When I was doing my foundation in art, we did a lot of life drawing and observational drawing, and I always wanted to spend more time doing life drawing. It was quite late in the evenings, so I decided to just do lots of observational drawings from my mum’s living room. At the time, I would just draw the sofa and the rug and the relationships between those spaces. In life drawing, we’re always taught to think about the space between things, and we often draw the negative space as part of the exercise. So, I’ve always been drawing from my everyday spaces since I began drawing.
We’ve always had really rich, ornate prayer mats, rugs, and clocks. One clock is in the shape of the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina. I would draw from these everyday spaces because there was such a richness in them. That became my practice of observational drawing. When I returned to life drawing, that practice followed through, and ever since, I’ve continued working with my everyday spaces because they’re what’s most accessible to me.
I lift patterns from textiles in my home—bed linens, prayer mats—and incorporate them into my work. The pieces often have this calmness, which I think is related to the color palette. I work with quite limited and muted colours. Previously, I was working very heavily in charcoal and charcoal powder, and I missed working with color. So now, working with acrylics and watery textures has been a really fun change for me.
The cats I draw are usually pet cats—my friends’ cats, my family’s cats, my aunties’ and uncles’ cats. It’s kind of funny—every auntie in my family seems to have a cat. I don’t have one myself because we travel so much, and it’s difficult to manage. But with my cousins, there’s always someone at home to take care of their pets. In the UAE, there are a lot of stray cats, but they’re well looked after. One time, I went to a corner shop to get something for a cat, and the shopkeeper said, “It has food! Look outside.” And there was a little setup with water and food for the cats. It’s nice to see they’re taken care of. I love how cats have such distinct personalities. Some are clingy, while others are nonchalant. I really enjoy observing them and their quirks.
All the works for this exhibition were made in London before I left, so they feel incredibly nostalgic now. Many of them were created in my flat in London, drawing from that environment. For instance, I love using charcoal because even in its fixed state it gives the impression of being able to move at any moment. There’s a sense of fleetingness in it, and that’s important to me. I also have this vivid memory from when I visited my dad’s family in Kenya. We went to a crocodile sanctuary, and I was so excited to hold a baby crocodile. But then one of the guides told us that crocodiles are cannibals and will eat their young if they’re hungry. That piece of information completely altered my experience for the rest of the visit. It’s fascinating how quickly a moment can shift from joy to unease. I try to bring that kind of duality into my work. There’s a calmness, but I also want to introduce an element of tension or unease to amplify the softness and tenderness in the paintings.
I prime the canvas and lay it flat. Then, I overlay very watered-down acrylic washes—usually in blues and blue-black tones. I also overlay fabrics on the canvas, and sometimes I use plants to leave imprints. Once it dries, I respond to whatever has appeared on the surface. In Dubai, where I’m based now, the heat speeds up the drying process. If I turn off the air conditioning, the temperature in my studio can reach 28 degrees. Back in London, I would have to wait overnight for the washes to dry, but now it takes only about three hours. It’s handy, in a way—it allows for a quicker process.
It’s only recently that my work has become more abstract. This current body of work is more abstract than what I showed at Tate Britain or Camden Art Centre. I’ve always enjoyed ambiguity—shapes taking on multiple meanings. Over time, I’ve naturally gravitated towards abstraction because of my love for that ambiguity.
The base tone is this milky, greenish hue, which brings a coolness to the paintings. I use the same base layer across different works, and it just feels right. I think I’m drawn to muted colours because I worked with charcoal for so long—just one tone. Even the subtle pops of colour in these paintings feel vibrant compared to that period.
Exactly. I’ve been inspired by Derek Jarman’s Chroma. Jarman talks about color in such a personal way, how colours carry significance for him. I resonate with that—a careful consideration of color placement in my work.
I wanted the title to be somewhat ambiguous. I always think about the space between things—in drawing, in life. In observational drawing, we’re taught to consider negative space—the space between the body and its surroundings.
I also think about the space between now and 2020, when I had my first show before the pandemic. The world has changed so much since then. I’m interested in liminal spaces—the moments between dreaming and waking, the transition between falling asleep and being awake. Where do those memories go? I like to leave breathing space in my paintings to evoke those in-between moments, rather than creating an exact representation of something. It’s more about evoking a feeling.
With these works, I think there are a lot of subtle changes in textures that you can only really notice if you take the time to look closely. For example, in Three oceans away (2024), there are moments where I’m removing paint with a clean brush to reveal the tone underneath. The marks aren’t necessarily layered on top; instead, they’re created by this subtle removal. That process, combined with these milky washes, creates a texture that shifts and changes.
For this show, I was lucky enough to use the seating I designed from my solo at Tate. This crescent-shaped seat is designed to invite people to sit down and take their time. I think the works reveal themselves better when you slow down, so the seating is meant to be a kind of prompt for visitors to do just that.
The crescent moon isn’t necessarily a religious symbol for me—it’s more celestial. Islam follows a lunar calendar, but so do other faiths, the day of Eid changes based on the sighting of the moon and Diwali is based on the new lunar cycle. It’s more about the spiritual and cosmic than a specific religious meaning. The prayer mats, though, are part of my everyday life. I also love the texture they bring to a painting—using charcoal or dry brush marks to capture their softness against other, more solid elements.
I think about that metaphor of quiet in a lot of my paintings. For example, in Your sorrows have a name, the composition isn’t cluttered. There are two floral motifs and these small, subtle textural shifts. There’s a simplicity to it, a calmness that I associate with quiet.
When I made The sovereignty of quiet, I had this memory of hosting Iftar with my girlfriends during Ramadan. I laid out all our prayer mats in my flat, which was tiny—it was usually just me and Abdul, my partner. But having everyone there—seeing all the colours and patterns of the mats, the warmth of that gathering—was really special. After the prayer, we took time for personal reflection, and it was such a sweet moment of collective and individual quiet. That memory was something I wanted to translate into a painting.
The snakes and crocodiles often act as a way to shift the energy of a piece. In No shoes inside, it was a more playful painting, with arabesque motifs that also appear in some of the drawings here. Those motifs were inspired by old souks in Dubai. The tiles in those spaces often have intricate patterns, similar to the marble patterns at the Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi.
I love how something grand and monumental, like the mosque’s marble, can be scaled down into the everyday—like in a small tile shop. It’s about bringing that grandeur into a quiet, personal space. In my paintings, I think a lot about how representation and abstraction, along with these patterns and textures, can coexist. It’s a process of responding to what’s on the canvas—adding, removing, balancing—and knowing when to stop. That interplay of heaviness and lightness is something I enjoy exploring.
I’ve always been surrounded by rich patterns. Even the house dresses we wear are full of intricate designs. When I flew here from Dubai, I brought suitcases full of them as gifts for my family. They’re these beautifully patterned dresses, and I’m excited to see my aunties and cousins wearing them. It’s been seven months since I last saw them, so it’ll be special.
I actually switched from physics to art for my A-levels. My art teacher was great—he introduced me to contemporary exhibitions. One show featured artists like Ahmed Mater and Maha Malluh. Maha was using cassette tapes, layering them into her work. Those were the same tapes I’d seen in my mum’s house. It clicked for me then—art could be more than just the Western canon of traditional painting. It could be rooted in everyday objects and experiences.
I grew up surrounded by Islamic art, calligraphy, and textiles, so seeing artists like Mater and Malluh made me realise that those elements could also be part of contemporary art.
I think it’s about making the personal feel universal. The scenes might be from my own life, but they’re also everyday moments—things like a washing line or a quiet bedroom. I want people to see themselves in the work, to find something familiar.