Your work is quite large. Has the scale changed throughout your career?
I’ve always been interested in making big paintings. And they’re getting bigger. Modern Syrian art isn’t like those traditional Arabic miniatures – many of us work on a big scale. To make big work you need a big studio.

Tell us about your old studio in Syria
It was in the centre of Damascus and had a high ceiling and large windows. It looked out over roads and buildings – I didn’t have a landscape to look out on. But any kind of environment is inspiring. My studio in Lebanon now is surrounded by a beautiful landscape – it’s the opposite experience. But it’s all art.
I listen to music when I’m painting. I like blues, some rock. I also listen to Sufi music from around the world – Pakistan, India. I love Bob Dylan and Led Zeppelin – old stuff.
How long have you been in Lebanon?
I left Syria one year ago. I want to go back. My daughter and son are with me in Lebanon, my brothers are working in the United Arab Emirates, my parents are near me in Lebanon. But my husband is still in Damascus. He has so much work to do there. It’s tough to be apart from him.
It’s not easy to live in Syria anymore, especially with small children. I didn’t want my children to grow up surrounded by war and bombs. What’s the point? Their happiness is more important to me.

Do you care what the outcome of the war is?
I don’t care about anything. All the people fighting in the war are responsible for what’s happening. I just want it to end. People are dying in their 1,000s. That’s the responsibility of those in power.
Artists can reflect what’s happening, but I don’t think they can change anything. It’s a big lie, believed by intellectuals, that you can change things or stop a war like that. That’s fine if they want to believe in that, maybe it gives them hope, but I don’t think it’s right.
Do you think of yourself as a woman artist, or just an artist?
Just an artist. For me, it isn’t difficult to be a female artist. If a woman artist thinks a lot about being a woman, worries about being accepted, fears her society, then the society will be stronger than her. But if she doesn’t care and presents herself with confidence then society will accept her like that.

Why did you want to make a show all about queuing?
Queuing is a very British phenomenon. In Arab countries they don’t have the mentality of the queue; people always want to pay more to take another’s place.
I use the queue as a symbol of collective behaviour: the collective stupidity of people. People will so easily follow the lies and ideas of others.
Some critics have said that your paintings evoke refugees and checkpoints. Do you agree with that interpretation?
I agree with any interpretation – anybody has the right to see anything in my paintings. Art should be received freely, as it was created freely.
When I started to paint the queue, I did it one by one. I didn’t work on it as a whole. I don’t do sketches and I don’t have a specific idea about the outcome of the painting; I like to work freely, to surprise myself and tap into my subconscious mind.
They are all imagined people, although I sometimes use models for the body but I like to create faces – it feels like a discovery. The models are friends, or people I just find inspiring.

In 2004 you won fourth prize in the BP Portrait award with a self-portrait. Why did you submit a self-portrait?
I like to do self-portraits. I always like to discover more things about my face, my body and my personality. I like to observe all the changes that happen in my appearance – skin colour, eye colour. It’s a form of knowledge.
It’s also a form of loving yourself, which is reflected in your relationships with people. Knowing yourself is a cousin to loving yourself. It will also help you to know and love the people around you.
I’m smoking in the painting because I smoke. Only three or four a day. But I love the visual effect the smoke gives. It looks like a cloud.
To find out more about Sara and her exhibition, visit her website.
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