Hamza Halloubi in conversation with Abdellah Karroum
This conversation took place at several meetings, in Rabat, Brussels and online. The dialogue has been ongoing, and at times sporadic, particularly during the pandemic. In this exchange, the aim is to reflect on ourselves, on the knowledge that constitutes us as part of human communities - free or still colonized – starting from where we are and exploring our forbidden places. It's also a question of analyzing works in the contexts of their appearance, to confront received ideas with the realities of experience. We implicitly evoke the passage from a diasporic condition, that to which a majority of people are minimized by nationalist policies, to the position of global citizenship, which endangers exclusive regimes. And, finally, this dialogue, both spoken and written, clarifies the key touchstones of Hamza Halloubi's work for the public and the reader, who cannot see the work physically in space, but who is aware of its inaccessibility and therefore of a fragmented knowledge akin to orality.The transcript is edited by the artist and author following the exhibition “Hamza Halloubi: Le degré zéro de la performance” held at L'appartement 22.
Part. 1 _ Looking at the world, situating oneselfHamza Halloubi is one of the pioneering artists of Generation 00, insofar as his training and emergence coincide with major social transformations in a post-Cold War world. While in Europe borders between East and West seemed to be opening up—the fall of the Berlin Wall being the most striking image—, borders between Africa and Europe were closing. Crossing the Mediterranean has become a symbol of hope for generations of young Moroccans who dream of changing their lives by leaving their country and as an alternative to the impossibility of transforming their society. Despite the opportunities for economic progress in African countries, young people who opt for immigration see their chances of fulfillment increasing elsewhere, in the West. Paradoxically, the illusion of openness in African countries in the 2000s is accompanied by a disillusionment about social justice and equal opportunities for the dignity of all citizens. It is from this perspective that the dream of "burning the borders" and going into exile continues to grow in the minds of generations of young people from Morocco and other African countries. These young people often have a higher education, and are thoroughly aware of the ecological, cultural and political stakes of the world.
A.K.: You spend a lot of time between Tangier - your hometown and a kind of look-out post on the northern border of the African continent - and Brussels - your adopted home, where you've set up your physical studio in the heart of Europe. How important is this geography and the notion of homeland to your work?
H.H.: For me, Tangier and Brussels are very special and unique cities. I'm lucky enough to have been born and raised in the former, and to have lived and studied in the latter. Both cities are rich in human movement. I don't know how many times I've gone back and forth between these two cities, but it's become natural for me, a circle, a continuous loop, until I no longer know when it's the outward journey and when it's the return. I think of immigrants coming and going, with the strength of their hopes and the weight of their despair. It's my destiny as an artist to listen to forced travelers. My work has followed this rhythm, adapting to the particularities of each city.  I've often conceived and written in Brussels, filmed in Tangier and then returned to edit in Brussels.
A.K.: Your work emerged in the 2010s, during a hopeful moment fueled by the social movements preceding what came to be known as the Arab Spring. Afterwards, the world went the way of a greater constriction of freedom. The revolutionary spirit was quickly eclipsed by mechanisms of control and repression in many countries. This climate is heightened in countries like Morocco because there are fewer shared resources in the social and cultural sector. Did you have hope or a vision at a given moment that things would evolve otherwise, towards a more inclusive system?
H.H.: Yes, of course, it was a very powerful moment, the so-called Arab Spring was a defining event of our generation. It was then that we really believed in the possibility of change. There was hope, an extraordinary breath of fresh air. That moment lives on in our bodies, and in our collective memory. Later, we realized that these revolutions had failed. The disillusionment was due to the ruling regimes’ crushing of the middle class and the political opposition that could  have taken over and founded a society based on the rule of law. What we are witnessing today is a drift of power and a return to populism and nationalism. The case of Kaïs Saïd's Tunisia is a strong example. The current regimes have appropriated the social demands and uprisings of the people, and have translated their populist and empty romantic idea that "the people decide their own fate..." into reality. But what can a people, a high percentage of which has been kept illiterate do? In this context, populist ideas find fertile ground. Populism fears intellectuals, journalists and artists, which is why populists fight them, often accusing them of being elitist and pro-Western.
A.K.: Before this moment, which has become a historical landmark, were you aware that the artist produces a work that reflects on the world, including with a degree of social commitment? H.H.: I've always thought that art questions the world and society, but I've never believed in "social art" or "political art". I think art negotiates lines, shapes, gazes and bodies. Which is already very political and social. We don't really need to look beyond this for politics. Art itself already contains the world's problems. Personally, I'm wary of artists who claim to make political art, because they often do neither art nor the world any good.  A.K.: You live in Belgium, which was once a colonial power. Many European countries are still colonial powers today, with territories that continue to be colonized in many ways on other continents, in Oceania and Africa. Does this history weigh heavily on your work? H.H.: I think it has weight in my work. It doesn't manifest itself in vague discourse and clichés about colonialism, but through specific forms and narratives. I'm also interested to see how this discourse has been recuperated by the system itself - neoliberal and post-capitalist - and its capacity to absorb all paradoxes to the point of making use of protest movements.
A.K.: Decolonization has become a central topic in academic and professional debates, in universities and museums. Decolonization is an act, a demand for the future, but there is also a demand for justice in relation to history. Restitution is fundamentally linked to the recognition of peoples whose cultural existence was oppressed, and the organizational legacies structuring these societies was often destroyed. On the other hand, today's powers are more in line with the systems put in place by the colonizing countries to the point of exploiting natural resources and destroying civilizational legacies. These powers thrive above all because of these relationships, as we have seen in Françafrique and sometimes in the context of more ancient histories with the Christianization and Islamization campaigns and crusades in Africa, Asia and the Americas. When we think about these histories, we run the risk of drowning in questions of identity, but we can't ignore the subject when we live between these spaces or when we're made up of these exchanges. In your work, I see a kind of hyper-awareness of these movements and histories.
H.H.: In the West, non-Western artists are presented to us as diplomats. I find it problematic that we are seen as those who are concerned with the dialogue of cultures and peace. Western institutions define the role of intellectuals and artists from the rest of the world. For these powers, our role is to educate our people, to show them how backward we are compared to the West, and only our decadence. In their view, it's not because of Françafrique and Western support for the dictatorships in power that our countries are unable to move forward. Rather, it's because of our primitive culture, our long, barbaric ways that are unable to adapt to modern science. It's also still in the colonialist spirit that they think that the French and English languages are our only hope of accessing modernity. All this discourse is dear to the Third World elite, what Fanon calls "the National bourgeoisie". One must remember that one of the most important founders of the Francophonie was Léopold Sédar Senghor. I believe that our critique of colonialism must include the 'National bourgeoisie' who control the wealth and culture of our countries.
A.K.: Does this idea of the artist's freedom, or the autonomy of the work, allow you to reflect on the place where you work - in Belgium, Morocco or elsewhere - as a citizen of the world? The work often responds to a particular, localized situation, because it's specific, and at the same time it can echo other, distant geographies. H.H.: I see the figure of the global artist as a product of the neoliberal system. The universal work is a construction. I'll always be considered a Moroccan artist, and I have no problem with that. However, any provincial American or Belgian painter would be considered an international artist. It doesn't depend on us or our works, but on the capital and intellectual investments of Western institutions, which have no interest in investing in a Pakistani or Senegalese artist, which may be normal, but what's not legitimate is to impose Richter as a universal artist. How can an artist who talks about the German cultural crisis after the Second World War concern a Korean or an Egyptian today?What I've always done is to try to radically flip the relationship between the international and the national, not by trying to integrate the global from the local, but by considering Tangier and Delhi as the center.
A.K.: Continuing with this idea of transmission and participation, how can an artist today claim to become someone, to bequeath his work or his ideas to future generations, if this is part of the role of art?  I'm asking you this question again because you referred to the figure of Mohamed Choukri... H.H.: At a time when the authoritarian or neo-colonial state defines culture, I don't think artists like us have the luxury of doing what we want. For example, Moroccan culture today is defined by both the Makhzen and the Orientalist colonial heritage. That's why I think that the role of the artist, the writer in a country like Morocco, is crucial, as it enables culture to be defined. The mere fact that his work exists is a feat the work never ceases to shout: "Me, I'm part of this land" - that's how I feel about the works of Choukri, Khatibi, El Ghrib, Cherkaoui...If we did nothing, culture would be defined by Tahar Ben Jelloun, Leila Slimani, Nabil Ayouch or Dounia Batma. What's catastrophic is a very caricatured conception of what we are. It's not just troubling for our culture, but also for each Moroccan, who would be reduced to a banal submissive being with no meaningful culture.
Part. 2 _ Navigating art historiesIn contrast to the widening industrial and technological gap between Europe and Africa, the cultural field in general and artistic creation in particular have seen the winds of change place works produced on the African continent on an equal footing on the global art platforms. It is through the initiatives of intellectuals, those of civil society, that artists flourish locally, while the lack of institutional investment continues to create an inflation that tends to drown originality in the folklorization of artistic practices, and to hijack art histories - notably by fabricating nationalist narratives where what is needed is a critical, factual discourse that puts art at the center. For example, works from the 1950s and 1960s that are fundamentally anti-colonial are exploited by these institutions as images glorifying the progress of nation-states to the detriment of the indigenous cultures they celebrate.Generation 00's response was to make a radical break with the conventional forms of the local scene, and also to make a bold critical contribution to artistic dialogues on a global scale. Hamza Halloubi's films fully embrace this dual identity, drawing on a heritage of self-taught filmmaking and finely woven editing in the language of new media.
A.K.: I'd like to continue our discussion of your exhibition at L'appartement 22 in Rabat, and in particular of your twofold journey: a trip to the country’s key, capitol city and an inquiry into the art system through your exhibition, “The Zero Degree of Performance.” We're faced with several filters here, on the one hand the museum/art, on the other life/politics. How did this work come about?
H.H.: I always had an embarrassed feeling. In a museum, I feel excluded. This work was born out of that feeling, and I wanted to reflect on what a museum is, and on the place of art, from the point of view of someone who doesn't belong to the Western artistic tradition. In 'Walking and Talking,' I approach museum works as specific material objects, not as universal works of the mind. These objects are not accessible to everyone; they are an inheritance with specific heirs. We are educated to see Western art as a heritage that belongs to all of us, so that we all invest in enriching this heritage. On the other hand, why don't we see African sculpture as a universal product? We never stop remembering its Africanness and specificity. It has been relocated and cut off from any contact with its emergence and any possibility of intellectual and material investment. It's a bit like soccer: Paris Saint-Germain and Manchester City are largely financed by Arab funds and with African and North African players, but in the end it's Paris and Manchester and not Cairo or Dakar that gain in infrastructure and value.
A.K.: Is this not a question of a dialogue that is always at the center of your space? One between the space you come from, the space you went to, and this back-and-forth between the museum—the art world—and your living space, which is closer to that of an ordinary citizen, whether in Tangier or Molenbeek. H.H.: Absolutely.  But at the same time, there are layers of identity, culture, social class and of everything else that we set aside when we look at artworks.  A.K.: An artist's public is not only made up of those who visit museums or have access to the studio, but it's also—to a large extent—a public that becomes aware of the work through the filter of digital information, the Internet. How do you see these different experiences, between a public placed in certain conditions to experience the work in a space designed with a type of screen or projection, and a public that "becomes aware" of the work from a distance?
H.H.: It's an interesting question of the emergence of a work in different forms and that can reach a distant (but not necessarily vast) audience. Personally, it's through the Internet that I've had access to the work of artists I love like David Hammons or Félix González-Torres. It's a special experience, and not one that reduces the artist's approach; on the contrary, it's a sign of vitality, proving that the work has the force to go beyond the museum walls. At the same time, I wonder if broadcasting a video on YouTube or TikTok can reach distant viewers? I don't really think so, because it's a medium that doesn't allow space for radical artistic propositions. My video work questions the viewer's body in the public space. This is not possible on the Internet, where the viewer behaves like a voyeur and a dictator who controls the unfolding of images. It's a master served on demand. However, in the public space, the viewer is confronted with images that he or she cannot control, and with which he or she must negotiate or get out of the way.
A.K.: Your experience of the art world is manifold, with exhibitions in museums, a presence at biennials, and representation in galleries and trade fairs. All these spaces contribute to the development of the work, its critical presence, and feed the market. How does an artist navigate these spaces? H.H.: It's a complex subject. I try remain flexible when navigating these different infrastructures, adapting to each opportunity and its physical and technical constraints, but the content is the same. I'm like an animal in the jungle trying to survive. I'm aware that I can be crushed at any moment. My art can be silenced; I work in a state of survival and urgency. A fragile animal with very sharp claws. I try to keep my independence, my position and my freedom. I've made it this far through a lot of social and material sacrifices.
Part. 3 _ Forms of lifeOur life experiences seem to be moving towards the dematerialization of encounters, but also the broadening of relationships with different forms of connection. This presence-absence paradox is now structural in all aspects of existence. Internet platforms offer fragmented languages, enabling infinite possibilities for dialogue, but carrying the danger of potentially destructive illusion. The multiplication of fake news and true rumors can change the course of history. Populist political discourse succeeds in manipulating opinion through the use of false information. The world of real finance uses simulacra to empty its products of meaning, leaving only the financial and hyper-material values of databases. In the face of these dangers, communities of resistance are also emerging, thinkers and unhurried artists capable of navigating systems at the speed that they give to works capable of simultaneously effecting exits strategies and multi-channel presence. Art emerges in life contexts, and its presentation only makes sense if the narrative of this genesis is included in the work—or made visible/readable alongside it, to avoid the problem of art's dislocation from its project and object.
A.K.: Your art is protean and traverses several media and languages. How do you choose which medium to use? H.H.: I attach a great deal of importance to the medium itself. I'm not one of those artists who put the concept or idea first, which could then be realized in a medium of their choice. For me, the idea is linked to the medium. When I make a video, I think about the video itself and its possibilities—as a tool—which contain important questions for our time.  A.K.: You visited Khalil El-Ghrib's studio, where there are no finished works. And made it into a work of art, the film Studio Visit. What we see in this film is precisely what the artist would like to show the public: the process beyond the objects, the raw elements of a potential work rather than a fixed installation. The conceptual dimension of this film accentuates misunderstandings about what we see and what the work is, since when we look at your work we are looking at fragments of possible works, not a "realized" work. Isn't that so?
H.H.: Yes, exactly, there's a conscious confusion in this film. Where does the work begin? And where does everything else begin? As I don't identify the artist, some people have asked me whether it's a real artist or a staging of a character and his studio for the storyboard and the shoot.In the art world, you need references, institutions and critics, who evaluate and believe, and the film questions all that.What interested me was to see this figure isolated from a system, far from a judgement of reference. We tend to ignore the system and how it works. As in other works, I have often interrogated the subject and entered into dialogue with the work of other artists, even if I don't share the same commitments. I don't think art is a personal matter (my art/his art.) I believe in continuity, in the courage of dialogue and even confrontation, in writing and writing back.
A.K.: What's it like in your studio? H.H.: My artistic practice is unusual. I resist the common Fordist practice of artistic work. For me, first there's the writing, which happens all over the place as I walk, in cafés and public parks, and then there's the filming when I travel, which is very brief and concentrated, with fluid shots. I design my shots like a mathematical equation. They're very precise, even if they seem spontaneous. There's not much left for me to do at the editing stage and in the studio! I don't like to fuss or cook too much. I want things to be light, simple, raw and natural, otherwise I’m not interested. I'd be ashamed to involve a lot of people and a lot of money. I always ask myself: What's the point of all this? What's it all for? In my work, you get the impression that it's done by accident, that there's a good chance it won't happen. It's important to me that the work shows the probability of not being there in front of us.
AK. : When I look at studio-visit, I think of forms of production and exhibition (el-ilqaa') that are not the property of the art world, nor the contribution of colonial powers. What happens in the studio is, in a way, an inheritance of the work. When we think of the forms of expression in Amazigh culture, which include the phases of production, composition and performance in the same space-time. Stories, narratives of emergence and formulation would be part of the presentation of works to the public. H.H.: I feel we've been cut off from our heritage, in the sense that we don't really know what that heritage means anymore. We're still in a colonial system and apparatus, and we see things through a Western methodological prism. We need to undertake a re-reading of our heritage, avoiding the ideological burden and the purist, glorifying illusion of origins. We are exiles and citizens of the world, but we also want to affirm our cultures. Exiling oneself is not desertion.