Dalia Baassiri

Dalia Baassiri | My Glasses, 2022

Can you imagine the world without the act of cleaning? Would you be able to process your thoughts and start over when everything around you is so messy? Would you keep eating from dirty plates, pouring fresh food on top of a set of leftovers until you fall sick? Or would you choose to keep buying disposables and have them piled everywhere until you become homeless in your own space?
My life in Beirut makes me think about the act of cleaning. I feel trapped in a small land buried under the rubbles of the past, and there is no room for anything new to happen. Is cleaning Beirut possible? This city has continuously been engulfed in smoke since the outbreak of the civil war in 1975. One does not know if we can really get rid of this thick dust accumulated over the years. Can we wipe away the residues of the past when they are so deeply rooted in our memories?
My project, "Sink-ronized", investigates the current fragile situation in Lebanon. The body of work comprises pencil drawings of ephemeral soap sculptures made at my kitchen sink. Using soap for the first time in my practice could open new sculptural possibilities due to its unique momentary quality.
In Sink-ronized, I create forms with soapsuds, sometimes introduce everyday objects, take pictures of them, observe them by making intricate pencil drawings, and then watch them dissipate and disappear in peace. By using soap as a medium, I look to incorporate art into every home. I want people to think of all the possible forms or shapes they can create every time they wash their hands.
I am constantly searching for means to achieve order amid chaos. Only at home, while washing the dishes, I feel in control of my fate. I choose to clean the plates, floors, and windows and clean my eyes, ears, and, most importantly, clean my thoughts. When my city no longer resembles me, I find myself in soapsuds. So soft and delicate, they dematerialise into the void while emitting a tender, subtle sound. When one feels like an alien in their city, they hide in the shadows of their loneliness just like foam recedes into the strainer. This daily encounter with soap has become a silent language, a private conversation with a no longer familiar city.
Today, Beirut’s fate lies in dirty hands. Hands that have emptied pockets and fridges yet successfully filled departure gates. Maybe when I draw my soap sculptures with my clean hands, capture every bubble, I slow down time, and destiny waits until all the dirt is washed away.