From the artist notebook

Images of my childhood and my adolescence consisted mostly of desert scenes, the Pyramids, the Sphinx, and monumental sculptures.
Our outings were often directed towards Guiza, and beyond in the desert. A one Piaster ride in the Tramway would bring us right to the Pyramids. We would walk up the hill, and behold find ourselves facing these magnificent overwhelming structures. A little further, the Sphinx, sat, extraordinary, majestic and mysterious.

Behind was the desert, endless sands in a variation of ochre, white and pale yellows. There one felt at peace and safe. There was a sense of timelessness. The desert was engulfing, vast and strong. One felt in communion with the surrounding, at peace and unafraid.  What seemed endless space was welcoming and friendly.

There were other images, that of Cairo, a bustling city, with its exotic flavor, the Nile, its bridges, the Jasmines and the Bougainvilleas that awaited the evening breeze.  The incomparable Proustan flavor of life along the Nile has been engraved in the minds of those who lived it.
Images of the populated areas where women dressed in the native style. Black melayas would shroud their bodies, leaving only a suspicion of what their shape was really like. Under the shroud they carried their hopes, their pain, their secrets.
Cairo enchanted many, the Jasmines and the Bougainvilleas however did not make up for the poverty and squalor. Misery was all around, misery was normal.  

Until I left Egypt at age 18, I had not been exposed to Modern Art.
Other than the antiquities that boggled the mind and left a deep mark, there was the yellow and white reflection of the beating sun that created deep and dark shadows. The arabesques and geometric decorations in wood, metal,
and in stone, also rugs of restrained and wonderful patterns, made up
another layer of visual experience. There was more. The domes and minarets, the shape of the earthenware jugs with their polished brass covers on which surface we could see our distorted reflections. They sat on windowsills offering cool water to the thirsty.

 Memory

In the hope of prolonging memory, and giving meaning to our existence we stretch the image. We try to preserve.
Before the fog of time blurs the mind and erases ruthlessly what for a moment in time appeared relevant and important, we endeavor to record.

Whether we reconstruct, transmit information, create beauty or protest our condition we strive for a measure of continuity even though temporary. 

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Although permanence is not a prerequisite and adjusting to new realities is a challenge, we still endeavor to preserve the memories of our experiences, of our passage however insignificant.

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The theme of rebuilding has been a central focus in my work. The theme of continuity is of vital essence to me.
My aim is to transmit preservation and continuity.

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Art is where we find shelter when we no longer comprehend the world around us. But it is that blessed thing that brings us sublime moments and total communion. 

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We define personal evolution as continuously recreating ourselves.
We wonder at our capacity for rebuilding.

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I am moved by the humanity of man, by his capacity for rebuilding each day his burnt out world, by his being in turn fierce and frail, powerful and helpless.