LIBERTYPhoto Series
2022–202315 Artworks

For centuries, Yemen has stood at the crossroads of Africa, Asia, and the islands that dot the majestic seas between them. Textiles have long been a driving force of cultural, economic, and diplomatic exchange, forming a living archive of the communities they touch. Textile motifs migrate from cloth into architecture, design, porcelains, and storytelling, carrying with them the histories they both share and preserve.

Growing up in Sana’a, Yemen, my mother often reminded us that education was not limited to what we read, but extended to what we saw, touched, tasted, and smelled. She taught us that to be well rounded, we needed to be grounded in the cultures of our community, attuned to the stories we heard and those we told. I loved to ask questions and to share my impressions. Yet, as we traveled and eventually moved to different parts of the world, I learned that in some places I was ignored—made to feel unwelcome, hushed, unheard, as though what I saw did not matter.

It was different in Asia. Whether at home in Sana’a, or traveling through Mumbai, Lahore, Hong Kong, or Bangkok, I felt accepted, integrated, seen. The perception of the world through my young eyes was treated as essential, a reminder to elders of the cyclical nature of existence itself. Children rekindle wonder, curiosity, and amazement—the experience of discovering the world for the first time.

Many of my earliest memories are of traveling with my mother and visiting local markets. I vividly recall entering spaces where textiles were meticulously folded and layered from floor to ceiling, forming walls of carefully arranged colors and textures. Merchants—and often the master artisans themselves—would insist on inviting us in, sharing their processes and their histories. It quickly became clear that they were not merely makers or sellers, but storytellers, entrepreneurs, and artists. They invited me into their world.

These were my favorite places and people. Selling was never just a transaction; it was a ritual, perfected into a choreographed dance whose every movement informed the final negotiation. More important than any exchange, however, was the shared journey through pattern, pigment, and storytelling. There was always an elevated seating area, designed for resting, relaxing, remaining. Tea was offered as an expression of hospitality, trust, and care. We began with niceties—mutual curiosity, the gathering of information—and soon the flow of fabrics, tea, and stories commenced. Through this rhythm, I developed the timing and sensibility of my own practice. I would sit for hours as fabrics were thrown across my lap, one after another, until I no longer perceived only individual patterns, but elements of a larger lexicon—ikat, and more broadly, the living ecosystem of textiles.

The word that comes to mind most when I think about searching for fabrics and garment-making is royalty. Not only because of the generosity of reception, but because of the textures and colors that carry us across time and place. There is a liberation in actively reimagining one’s image—deciding how fabric drapes, pleats, and fits together. Touching both the finest and the most ordinary fabrics teaches discernment: understanding quality, recognizing difference, and learning that another person’s taste need not be one’s own.

It was in the markets that I learned to trust my own perception, to value what I was drawn to rather than what I was expected to admire. These lessons were not taught explicitly, but absorbed through observation, touch, and experience. I learned that cotton is among the most exquisite of fabrics, and that the finest cottons rank among the finest textiles in existence. Cotton can cool the body and keep it warm; it belongs to all classes of society. It receives and radiates color with extraordinary depth, and as a plant, it carries the language of the natural world. Cotton is also the most difficult fabric I have worked with—it wrinkles profoundly, even more so than silk.

It is widely recognized that Liberty cotton is among the finest in the world. The techniques required to produce these couture fabrics were developed by Indian artisans over centuries. Their presence within British culture is a direct result of Britain’s violent occupation of India. By claiming this artistry as their own, the British severed ancestral knowledge from its origins, replacing histories of splendor with narratives of suffering, victimhood, and criminality—under the trademark of “Liberty.” How does one copyright liberty? How does one appropriate the knowledge of generations, divorcing it from land and lineage, in the name of freedom?

LIBERTY (2022–24) is a love letter to those who have taught me what I know of pattern, color, texture, and the vast world of textiles—which is also a world of linguistics, constellations, cartographies, and expression. When asked how I acquired such knowledge, the answer is simple: I owe it to my mother; to the merchants; to the keepers of knowledge; to the protectors of archives; to the storytellers, tea makers, dyers, master artisans, and apprentices; to the land itself. This series is dedicated to all who have generously shared time, served tea, and invited me to root my identity alongside their own. My wonder continues to grow. You have taught me that liberty cannot be owned, trademarked, or captioned—it must be experienced.