The architecture of the Hijaz region has left a deep imprint on me. Its rhythm, its elegance. But more than anything, my work is shaped by stories—folk tales, memories, sea breezes, things heard in passing. The sea has always been my silent collaborator.
In Conversation: A Saudi Artist on Memory, Scheherazade, and the Blue That Runs in Her Veins
There is a stillness in her work, a kind of quiet complexity that unfolds slowly, like a whispered tale. Born in Jeddah in 1987, artist Ghada Almuhammadi—whose palette is as emotionally charged as it is historically rooted—has spent her life stitching stories into color. From childhood impressions to Islamic miniatures reimagined through a contemporary lens, her visual language is both personal and archetypal, grounded in the architecture of the Hijaz and carried by the winds of the Red Sea.
We spoke with her about the enduring presence of stories, the irrelevance of names, and why cobalt blue feels like DNA.
What are some of your earliest memories that still echo in your art today?
I remember the Ladybird Story Series vividly—those compact little books, their illustrations, their rhythm. Alice in Wonderland was a universe I returned to again and again, and there were my Faber-Castell pencils—wooden, watercolors—the kind you have to dip in water first to unlock their softness. I can still feel the texture of those early sketches. That blend of fantasy and color stayed with me.
Do you work on multiple paintings at once, or do you prefer to focus on one piece at a time?
Always one at a time. Each painting is a world. I need to live in it completely before moving on.
And when that world is complete—how do you name it?
Honestly, I don’t like naming my paintings. I feel like I'm just a part of the story, not its owner. Names are forgettable; what lingers is the feeling. That’s what I want the viewer—or the collector—to carry with them. Not the title, but the echo of the moment it gave them.
Who are the artists who have shaped you?
Yahya Al-Wasti, with his poetic Islamic manuscripts. Monet, of course—for his obsession with light. And Vincent Clement. Each of them gave me something different: precision, atmosphere, tenderness.
Have you explored many types of media over the years?
Yes, a great deal. I’ve used materials sourced from Thailand, India, Britain, France—each has its own soul. I often choose them instinctively, depending on the project or the story I’m trying to tell.
When you begin a new project, do you begin with a plan—or does the process guide you?
There’s always intention. Every project starts with a question, or a theme. But within that, each painting adds a different layer—different details, different moods. They all orbit the same core.
How long does it typically take to complete a piece?
Anywhere between one to seven days. I often work more than ten hours a day. Once I enter the space of the painting, time becomes irrelevant.
Do you listen to anything while you paint—music, podcasts, the news?
Only music. Classical Eastern music, mostly. My favorite is Scheherazade. That piece holds everything: suspense, longing, beauty. It’s a painting in sound.
What are the forces that most shape your work—social, political, environmental?
The architecture of the Hijaz region has left a deep imprint on me. Its rhythm, its elegance. But more than anything, my work is shaped by stories—folk tales, memories, sea breezes, things heard in passing. The sea has always been my silent collaborator.
Do you remember the first time you touched a paintbrush?
I was six. I don’t remember the moment exactly, but I remember the colors: blue and white. I was just drawing lines. Before that, even in pre-kindergarten, I was always coloring with wooden crayons. The instinct was always there.
Has your style evolved over time?
Radically. I began with impressionism, then moved through expressionism and abstraction. Eventually, I began exploring Islamic art—miniatures, manuscripts—but always with a contemporary approach. My work shifts, but there’s a throughline.
What do you think is the artist’s role in society?
Artists are storytellers, translators. We hold mirrors to society, but we also carry myths, values, and culture forward. We make space for reflection—and for beauty. I try to live this every day.
How would you define your artistic identity?
It’s my spirit. That’s what endures, even as techniques or styles change. There’s a particular palette I return to. Certain motifs, brushstrokes. Cobalt blue feels like part of my DNA. It’s unmistakable—my signature.
Do emotions guide your creative process?
Not emotions, exactly. Stories do. I’m not inspired by passing feelings, but by narratives that live inside me. Some are true. Some are legends. All are alive.
If you could speak to anyone from the past, who would it be?
Vermeer. I would ask him about The Girl with the Pearl Earring. Who was she? She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.