When I first met Alaa, he came across as a somewhat quiet, mild-mannered man. This is partially because our group of friends (including myself) was mostly composed of highly opinionated, fast talkers. It turns out that our conversations orbiting around religion, politics and history did not inspire him to say much. As soon as conversation turned to art, I witnessed him spring to life, infused with passion.

 

There is something cerebral in Alaa's approach to art. I had spoken to people who held strong opinions about their work before: art school kids who protest the commercialisation of art education because "art shouldn't be for money, man", or conceptual art snobs who sneer at the mildest hint of craftsmanship on the grounds that it is passé. But I had never seen anyone whose vision of art is so tightly intertwined with his personality as Alaa. Most opinionated artists I had met before seemed to be adopting some kind of a persona to go with their opinion. Depending on circumstances, either putting on the fleecy mantle of a starving genius or the minimalist attires of the hip guru. Alaa has always stood outside the posturing of the art world.

Alaa has two principal fixations about his work: one is exercising a very tight control over how much each painting reveals; the other is a perpetual thirst for evolving into something new. On the surface, Alaa's art fits nicely into the Western art-historical tradition of abstract painting. But unlike movements like expressionism and surrealism which were concerned about revealing the inner depths of the human soul, Alaa's art is more concerned about concealing. Ever since he left his hometown Aleppo, Alaa has lived and worked in Cairo, Gaziantep and Istanbul. Every city has its own problems, and the most fundamental difficulty he has had since he entered Istanbul's art world, has been people who look at his paintings and ask him, "Where is the war?"

Alaa scoffs nervously at the question, partly because he is unsettled by the misinformed use of the word ‘war.’ To many like Alaa who have witnessed the brutality of the Assad regime first hand, what is happening in Syria is not just a war, but a revolution. He chuckles, visibly proud of the fact that the uninitiated eyes of Turkish art dealers can not locate the 'war' in his pictures. "How could it not be there, yani?" he muses. "It is a part of me." He is pleased with himself for having cheapened neither the conflict nor his art by making facile references. He points out that many of his fellow artists choose to follow the easy path of sensationalising turmoil to push their art into the limelight of media attention. The dramatic paintings of Omran Daqneesh, who was photographed inside an ambulance after being pulled out of rubble in Aleppo, or the depiction of world leaders as refugees do not impress him.
 

Alaa tries to reach for the right word to describe this type of melodramatic sensationalism, he fidgets his phone to find the right English translation. Failing, he finally mumbles, "Musibet." Like a lot of other words that start with the letter M, this is a common word in Arabic and Turkish. It roughly translates as 'calamity' and is generally used to describe unexpected and unfortunate events like illness and accidents. Like a true abstract artist he reveals that he sees all figurative painting as a musibet that has befallen the art world.

The melodramatic inclinations is not the only thing about figurative painting which troubles Alaa; he generally considers this type of art as premeditated and static. "How can I know what a painting will look like when I started it, yani?" he asks flippantly, perfectly aware that many artists indeed do. Irreverent as it may be, it is not difficult to see how a state of constant change is a crucial part of Alaa's life and personality. The experience of displacement alone has brought countless ideas, shapes and colours into his world. As we sit on the balcony of a patisserie in Cihangir, he points to the roof of the kiosk round the corner and says: "For example that yellow, I never saw it in Syria."
 

The amount of paintings he has destroyed bears testimony to Alaa's fixation with change. There have been several occasions in which I have visited his studio and inquired about the fate of a painting I had seen there before. Many times the answer is a faint whistling sound and a small karate chop motion, meaning Alaa has sacrificed the painting in the name of progress. He has destroyed so many paintings since I have known him that I suspect it is some sort of a ritual. One executed swiftly with minimal ceremony for fear of changing his mind halfway.
 

Alaa's work has been received with great interest in Istanbul. His solo exhibition Bashamoora at Galeri Artist Cukurcuma has been a resounding success, and he has participated in numerous group exhibitions since both in Turkey and Europe. After experimenting with small scale watercolors for over a year, he is now finalising a new series of oil paintings which depart from his gigantic black and white canvases. Conservative minded sceptics have already cautioned him against venturing too far from his signature style, to which he responds: "What shall I do, yani? I can't always paint the same thing."
 

To see Alaa's work you can view his portfolio here, or follow his page on Facebook.