Farah Alimi on Painting Memory & Nostalgia
Some conversations feel especially personal, and this is one of them. As someone who holds onto nostalgia—whether it's the warmth of a childhood memory, the scent of a familiar dish, or the echoes of a place that has changed beyond recognition—Farah Alimi’s work resonates in a deeply profound way.
Born in Damascus and now based in Paris, Farah channels the essence of a home she left long ago into her art, offering a window into the beauty and cultural richness of the Levant. Through her textured acrylic paintings, she revives the everyday moments of Syrian life—the ones that feel so familiar yet, in today’s headlines, are unrecognizable. Her work is more than a reflection of memory; it’s a quiet act of preservation, of holding onto what time and conflict might otherwise erase.
In this conversation, we explore the themes that shape her art—food, daily rituals, and the people who inhabit her memories. We talk about what it means to reconnect with a place from afar, how nostalgia can be both comforting and painful, and the freedom that art offers in navigating identity and belonging. This is a special one—so let’s begin.
Q: You’ve spoken about how art became a way to cope with nostalgia and anxiety. Do you remember the first piece you painted that made you feel a sense of release or healing?
Absolutely, I vividly remember the very first piece I painted to cope with my nostalgia. It was five years ago, during the lockdown. To be honest, I initially began by drawing my friends on cancelled vacations . The more I drew these scenes—friends against the backdrop of cities—the more I found myself reflecting on my own journey. I began to confront the quiet cancellation of my imagined trips to Syria, a ritual I’ve held for nearly 19 or 20 years, to the point where I lost track of time. But the very first official painting I created about Syria was of my maternal family.
Q: How has your relationship with Syria evolved through your art? Do you feel closer to your homeland when you paint?
My relationship with Syria has undoubtedly evolved since the moment I began painting about it. It’s hard to put into words the feeling I get each time I paint a particular subject or someone from my family in Syria—someone who is no longer here or whom I haven’t seen in decades. It’s a sensation where my heart skips a beat, in the best possible way, yet deeply emotional. I know this might sound strange, but I need to feel sadness in order to create something meaningful. There have been moments—brief, fleeting instances—when, while painting, I felt as though I were in my home in Damascus. It was surreal. I feel as though I’m building a spiritual connection with my country, one I hope to carry in my heart forever.
Q: You’ve lived in cities with very different cultures. How have these experiences influenced your artistic style?
After leaving Damascus, at the age of 10, my first city to call home was Northern Virginia, just outside Washington, D.C. My very first thought was, 'Where are the skyscrapers?' It was one of those moments where the world felt wonderfully different. Twelve years later, I moved to New York, then Marseille, and now I’m in Paris. If these cities have taught me anything, it’s to embrace the lessons they offer without forcing them. Above all, they’ve reminded me to stay true to myself and pursue what I truly believe in. I think that’s something that naturally flows into the things we love to do. For me, it spills out onto the canvas in what I paint.
Q: Your late grandfather is a major source of strength and inspiration. What are some of the memories or lessons from him that find their way into your work?
My late maternal grandfather holds a profound place in my paintings. I feel this deeply: it is my grandfather who is behind my ability to paint. I began just five years ago, and every painting I create feels like his way of saying, 'Hello' and 'I miss you.' It’s his way of showing me the immense love he had for Syria and for all the Syrian people, regardless of their beliefs. Through my art, I feel his presence, his love, and his spirit guiding me, reminding me of the beauty and unity that he cherished so deeply The first ten years of my life in Syria were marked by the absence of my father, who was in the States working tirelessly to build a future for us. In his stead, my jiddo stepped into the role, ensuring he was always there for his grandchildren and for my mother. He was my teacher in so many ways—introducing me to music, history, refined taste, generosity, and the importance of fairness. He taught me the value of hard work and how to always strive for what you want. I will love him forever, for how he shaped my world in ways that words can scarcely capture.
Q: Your work often reflects the daily life and culture of the Levant. What elements do you find yourself most drawn to capturing?
One of my most cherished memories of Syria is Youm El Khamees—the early Thursday dinner shared with my entire maternal family. After school, we’d rush home, get ready, and head straight to my grandfather’s house in the heart of Damascus. This gathering became a sacred tradition for us. I can still clearly remember the sight of the large table we’d set, the soft thud of plates being placed, and the gentle clink of spoons aligning along the edges of each plate. The air was filled with the aromas of amazing food, the sweet desserts, and the fruits my jiddo would bring home after work. Food was everything—it was the answer to so many things, the heartbeat of our family.
You'll see food and flowers in my paintings, as they represent the vibrant life shared in every Damascene home. There were about thirty of us—uncles, aunts, cousins—a growing family that came together every Thursday throughout my childhood. Even after I moved to the States, the celebration continued in Damascus, where the spirit of those Thursday dinners lived on, until my grandfather’s passing. I hope that one day, when I visit Damascus again, I can gather my family once more on a Thursday for an early dinner at Grandpa’s house to celebrate his life, as well as my grandmother’s. I’m sure they will feel the love from above.
Q: Nostalgia plays a significant role in your art. Is there a particular Syrian memory or tradition you find yourself revisiting often in your paintings?
One of the traditions I cherished most growing up was the one I mentioned above, but the second, equally beloved tradition, was celebrating Ramadan and Eid. These holidays held a special place in my heart, and I felt their essence deeply while growing up in Syria. Despite the absence of my father, my incredible, heroic mother ensured that every holiday was filled with warmth and joy, surrounded by her side of the family. She made sure we embraced every moment, creating memories that are forever engraved in our hearts as some of the happiest of our lives.
Q: There’s a strong sense of resilience and freedom in your work. How do you balance the weight of loss with the beauty of cultural preservation in your art?
Growing up in Syria, my mother created a strong, protective bubble around us. She carefully muted out the negativity and outside chaos, welcoming only the good energy that nourished our spirits. Within that bubble, she taught us invaluable lessons—how to stay true to ourselves and always be kind to others. She showed us how to focus not on the loss or the fear that lurked at the door, but on the beauty of what we had—our shared moments, our laughter, and the dreams we held for the future. 'Anything is possible,' she would say, and it was her belief in us that gave us the courage to keep dreaming, no matter what.
Q: If your art could send a message to those who have been displaced or feel disconnected from their roots, what would it be?
This one is hard to put into words. There was a time when I felt disconnected from my roots, perhaps out of fear—fear of opening that box of memories I once thought I could never reach in this lifetime. But over time, I've come to realize that your roots will always be a part of you, no matter how far you drift. We are not perfect, and sometimes we need to step away in order to return with a deeper understanding.
To the displaced, to the disconnected, I am sorry, and I love you. My hope is that my art can offer you, even for a fleeting moment, a glimpse of a memory or a cherished moment you hold close. Above all, I truly wish that through my work, I can help bring people together—whether it’s a reunion with their roots or a return to a special memory that once made them whole.
Q: What impact do you hope your art will have on those who view it, especially those unfamiliar with Syrian culture?
I paint with love and a hopeful heart, wishing for my people to find their way to a better place, for my country to rise again and walk with grace, free from all the hard bumps. We Syrians are filled with light and love. As I paint, I almost unknowingly pour my transparent love for Syria and her culture into every stroke, hoping that, through my creations, others can see that love too—shining through, pure and unfiltered.
Q: Upcoming shows or projects you would like to share with us?
I have several creative projects in the works, and I’m incredibly grateful for every collaboration and exhibition I’ve had the opportunity to be a part of in different cities. But my ultimate dream is to one day showcase my work in my own city, Damascus—specifically in Al-Midan, the heart of where my maternal family comes from. I truly hope that day will come.
Photos AUGUSTA SAGNELLI
