Alasart Interview

In my interview with Alasart, I felt like I was having an honest conversation rather than giving a formal statement about my work. I spoke about where I come from, what drives me, and why I create the way I do. For me, art has never been separate from my life. It’s something that grew with me, shaped by my memories, my family, and the places I’ve called home.

I grew up surrounded by stories. My family shared memories constantly — some joyful, some painful — and those stories shaped how I see the world. I didn’t always know I would become an artist, but I always knew I was paying attention. I was observing textures, colors, gestures, silences. Looking back, I realize that those early experiences became the foundation of my work. I create from memory, but not in a nostalgic way. I’m interested in how memory changes, how it fragments, and how it can be rebuilt through art.

In the interview, I talked a lot about identity. Identity isn’t something fixed for me. It’s layered and constantly shifting. I’ve experienced cultural hybridity in different ways, and that feeling of being between worlds shows up in my work. I don’t try to give clear answers about who I am or where I belong. Instead, I ask questions. I use materials, symbols, and images that reflect that in-between space. Art gives me a language to talk about belonging without having to define it too rigidly.

My process is very intuitive, but it also involves research. Sometimes I start with archival material — old photographs, documents, or conversations with people. I collect fragments. I’m drawn to pieces of history that feel incomplete. From there, I begin experimenting in the studio. I layer materials, mix textures, and allow accidents to happen. I love the physicality of working with my hands. For me, texture carries emotion. When someone stands in front of my work, I want them to feel something before they even try to understand it intellectually.

During the conversation with Alasart, I also spoke about the social dimension of art. I don’t necessarily label my work as activist, but I’m very aware of the social and political contexts around me. Issues like migration, displacement, and marginalization aren’t abstract concepts — they are lived realities for many people, including those close to me. I don’t shout these themes. I don’t create direct slogans. Instead, I build spaces where viewers can slow down and reflect. Sometimes subtlety is more powerful than something overtly confrontational.

As a woman in the art world, I’ve had my share of challenges. There are still inequalities in representation and opportunities. I’ve had moments where I felt underestimated or overlooked. But those experiences have also strengthened me. They’ve pushed me to be more confident in my voice. I often think about the women in my family — their resilience, their quiet strength — and that energy feeds into my work. I want to honor those stories, especially the ones that were never fully told.

We also talked about technology and how it affects art today. I appreciate the visibility that digital platforms provide. They allow artists to connect across borders, to share ideas instantly. But I also worry about how quickly everything moves. My work requires time. It asks viewers to slow down, to stand still, to notice details. I still believe deeply in physical encounters with art — in the experience of being in the same space as a piece and feeling its presence.

Memory kept coming up throughout the interview. It’s really at the core of everything I do. I think of memory as something fragile but also incredibly resilient. Even when it’s fragmented, it survives. In my studio, I often feel like I’m assembling a puzzle without having the final image as a guide. I gather pieces and trust the process. Sometimes I don’t fully understand what I’m making until later. That uncertainty is important. It keeps the work alive.

Collaboration is another big part of my practice. I don’t like the idea of the isolated artist-genius. I’ve worked with writers, musicians, and community members, and those collaborations have expanded my perspective. When you invite others into your process, the work becomes richer. It becomes less about “me” and more about shared experience. I see that as an ethical choice as well — recognizing that stories and knowledge are collective.

In the interview, I was honest about doubt. There are moments when I question myself, when I feel pressure to produce more or to adapt to market trends. The art world can be demanding. But I’ve learned that staying true to my vision is more important than chasing external validation. Authenticity matters. If I start creating just to fit expectations, the work loses its soul.

When asked what advice I would give to emerging artists, I said: be patient. Growth doesn’t happen overnight. There’s a lot of invisible labor behind every exhibition or finished piece. Read, observe, build community. Don’t isolate yourself. And don’t be afraid of vulnerability. Some of my strongest works came from moments when I allowed myself to be open and uncertain.

Looking ahead, I want to keep exploring themes of memory, migration, and belonging, but I also want to push myself into new formats. I’m interested in larger installations and more interactive experiences. I want the audience to feel like participants rather than passive viewers. Art, for me, is about dialogue. It’s about creating a space where different perspectives can meet.

Overall, my conversation with Alasart felt like an opportunity to pause and reflect on my journey. It reminded me why I started making art in the first place. Not for recognition, not for trends, but because I needed a way to process the world around me. Art is how I think. It’s how I remember. It’s how I connect.

And I’m still learning. Every project teaches me something new about myself and about others. That’s the beauty of it — the process never really ends.