Dalila Azzi: Your exhibition is entitled "Wast Ed dar dévoilé". Can you tell us more about it and explain why you chose this title?
Salim Le Kouaghet: The old houses in Algeria were real jewels of traditional architecture. The central part, known in Arabic as the Wast Ed dar, literally the middle of the house, was always square. A fundamentally feminine space where women used to gather. It's a tribute to all those women who were confined to intramural spaces and the domestic sphere.
I've already done around twenty Wast Ed dar. The first exhibition was called number one and this one Wast Ed dar dévoilé, the others don't have titles. My interest in this space goes back to my childhood. I remember being intrigued by the interiors of houses. I was always curious to know what my friends' houses were like, and what was behind those doors, whose threshold formed the boundary between public and private space.
D.A.: Most of your works are not titled. Is this part of any artistic process?
Salim Le Kouaghet: It's not an artistic approach as such. Many artists choose not to title their work, especially when it's abstract. As far as I'm concerned, the absence of a title is probably linked to the fact that I was questioning everything I'd learned and all my artistic work prior to that period. I was returning to new formats where there were white canvases with a laceration or two, with no title given.
D.A: You seem to have a fascination for the letter alif, which is an essential pillar - literally and figuratively - of your work. What is the origin of this fascination?
Salim Le Kouaghet: My encounter with the alif was more a matter of chance. This gesture opened a door to the first letter of the Arabic alphabet. The alif soothed my gesture, and it was from there that my handwriting was born. A gentleness that takes me back to my childhood and my origins.
D.A: Have the alifs in your installations deserted the web to claim an existence in their own right?
Salim Le Kouaghet: Absolutely! The first time I symbolised the alif on canvas was with a black-painted cleat. After a trip to Algeria, I came back with a carpet made by my parents. Once in my studio, I thought of taking the alif out of the canvas and representing it in space. I dressed the alif in the colours of the carpet, and from then on it took on a body, was adorned with colours and has since opened up to other cultures too.
D.A: Some of your works are fascinating and intriguing at the same time, and resemble Arabic calligraphy in their fluidity, movement and grace. Can you tell us about them?
Salim Le Kouaghet: As I said earlier, my discovery of alif calmed my laceration. This appeasement sent me back to Arabic writing, which I haven't completely mastered. However, the source of my inspiration was to recreate the gesture and the very essence of writing. I reconstruct an entirely new rhythm in relation to my position in front of the canvas. Like most children of my age at the time, I learned the Koran on wooden planks (aluha in Arabic). I remember the movement of the letters and their musicality, and that's exactly what I'm trying to recreate in my work.
D.A: You include a few Berber characters in your work. What is your connection with this thousand-year-old alphabet?
Salim Le Kouaghet: It was when I was in France that I became aware of the importance of my origins. I still have a vivid image of my douar M'Chatt, which was completely destroyed during colonisation. When I started my artistic work, my whole childhood came back. Around the doors of the houses in my village, there were Berber signs, by way of decoration or perhaps protection. In those days, all the young boys wore red chechias. Inside each one, there was a Berber sign that distinguished one douar from another. Each village had its own unique character, and if a child lost his chechia, it was easy to tell which douar it belonged to. All the kitchen utensils and carpets were also decorated with Berber characters. I recreate everything I saw and experienced as a child.
© AYN Gallery
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