as a painter and, to me, canvas is so boring. It’s so out of touch with the space and looks alien, trying to connect with the colour of a sofa or a carpet. It’s very forced. When I started working with canvas, I wanted to cut it, or create holes, so it becomes connected to the wall and interacts with the space. I was finding my voice through sculptural thinking. The engagement aspect of my work actually came about as a mistake. I did a piece in 2018 called The Bathroom Trip. This was my first large installation and people kept asking if they could step between the wooden standing figures. I don’t put my work on a pedestal, so I don’t mind if people step on my work. However, I realised that as they interact with the work, their engagement added layers of meaning and memories. This began to grow, especially in the show I did in 2019 called 42 Bahgat Ali at Zamalek Art Gallery in Cairo. For that show, I reinvented my family home within the gallery space, so I think that was the starting point where the spectator became a part of the work rather than an observer.
After working primarily in wood, is the 421 exhibition, Counting Fingers, your first body of work in ceramics?
Yes, I worked with wood for nine years, but during my MFA I was introduced to ceramics. This show marks the first time I have worked with clay and I had butterflies in my stomach, there was this instant connection. But with any relationship or falling in love, you don’t go directly in and ask the person to marry you. You need to build the bond, so I worked with ceramics every single day and while the people around me were busy making sculptures, I was making ashtrays. I knew I wanted a long-term relationship with the medium and I had learnt my lessons with wood. Now, when I approach a new material, I need to be patient and not ask too much from it in the beginning.
Clay is the perfect material and you need to allow yourself to lose control. It’s a partnership. I can be very controlling and it was time for me to let go, because once you create the piece, you put it into the kiln and you don’t know whether it will survive or not. The material is also very fleshy, intimate and physical but also fragile, and I am talking about the body, so it was perfect.
Why did you decide to abstract human figures in the pieces at 421?
In 2022 I was diagnosed with breast cancer as soon as I moved to Dubai that year. This journey has prompted reflection on how we are made. For example, I have one implant now, a lot of metal in my neck, so I am part object. In some of the pieces for Counting Fingers at 421, such as the flowers, the petals can be tongues or fingers, but it’s still a flower and an object. My dog also helped me on this journey, so you will see some of the chairs feature dog parts, such as legs or feet. I believe we are not an absolute thing. We are not humans, they are not objects. The object takes from my energy after I use it. We are a mesh of energies and ideas. I always think of things having another life, for example when someone close to you dies and then reappears as something else, you see it and you feel it.
How does this extend into the glazing process?
In the beginning I was very focused on the colours and glazing, but then I changed course. I came to the conclusion that the works should be fleshy and unfinished. I’m not a machine and you see my imperfections, so the work also needs to be like this. Humans are not perfect. We’re full of errors.
How are these ceramic reflections situated within the installation?
I am changing the gallery into a hospital waiting area. There is a functioning aquarium, with functionality a very important part of the work. Many people like to separate art into categories such as sculpture or landscape. If it’s functional, then it’s not art. I feel this idea is obsolete.
It’s an imaginary scene, a clinic, and everything that you would expect to be there is there – a sink, a fish tank, a doctor’s desk and an examination bench – but at the same time, it’s surreal. There is also the contrast of unfinished and raw ceramics in front of sterile hospital equipment. It becomes a reflection of what definitions are and what happens when someone passes through any type of adversity. In our minds we are in a new place in life that we haven’t experienced before. Our minds and emotions work differently because we are survivors, and we need to survive this. Out of instinct my way to handle this was humour.
