Beyond the Binary: Exploring Layers of Intimacy in Lina Hashim’s ‘Odalisque’ Performance. |
an article written by Elia-Rosa Guirous-Amasse
photo curtesy Søren Meisner While the Orientalist perspective traditionally depicted the odalisque as a passive chambermaid, Lina Hashim's assertiveness and outspoken nature offer a striking contrast to such objectified portrayals of Muslim women and the stereotypical expectations of female artists. In the realm of contemporary art, Hashim's voice emerges as particularly compelling and nuanced. Through her exploration of themes such as intimacy, identity, and the interplay between traditional and contemporary values, her latest performance "Odalisque," which premiered at Toaster Festival at Husets Theater in Copenhagen, embodies Hashim's relentless pursuit of truth and new understandings. This piece signifies a profound shift in redefining perceptions, solidifying her contributions to the art world as not only visually compelling but emotionally engaging. I sat down with the Iraqi performance artist Lina Hashim (b. 1978) to discuss the central role of gaze in her work, her journey through the challenges of representation, and her vision for a future where art transcends elitist constraints, offering new perspectives on the intertwined narratives of culture, gender, and identity. Elia-Rosa Guirous-Amasse: In your 2012 series "No Wind," you photographed the hair of women without their hijabs. In “The Unlawful Meetings” (2014), you were trained by a detective to covertly capture images of unmarried Muslim couples, and through "Odalisque," you draw us into the imagined space of a harem bedroom. Intimacy appears to be a central theme in your work. Could you discuss this aspect?
Lina Hashim: There are so many expressions of intimacy, from the ritualistic to the affectionate, along with numerous actions and approaches towards embracing it. For me, it's always been about the pursuit of truth and taking a stance on reconciling with that truth, which I believe is manifest in our bodies. It's crucial for me to feel and sense the truth, not just to hear about it. In my 'No Wind' project, I was drawn to the transformation witnessed among my mother's friends when putting on their hijabs, viewed from the perspective of a child. Their transition, marked by changes in attire and demeanor, was intriguing. This change, from one state to another, captivated me. As a child, I eagerly anticipated this transformation, noting the shift in hairstyles, layering of clothes, and the dimming of colors—all of which zeroed in on a different aspect of identity that I found fascinating to explore, particularly the reasons behind wearing the hijab. The project began with my many attempts at Norreport station, where I asked women to allow me to photograph their hair, but naturally, all declined. Photography, which felt like a form of documentation, was different from merely seeing someone's hair—it implied sharing that image with others. This led me to spend many hours discussing with scholars in a mosque, exploring the nuances of revealing something that's traditionally kept private, like the hair under a hijab. Despite the initial refusal, my curiosity about the material aspect of hair, constantly concealed, drove me to these discussions. Interestingly, at that time, Norrebro was surrounded by hairdressers who shielded their windows with black curtains. These shops were meant for women, especially those who wore veils. My first visit to one of these salons sparked an interest in the idea of collecting and keeping hair, akin to treasuring gold found on the streets. The scholars, or imams from the mosque of my community, assured me that photographing without revealing the women's identities was not sinful. This reassurance paved the way for women to agree to my project. This endeavor wasn't just about capturing images; it was about shifting perceptions and understanding the essence of identity. I made an agreement with McDonald’s which allowed me to use their restroom for photoshoots, provided I purchased coffee every sixty minutes. This setup, almost performative in nature, led to intimate encounters in confined spaces, reminiscent of fleeting connections, never to see the women again. They checked with me to ensure no part of their skin was visible in the shots, maintaining their anonymity. This project, in essence, became a journey of exploration, understanding, and portraying the nuanced realities of identity and privacy. E.G.: Some might argue that it carries a voyeuristic quality, right?
L.H.: Some would say. The anthropologists just keep looking and looking. That's a significant aspect of my work. I employ methods of seeking truth, but in ways that might seem provocative or untraditional. To me, it's about my inner child pushing back against being told something without it being reasoned through. I need to embody the truth. My work is deeply rooted in my personal experiences, yet I've recently been drawn to shifting the focus away from the traditional Western and Eastern perspectives, exploring how they can be reconciled. My identity is shaped by the West, where I've spent much of my life, but my essence—my body, my hair, my history—hails from another continent, leading to a multi-layered conflict. In presenting my work, I aim to challenge the exoticization typically expected, striving to showcase it in a different light. Entering a museum in Denmark, I often feel disconnected from the work on display, either because I don't see myself represented accurately or, at times, not represented at all. When representation does occur, it's frequently tinted with notions of white supremacy, which clashes with my morals and ethics. I'm keenly aware of this aspect of my identity and the silencing of others like me. Addressing and giving voice to these silenced narratives, and reenacting them, has become crucial in my work. The situation in Gaza and the approach taken by cultural institutions towards it have underscored the relevance and urgency of my projects. E.G.: In "Odalisque," the room is divided, with perceived men and women each occupying one side, accentuating the distinction between the genders. To underscore this separation, a child and a young woman, possibly representing different aspects of yourself, engage in contrasting behaviors: they hurl candies at the women's faces, yet distribute them softly to the men. Your dance moves closer to the men, adopting an almost hypersexual tone. Despite these differences, a sense of solidarity with the women emerges. Does confrontation serve as a method to explore perspectives beyond the binary?
L.H.: I see agency as the power to define our own truths, acknowledging that individuals can embody multiple truths and thus solidify the concept of truth itself. Being queer, particularly within a Muslim cultural context, adds another layer to the complex narrative of identity. It challenges preconceived notions of what it means to be a woman from this background, stirring surprise and disbelief at the realization of my own sexuality. Yes, it's true.The clarity around one's queerness is seldom found, and I admit I have not always been transparent about mine. It's an evolving aspect of who I am, one that doesn't necessarily carry more weight than other parts of my identity but certainly opens up new avenues for understanding and perception. My interest lies in the truth that is lived and felt through the body, which in its own way, embraces these truths. This journey is a natural extension of my previous work, exploring the continuities of identity and expression through the lens of my experiences. E.G.: In the performance, you skillfully embody the depiction of harem women as seen through the lens of French and English orientalist art. By consciously embracing these stereotypes and visual motifs, you navigate the territory of self-orientalizing. Could you elaborate on your engagement with this act?
L.H.: I have always made intentional choices in my work. In 'Odalisque', I collaborated exclusively with women with the exception of one queer man, Sargun Oshana from Iraq. From the outset, I was committed to creating a set design that empowered the idea of femininity, allowing everyone involved to contribute ideas and have a say in the project. My work is not about acting or theater; I'm not a good actress. Rather, it's performative art deeply connected to my personal experiences. It's driven by an 'inner insider' perspective that presents a distinct reality. I draw inspiration from the works of Danish and French Orientalists, especially their depictions of the Odalisque. These paintings were a revelation to me, striking a chord not because of their beauty but due to my simultaneous amazement, disgust, and shock. For example, the portrayal of women in these artworks, such as the robotic figure in Odalisque by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres or Matisse’s depiction of the Odalisque in a demeaning manner. In Delacroix's works, I found the floral elements intriguing for their serene quality, yet there's an underexplored aspect of his art where he frequently depicted odalisques in dynamic scenes of pursuit and abduction. Often, he illustrated a dramatic narrative: a man on horseback abducting a woman with a swift gesture, her expressions oscillating between fear and concealment and presenting women in perilous situations. The portrayal of the Odalisque has been predominantly through a male gaze, shaping the perception of Arab and Muslim women in a certain light. In Danish museums, this singular narrative prevails, a point I've consistently challenged. This skewed representation extends to the Danish museum scene, where the absence of diversity has been a longstanding issue I've criticized. Despite more women from varied backgrounds entering the academy, their work remains largely invisible, overshadowed by a prevailing focus on white women. Even though many women, including those from diverse backgrounds, have entered the academy, their works are rarely displayed. It's predominantly the works of white women that are showcased. On the occasions when work by women is featured, such as Shirin Neshat or Mona Hatoum, it often internalizes a certain narrative. Hatoum's art, for instance, frequently deals with themes of danger and precarious spaces, while Neshat's work portrays a sense of oppression and melancholy, reflecting a struggle with Islamic identity. These recurring themes have become almost expected, perpetuating a stereotype of exoticism and suggesting that anything outside this narrow portrayal is deemed not quite worthy of respect. My decision to work with individuals of my choosing stems from a desire to avoid these clichéd narratives and the risk of being marginalized for not fitting the exotic mold expected by museums. This stance has led to my exclusion from certain circles and even project cancellations, marking me as a vocal critic of structural racism within the art world. Speaking out has its dangers and has left me isolated from many Muslim women colleagues who fear repercussions. Yet, there is a silver lining. My outspokenness, though risky, has been liberating and gradually garnered acceptance. The Toaster festival, for example, greatly welcomed the ‘Odalisque’ performance, indicating a shift towards more inclusive and understanding spaces. These experiences have both opened and closed doors for me, but the chance to showcase my work on my terms has been profoundly rewarding. E.G.: Following the conclusion of the performance, the audience, beginning with the men, are prompted to traverse the bed where you are reclining in order to leave the room, as it is the sole available exit. This particular moment evokes memories of Imponderabilia (1997) by Marina Abramovic, instilling a similar sense of unease associated with the act of stepping over a stranger’s body. In this moment, rather than appearing nude, you embrace the persona of a revered harem woman, resonating with the collective imagination associated with such a figure. You are found lying on the bed, perspiring from the dance and the canopy bed you just moved to block the doorway. The confusion and even discomfort it generated was palpable, to the extent that the first man to approach refused to cross over. Could you delve into the thoughts and feelings this moment provoked?
L.H.: In that piece, my goal was to turn the tables and make men experience discomfort. Throughout the performance, women were not just passive observers; they were actively judging and putting the spotlight on the men's reactions. Matthias Borello, a curator participating in the work, was notably affected. Asked as the first male to cross the bed on the second day, he was visibly uncomfortable with the imposed role, feeling out of place and questioning his ability to embody the 'good man' archetype. He later expressed regret over his actions, wishing he had chosen a different form of engagement, such as taking care of me, taking me away from the bed, crawling under the bed, or dancing for me. It raises the question: how did this experience resonate with the other men involved? My daughters, who were performing with me, played a crucial role in the piece, leading men without uttering a single word. Their silent guidance highlighted the men's discomfort as they misinterpreted the invitation, assuming a sexual context due to my suggestive positioning. This misperception led to these men’s objectification of me, overshadowing any concern for the more menacing elements of the performance, like my sweat or the knives I held. Their hurried attempts to 'jump' over me, sometimes resulting in falls, underscored their eagerness to escape the situation. Throughout, the women onlookers held the power of the gaze, their silent scrutiny and my intention to delve into the dynamics of female observation gave them a voice and revealed my fascination with exploring women's perspectives. E.G.: In the compelling essay you co-authored with Danish-Afghan PhD scholar Hasib Nasiri for I Do Art, you discuss the significant underrepresentation of art from artists with a Muslim cultural background in the narratives and exhibitions of museums, specially in Denmark. You note, "Our current reality is shaped by a past dominated by European artistic and cultural perspectives, which have created a space where we are represented not as subjects, but as objects." Museums inherently possess power, and they can perpetuate forms of symbolic violence. Now recognized as a successful artist, despite having to apply eight times before being accepted into the Royal Academy of Art, what changes do you hope to see in the art world? Moreover, how do you envision the future role and function of museums?
L.H: I hold hope for the future, a sentiment that has grown deeper since becoming a mother. My daughters have inspired me to explore new perspectives. Currently, there's a lively discussion initiated by Denmark's cultural minister about enriching Copenhagen with more sculptures, specifically advocating for those created by women. When Politiken approached me last week for recommendations on female artists or figures to commemorate, the conversation in the cultural sector here leaned towards name-dropping potential honorees. However, my thoughts took a different direction; I proposed that the next sculpture should embody a symbol rather than a person. My reasoning is that sculpting an individual might not resonate with future generations in a meaningful way. Observing my daughters' interactions with sculptures, like their fascination with 'Devil in Garden' at Glyptoteket, revealed their interest lies not in the figures commemorated but in the stories and concepts those sculptures evoke, blending elements of animals and mythical themes to suggest a nuanced view of good and evil.Therefore, I suggested to Politiken the idea of representing a queer woman from a diverse cultural background not as a personification but as a symbol that provokes thought and reflection. This suggestion aims to challenge the prevailing discussions around hijabis in Denmark, introducing a broader understanding of the identities and experiences of queer hijabi women, who are often overlooked. Looking towards the future, I envision new paradigms for showcasing art, moving beyond the outskirts where innovative and powerful ideas tend to emerge from the underground. This shift could pave the way for a deeper examination and acknowledgment of the entrenched whiteness and supremacy in our museums, fostering a more inclusive and reflective cultural landscape. |