“Sound in a Void”

What is your starting point, and how does the artistic process develop?

Qusay: I usually begin with an idea that feels unresolved—often tied to an emotion. It could be something deeply personal, something shared by a wider community, or a story that speaks specifically to those who’ve lived through displacement and war-related trauma.

From there, I move into a research phase, gathering materials: oral histories, archival footage, photographs—sometimes fragments that aren’t clearly defined but carry emotional weight.

When the work is site-specific, I explore the spatial memory of the place—its geography, architecture, and hidden histories. With my background in architecture, I tend to read space in layers, observing how physical structures absorb and reflect social, political, and emotional imprints.

Do you interview people as well?

Qusay: Yes, and it’s a very sensitive process. I approach interviews with care—building trust, being intentional, and creating a shared space where people feel safe enough to open up.

In the multimedia project Above Our Waters in collaboration with artist Dhia Douss, we interviewed fishers from Tunisia’s coast. We asked about their daily lives and connection to the waters, especially concerning migration through the Mediterranean—a topic that can be deeply personal and politically loaded. Above Our Waters will be showcased on the 18th of July at Kunstraum Kreuzberg, Berlin.

How does something intangible become a material work?

Qusay: I never follow a fixed plan. I believe we live in ways that are often metaphysical. Histories are fluid. Time isn’t linear—it depends on who’s telling the story. I stay close to the data and voices gathered during research, but I try not to control the outcome. I let the process breathe and shift. I allow room for surprise.

Why is sound such an essential part of your work?

Qusay: I often ask myself: what would a memory feel like as a room, a corridor, or a void? And when I reach for the void, I find that words fail me—but sound does not.

Sound is invisible but present. It reshapes how we perceive space and can transport us somewhere else entirely. It’s a sensory bridge to memory, emotion, and time.

In relation to memory?

Qusay: Yes. Sound can open a space for grief—and for healing. I listen carefully to my surroundings as a way to ground myself. That act of listening is a deeply personal process, and through my work, I try to invite others into that experience.

I create soundscapes that leave room for reflection. They don’t dictate, they suggest. I want people to imagine their own emotional responses inside the work.

How do you technically produce those sounds?

Qusay: In my live performance and video installation Visions in Monochrome, for example, I used wheat as a sound source—recreating a ritual from the region I come from. I couldn’t return to Syria that time, so I brought the wheat to me. I dropped it on various surfaces—wood, concrete, metal—and recorded the sounds.

Later, I composed and layered the material into an atmospheric soundscape that is deeply rooted in the land and memory it evokes.

So the sound collection is both process and result?

Qusay: Exactly. I want people to experience sound the way I do—how it can shift perception through reverberation, delay, and resonance.

Sometimes the most powerful moments come from raw, unaltered recordings. I also use my own voice—what I call shouts—not through language, but tones. Spoken language can be limiting; it belongs to specific people and histories. But tones and musical notes move freely. For me, they’re the sound of feeling itself.

What role do personal and collective memory play in your work?

Qusay: I come from war, exile, and migration. These themes are naturally present in my work. While I often draw from personal memory, it speaks to the shared reality of an entire generation. Even when I work with these sensitive themes, I always center human well-being. I want my installations to be spaces of care—where people can slow down, breathe, and feel.

I work with memory as both personal and collective. I’m not interested in nostalgia, or rewriting history to look better. I’m interested in imagining futures that were taken from us—or not yet born.

People often reduce communities to single images. If I say “Syria,” many will think only of war and refugees. But war is the choice of the oppressor. Our shared memory can also be an act of resistance, a liberation practice.

This applies not only to Syria—but also to other places like Palestine, Congo, Ukraine and many other oppressed people who didn’t choose to be under the control of colonial or imperial powers.

So the question becomes: how do we reclaim our narratives? How do we tell our stories on our own terms?

Is your work political? Would you describe yourself as an activist artist?

Qusay: My work can be interpreted as political because it intervenes in dominant histories and memory practices. But above all, it’s driven by the fluidity and freedom of artistic expression.

What are your upcoming projects?

Qusay: I’m working on two films. Sad Olive Seasons, the upcoming hybrid feature by Rand Abou Fakher in which I participated as a co-writer and a performer.

The second is my debut hybrid documentary feature, The Glorification of Earth, centered on my great-grandfather’s house in Shahba, Syria. Built at the end of the 19^th century on the ruins of a Roman villa, the house was seized by French colonizers in 1920 and later militarized by the Assad regime in 1970. Through the film, I explore layers of political, personal, and archaeological memory. I am currently in the development phase, focusing on research and assembling the film team.

I am also designing a public sculpture for my hometown in Syria, commissioned by the local community to be installed in a square that once served as a central site for protests against the Assad regime. The sculpture is meant to commemorate those who were killed or oppressed by Assad’s militias. It is a deep honor for me as an artist—especially as someone who helped organize those protests.

Lastly, I am participating as an artist in the Immersive History Lab, contributing to its workshops and conversations, which will culminate in a multimedia work. I’m looking forward to the outcome and see it as a valuable opportunity to contribute meaningfully to memory culture.

Curious for more? Check out Qusay Awad’s website.