Again, Al-Mayida! The dining table is part of the DRUDENHAUS collective’s exhibition at Bridewell Gallery and Studios, Liverpool. This event includes a fundraiser for Medical Aid for Palestinians, adding a meaningful purpose to the show.
For this iteration, the work was set on a larger table than planned, shifting its dynamic. Though designed for two people, with fewer plates, and the tablecloth still bears marks left behind from previous exhibitions. The exhibition features both new and familiar artists, creating an interesting mix of perspectives.
Every curator brings a unique vision. The DRUDENHAUS collective’s decision to give the table more room to breathe was a contrast to previous presentations of Al-Mayida. This shift made me realise how flexible the work is, how it can adapt to different environments and be shaped by different interpretations.
One of the most meaningful aspects of this exhibition is its purpose as a fundraiser for Medical Aid for Palestinians. This adds weight and significance to the show. The dinner table, a place traditionally associated with hospitality, care, and conversation, becomes a symbol of solidarity. It reminds me that art doesn’t exist in isolation, it has the power to engage with real-world issues and bring people together in support of urgent causes.
I missed the last lecture on professionalism and unprofessionalism due to family circumstances. Ironically, missing out on topics that interest me most. But watching the recording was still a rich experience, listening to the discussions and the different perspectives people brought to the conversation.
I read the article How to Be an Unprofessional Artist by Andrew Berardini, which Jonathan shared in the lecture. And, I think the word “unprofessional” carries a certain weight, often with negative connotations. It reminds me of how the word “steal” is used provocatively in Steal Like An Artist by Austin Kleon, or how “disabled” can be perceived in different ways, negative for some, yet embraced by others as a form of identity and empowerment. Language is powerful; it doesn’t just describe the world, it shapes it. It influences how we see ourselves, how others perceive us, and what opportunities are available to us.
A key point in the discussion was how professionalism is often framed by rigid, exclusionary standards, ones that can erase individuality, lived experience, or even care. But does professionalism have to mean conforming to a narrow, predetermined image? Many so-called unprofessional traits: honesty, vulnerability, and unconventional approaches are actually strengths. They challenge existing systems, create space for new ways of thinking, and foster deeper engagement.
The tension between professional and unprofessional seems to lie in whether professionalism is dictated by external standards or defined through integrity, care, and dedication to one’s practice. If professionalism means respect for oneself, for others, and for the work, then it doesn’t have to mean suppressing individuality or creativity. I see professionalism not as following a strict rulebook, but as a commitment to craft, ethics, and meaningful engagement.
As a mother of a child with special needs, I’m particularly aware of how language shapes perception. In different contexts, the term “disabled” can be either empowering or limiting. Could “unprofessional” also be reclaimed? Maybe, but only if doing so truly empowers rather than undermines.
My own art practice naturally resists traditional notions of professionalism. Coming from multiple backgrounds, embracing mistakes, and working in multidisciplinary ways, I see value in experimentation and non-traditional approaches. Rejecting conventional professionalism doesn’t mean rejecting care, commitment, or quality. It means refusing to be boxed into a system that wasn’t designed for people with diverse experiences and ways of working. Above all, rejecting traditional professionalism can be an act of resistance, challenging exclusionary structures that dictate who belongs and what is deemed acceptable work.
I navigate between institutional and freelance work, moving fluidly between structured and independent spaces. Working with institutions while maintaining my own perspective allows me to challenge the system from within while also creating alternative ways of working. It’s about understanding the rules but choosing when and how to break them in ways that are meaningful.
This ability to shift between spaces sometimes fitting in, sometimes disrupting gives me agency. It also allows me to act as a bridge for others who feel like they don’t fit into traditional structures. This is something I see in my work, whether through Moon Letters, Creative Peers, or other social sculpture projects.
Rather than seeing professionalism and unprofessionalism as rigid opposites, I see them as fluid. True professionalism, to me, is about care, respect, and meaningful engagement, qualities that don’t require conforming to outdated norms, but rather, reimagining them.
I had fun playing with a new scanner I bought to help me upload the physical Moon Letters to my computer. The quality is great, and I immediately thought—this would be perfect for digitising my Asemic writing.
I decided to experiment: I uploaded a piece of Asemic writing, then tried a translation tool to read the text from the image. I wasn’t expecting much, Asemic writing is by definition without a fixed meaning, existing in a space between language and pure form. But to my surprise, I got three translated lines.
This unexpected outcome was a moment of algorithmic improvisation, a piece of text I never wrote was suddenly part of the work. The machine involved itself in the process, introducing an element beyond my control, much like the way audiences reinterpret asemic writing in unpredictable ways.
Two questions immediately came to mind:
• What does it mean for an asemic text to be “translated”?
• Does this process create a new kind of auto-generated asemic language, where machine logic meets human mark-making?
This might just be the beginning of a new asemic project. And, I’m excited to experiment more, to invite the machine into the asemic process, and to see where this unexpected collaboration between human intention and machine misinterpretation leads me.
Today, I led a session at Bootle Library with my usual cultural group of ladies, joined by my colleagues from Rule of Threes, a representative from Liverpool Biennial, and artists from Darch Collective. It was a special gathering, as we’ll be contributing to their work for Liverpool Biennial: Bedrock 2025.
The session had a wonderful turnout, and I received 15 more letters for The Moon Letters project. I’m so grateful to everyone who has taken the time to contribute, and I can’t wait for the moment when I finally hold the book in my hands.
There’s something deeply personal about letters. I find myself attached to each one, treating them as precious objects. They arrive in different ways: through messages, emails, and in person. Each carrying unique thoughts, emotions, and perspectives. People respond in their own way, and I appreciate every word, every feeling that has been shared.
This project is becoming more than just a collection of letters, and I’m excited to see where it leads and to share these stories with a wider audience.
The first session of Art for Earth’s Sake by Engage:
Peer Learning Programme was both inspiring and thought-provoking. This initiative, designed by Engage members, brings together diverse voices to explore how visual arts can respond to the pressing environmental and ecological crises of our time. The online session created a dynamic space for connection, exchange, and collective learning.
Art has long served as a powerful medium for addressing complex issues. During the session, we reflected on how art can function as a “place” — a vital space for connection, communication, and fostering belonging. This concept resonated deeply with me. As an artist, I believe meaningful change begins when we create spaces for open dialogue and shared experiences.
Today’s headlines—be it Gaza burning under human conflict or wildfires ravaging Los Angeles—serve as stark reminders of our interconnected crises. Climate change, political instability, and violence are all deeply entwined. As humans, we bear the responsibility to make a difference, no matter how small. Saying “no” to war, violence, and greed is critical before the Earth pushes back. This realisation drove me to join this programme, especially as a producer working with refugees and students eager to learn about socially engaged art around themes of politics, migration, and the environment.
A recent discussion at Liverpool’s “ghost art school,” which I co-organised, reminded me of the importance of shared spaces. A fellow artist remarked, “Living is a way of research.” I would add that living with others—and fostering environments where people feel safe and free—is essential for authentic collaboration and growth.
One of the most compelling topics from the session was ecocentrism—a philosophy that centres Earth and its ecosystems rather than humanity alone. This approach challenges the anthropocentric mindset dominating contemporary thought.
Ecocentrism is not a modern idea; it has been integral to indigenous cultures for millennia, embedded in their traditions and laws. This was a moment of profound clarity for me. To genuinely tackle the climate crisis, we must transition from a human-centred worldview to an Earth-centred one.
The session also showcased artist-led projects that weave ecological concerns with social engagement. One example was Scotland’s Deveron Projects, which has been creatively connecting people with the land for over 30 years. Initiatives like their “soil spa” and a dance project inspired by the land demonstrate art’s capacity to reconnect us with nature in meaningful ways.
This session reaffirmed my belief in art’s ability to inspire dialogue and action. By embracing ecocentric perspectives and fostering collaboration, we can address the ecological crisis holistically and inclusively.
Letters to the Moon is a social sculpture that explores how art can connect diverse experiences, emotions, and perspectives, fostering meaningful dialogue between art and the wider public.
To bring this vision to life, I invited family, friends, artists from Creative Peers, members of Ghost Art School, MA classmates, and the public. Donald kindly extended the invitation and offered people some brown paper bags to write their letters on. This act of kindness touched me and made these letters more special as they are handwritten. Each participant receives a unique moon photograph, carefully selected from a collection of 670 images I have captured since 2018.
The responses have been both inspiring and humbling. People with distinctive styles and personal voices have contributed works that reflect a broad range of emotions and narratives. A key aim of this project is to ensure that people outside the art world feel encouraged to take part, breaking down the barriers that can make creative engagement feel intimidating.
This project, while still ongoing, has already reminded me of the importance of artistic variety and community. While numbers have been promising, I hope they will continue to grow as more people see themselves reflected in this vision. I look forward to the next steps—curating these works, weaving them into a book, and creating something that speaks to the complexity of art as both a personal and collective process.
Today, I attended an engaging online workshop, Thinking Through Social Practice, facilitated by David McGoven. The session offered a reflective space to explore social practice. What made the workshop especially rewarding was its small, interactive format, allowing participants to share their practices, collaborate on tasks, and develop manifestos that resonate with their creative values.
What Is Social Practice? Social practice, as discussed in the session, is rooted in the idea that art’s value extends beyond objects—it lies in relationships, conversations, and the transformations they inspire. Pablo Helguera, in Education for Socially Engaged Art, defines it as work dependent on social interaction as a key factor of its existence. Unlike traditional conceptions of the artist as a visionary or critic, social practice views the artist as a collaborator working with society in a professional capacity.
One of the workshop’s highlights was crafting personal manifestos to articulate our roles and responsibilities as socially engaged artists. Here’s my manifesto:
1. My work remains private while in progress and becomes public once complete.
2. I am the creator of the idea and responsible for its execution.
3. You, as a participant, are a valued contributor to this social work.
4. Your submission remains your intellectual property.
5. By contributing, you agree to its use in this project’s context.
6. This project prioritises collective learning and dialogue.
7. It is non-profit and exists as a form of social sculpture.
This manifesto reflects my ongoing exploration of collaboration, ownership, and the boundaries between individual and collective creativity.
The workshop reaffirmed my belief that social practice is about relationships—not just between people, but also between ideas, disciplines, and systems. As an artist, I am constantly navigating these relationships, finding ways to balance personal vision with community needs.
The Thinking Through Social Practice workshop was a powerful reminder that art is not just about creating—it’s about connecting. It’s about asking questions, challenging systems, and imagining new possibilities alongside others.
After an inspiring conversation with my MA coursemate, Josh Well, on asemic writing, I felt compelled to revisit a research project I undertook three years ago. This project delved into the intriguing realms of semic and asemic writing, semiotics theory, and examples of art that explore these ideas. My 2021 project, Blah Blah Blah Banner, sits within this dialogue, exploring the relationship between form and meaning in text and language. Through tutorials, workshops, and experiments with different materials, I examined how artists use text within art and the rich distinctions between semic and asemic writing.
Semiotics, the study of signs, opens up the boundless potential for experimenting with words and symbols. Art historian Anne D’Alleva reminds us that “signs can take many different forms” (D’Alleva, 2012, p.26), showing that meaning is both created and perceived. Here, semic writing refers to symbols or representations that carry meaning, while asemic writing is purely visual, existing outside formal language or communication.
The power of asemic writing lies in its ability to transcend direct interpretation. Research by Tim Gaze describes asemic writing as any form resembling writing but unreadable to viewers, often evoking primal marks like children’s scribbles or ancient cave art. My initial encounters with asemic forms reminded me of the unfamiliarity of a foreign language—an idea I explored deeply in Blah Blah Blah Banner. Here, asemic “poems” embrace visuality without linguistic meaning, inviting viewers to interpret solely through form.
From this project, I came to realise that asemic text can convey a universal sense of expression, allowing the imagination to interpret across languages and cultures. Language may ground us, but asemic writing frees us… Each brushstroke a wordless, universal rhythm.
This summer, I had the opportunity to showcase Al-Mayida (The Dining Table) at Birkenhead Central Library, an installation exploring the universal and symbolic significance of the dining table. And recently, the work was selected for Hypha Studios and Dispensary Gallery’s group show in Wrexham, adding a new layer of meaning by placing it in dialogue with other multidisciplinary pieces in a 15,000-square-foot exhibition space. With its vibrant, community-centered focus, Al-Mayida became a platform for discussing culture, peace, and the shared human experience of gathering. Moving the installation from Birkenhead Library to the larger venue in Wrexham taught me to consider how an artwork’s message and impact evolve with changes in environment and scale.
The dining table holds a unique, cross-cultural significance, serving as a setting for family meals, heartfelt conversations, and shared memories. With Al-Mayida, I aimed to capture these moments by creating an immersive, interactive experience that emphasises gathering, storytelling, and unity. Drawing from a blend of artistic mediums—ceramics, textiles, and Arabic calligraphy—the installation celebrates the act of coming together, inviting audiences to reflect on what it means to share a meal, both literally and symbolically.
On the final day of Al-Mayida, I introduced a dinner set, with each item inscribed with the Arabic word for peace—سلام (Salam). “Peace,” as a concept and a word, transcends borders, symbolising our shared humanity and fostering dialogue around unity and understanding. This white ceramic set, with its minimalist design, carries a calm, contemplative energy, resonating with the installation’s message of harmony.
As a closing touch to the exhibition, I crafted three large plates inscribed with references to the Sykes-Picot Agreement, the 1916 colonial pact that divided the Middle East into spheres of influence and reshaped its geopolitical landscape. This historical reference acknowledged the dining table not only as a place for personal stories but also as a platform for global reflection. These plates became symbols of resilience, encouraging visitors to consider how history shapes our identities, our relationships, and our ongoing quest for self-determination.
The presence of these plates alongside the Salam ceramic set introduces a compelling tension—a juxtaposition between the ideals of peace and unity and the complex legacies of political history. I hope these pieces spark conversations about the ways past injustices continue to impact the present, inspiring a shared commitment to a more peaceful future.
Reflecting on Al-Mayida, I see a pathway forward that embraces community involvement, broadens cultural exploration, and deepens historical reflection. This work has laid the foundation for a practice rooted in dialogue, shared experience, and the powerful simplicity of gathering around a table.
Karema 