"Feelings are the trigger, but not the foundation. Emotion gives me access to memory, which gives rise to ideas. But those ideas must pass through a stage of reflection before they become art. Emotion is not enough. It must be distilled into insight."
Inside the Memory-Driven World of Jassim: A Conversation with the Saudi Artist Turning Ghosts Into Philosophy
In a quiet studio in Qatif, a city on the eastern edge of Saudi Arabia, artist Jassim paints with ghosts—fragments of memory, reflections of self, and the shadows of society. His canvases are less about depiction than excavation: of memory, of morality, of the deep social imprints formed in childhood and transformed in adulthood. In a conversation spanning everything from Egon Schiele to Stan Getz, he speaks with the candor and introspection of someone who sees painting as a way to understand—not just express—the world.
Do you remember what first pulled you into art? Was there a moment in your childhood that set this path in motion?
Most of my work traces back to that rebellious child I once was—a child raised amid customs, values, and moral codes that were deeply rooted in the fabric of our society. These weren’t just teachings; they shaped the architecture of my memory. But what truly opened the door to art was my older brother. He was a painter, and more importantly, a sharp critic. Before I had even started school, I would sit and watch him work, surrounded by his library—books on philosophy, poetry, art, and literature. That space felt sacred. It wasn’t just that he painted—it was that his work questioned things. That was the first time I understood that art could be a language of inquiry.
How do you approach the physical act of painting? Do you work on multiple pieces at once or focus on one until it’s finished?
Each painting demands total immersion—mentally, emotionally, spiritually. I can’t divide my attention between works; each one is its own world. I live with it, sometimes even dream about it. Its beginnings are usually anxious and unpredictable. The end is often ecstatic or, at times, utterly frustrating. But both outcomes open a door to the next idea. Until I fully exhaust the work—intellectually and emotionally—I can’t begin another.
Do you find naming a work easy, or is that another stage of its creation?
In the past, naming a piece felt like a burden. I resisted it, maybe because I didn’t want to pin down the meaning of the work too precisely. But reading Paul Klee’s The Theory of Form changed that. He spoke of naming not as labeling, but as rediscovery. Since then, I’ve come to see titles as extensions of the artwork itself—provocations, in a way. If a title can add weight or illuminate the story embedded in the piece, it has done its job.
Who are the artists—past or present—who have left a mark on your practice?
Influence is something I welcome only when it helps me uncover more of myself. Early on, Zaman Jassim—who shares my hometown—gave me the courage to begin. Later, Marwan Qassab Bachi and Fateh al-Mudarris shaped how I think and self-criticize. But the ghost that haunted me, quite literally, was Egon Schiele. I discovered his work in middle school, and it unsettled me in the best way. His figures—restless, vulnerable—taught me that art doesn’t have to be beautiful to be true.
What materials do you work with today? Has that changed over time?
I’ve experimented—stenciling, collage, image transfer—but painting remains my primary language. Color gives me the freedom I need to explore. There’s something deceptively simple about paint. It allows me to translate complex ideas into something tactile, something that lives on the surface yet carries depth.
When a new idea comes to you, is it spontaneous or structured?
It begins with intuition—an image, a sensation, a philosophical question—and then becomes a kind of debate with myself. I live with it, think through it, question it. Only after this intellectual process does it become visual. That transformation gives me an energy I don’t fully understand. But I trust it.
How long does it typically take you to finish a painting?
Time in the studio is nonlinear. A medium-sized work might take a week or two. Others happen in bursts—three days of relentless energy. The actual painting time is only part of it. The rest is thinking, observing, listening, even dreaming. The process doesn’t stop just because the brush is down.
Do you listen to anything while you paint?
Music, always. Jazz is a favorite—Stan Getz, Anouar Brahem, Dhafer Youssef. Sometimes I return to voices like Rachid Taha and Saadoun Jaber. But podcasts and news? Never while painting. I crave silence and focus—my work doesn’t respond well to distraction.
Would you say your work is shaped more by personal memory or broader social forces?
They’re inseparable. My memories are social memories—born of a specific place, shaped by shifting values and traditions. The architecture of my city, the moral codes we live with, the slow transformations happening around us—they all find their way into the work. I treat memory as a bridge, connecting past and present. It’s not nostalgia—it’s analysis.
Do you remember the first time you touched a brush—or at least, when you knew art would be your life?
Actually, my relationship with art started long before the brush. In primary school, it was colored pencils—simple tools, but powerful. Some teachers encouraged me, and I felt seen in those moments. I picked up the brush at 14, but the real turning point came during university. That was when experimentation became serious, and I began to understand what it means to devote yourself to this path.
Has your style evolved significantly over the years?
Absolutely. I started with realism, learning anatomy and technique. Then came a period of abstract expressionism, where I explored color deeply. I ventured into calligraphy and printmaking. Now, I’m focused on an expressive language rooted in memory and philosophy. It’s less about form and more about feeling.
What do you see as the role of the artist in society?
Artists are philosophers, or at least they should be. Our job isn’t just to make beautiful things—it’s to question, to provoke, to preserve meaning. Form is a tool, not the goal. What lasts is the idea, the cause, the truth we try to articulate.
How would you define your artistic identity? Through color? Concept? Technique?
It’s never just one element. Identity, for me, is the result of consistency—a fertile consistency born from experience. It’s concept, yes, but also form and technique and color, all working together to express something larger. Identity is not a signature; it’s a synthesis.
Are your works born from emotional states? And if so, are those feelings fleeting or lasting?
Feelings are the trigger, but not the foundation. Emotion gives me access to memory, which gives rise to ideas. But those ideas must pass through a stage of reflection before they become art. Emotion is not enough. It must be distilled into insight.
If you could sit down with one person from your past, who would it be?
My teacher—the one who first saw the artist in me. I’d want to speak with him not just as a student, but as a fellow thinker. What was his philosophy? How did he see the world? I think such a conversation would help me rediscover things I’ve forgotten—and maybe reshape what I’m still learning to see.
Jassim’s body of work, though rooted in personal memory, feels uncannily timely. As global conversations about identity, tradition, and belonging grow more urgent, his painted ghosts speak louder than ever—not in shouts, but in persistent whispers, asking us to look inward, and listen.