Céline Semaan

EIP: Hi Céline. Do you think you could quickly introduce yourself?

CÉLINE: Yes, I’m Céline Semaan. I’m the founder of Slow Factory. I’m an artist, designer, creative, and writer—someone who is at the intersection of many things, primarily climate and human rights, but by way of arts, communications, objects, and stories.

EIP: Could you tell us about your upbringing and your artistic history?

CÉLINE: Yes. I was born and raised in Lebanon during the war—from 1975 to 1995—a very devastating war, and an unspoken-about war in the West. We had to flee as refugees because our ethnicity and religion were under threat.

Sadly, it became very much a religious war.

We left Lebanon as refugees for Montréal to seek asylum. This experience was very formative for me. I returned to Lebanon when I was 13 years-old. So I left at age four and came back in 1995 during a ceasefire. But, as you know, ceasefires with Israel don’t mean much. Israel continued to bomb and occupy the south of Lebanon. It’s very similar to what you see now.

So my upbringing made me aware of politics at a very young age. I understood early on that either we control our narrative or it will be shaped in favor of oppression against us. From a young age, I was involved in storytelling and various art forms— visual, performative—making a case for my culture, my people, and myself.

EIP: Did you always know you were an artist, or did that come later?

CÉLINE: At a very young age, I knew I was an artist. I was surrounded by artists in my family—my grandfather, my aunties on both my mom’s and dad’s sides—all talented illustrators and painters. My grandfather was a sculptor. I grew up immersed in creative expression. I studied under my grandfather and auntie, later under a Lebanese artist, and then a French artist who lived in Beirut for several years. I was born with a gift for illustrating and drawing, just like my aunties. For a long time, I thought I’d pursue painting and illustration.

But in 2002, I shifted into conceptual art and cyber arts. Even so, I’ve always struggled with fully practicing art as a career. Growing up in survival mode, art felt like a luxury— something “not for us.” Art is life for me, but I felt I had to build some structure of financial and physical safety to support my community, myself, and my peers.

EIP: Was there a turning point when you decided you could truly invest in art?

CÉLINE: Yes, 2006, when Israel bombed Lebanon’s airport and invaded. Anthony Bourdain happened to be there at the time. I was supposed to fly to Lebanon that day, but the bombing grounded flights. That summer was pivotal. like a slap in the face, making me think, “I can’t do art full-time; I need to create an infrastructure for survival.”

Two years later, in 2008, Slow Factory was born. Through it, I could be “an artist in disguise”, creating pathways but staying behind the scenes. Art is a vulnerable practice; you need support to do it, and when your home country is in chaos, art feels like a luxury. For almost 15 years, I hid behind Slow Factory. Only after my book came out in 2024 did I feel ready to say, “No — I can do both.”

EIP: Tell us more about Slow Factory — its creation, mission, and how Slow Forest fits as the next step.

CÉLINE: Slow Factory began with a manifesto: that we can create at the intersection of ecosystems and human relationships. That big, lofty goal can only exist through artistic exploration and experimentation first.

At the start, Slow Factory created art objects, some acquired into museum permanent collections. For example, I worked with squares of silk—seemingly neutral, but sourced ethically from places that treated silkworms well. The prints were NASA images showing Earth without political borders. I juxtaposed images over time—drought, deforestation, phytoplankton blooms—to explore climate change. These silks became scarves, which carried cultural meaning, whether worn as a hijab or simply for warmth and protection. Fashion creates culture; culture creates meaning; meaning can spark rebellion or resistance.

From 2008 to 2016, this was Slow Factory’s focus. In 2016, Trump’s Muslim Ban pushed me to create two pieces: a NASA image of the Middle East, questioning both the “ban” and the term “Middle East,” and another showing refugee migration data, a dark magenta stream flowing from the region toward Europe and America. These were printed on silk, worn, stretched on canvas, and exhibited, functioning as both garments and data visualization.

My work has always been about data, nature, and storytelling. Stories as data points.

EIP: How does Slow Forest fit into this next phase?

CÉLINE: Slow Factory has always operated in both conceptual and practical realms. Before Slow Forest, we had a small Brooklyn space, but after COVID, we moved here. For five years, I kept trying to recreate city-based projects, not realizing the forest itself was holding us. I’d been doing reforestation, working with native bees, removing invasive plants, building a living seed bank; all considered “practical” work, separate from art. But when approached about artist-run gardens, I realized I’d been bridging these worlds all along. Slow Forest is that embodiment: a living archive of seeds, events, and gatherings.

It’s where the digital meets the physical, not as an object, but as a living experience.

EIP: Could you share more about the forest’s history?

CÉLINE: This land was part of the Underground Railroad. It’s where freed Black Americans first owned land. Before that, it was Lenapehoking; the Lenape people were expelled, much like what’s happening in Palestine now.

This place still holds that colonized history, but also a reclamation: freed Black communities remaining here for generations. The first integrated cemetery between Black and white people is here. Harlem is nearby, as is the former home of Toni Morrison, where she wrote much of her work and welcomed Dr. Angela Davis.

Rewilding is also strong here: native planting, Black-owned farms, bee farms. It’s a place rich in both painful and liberatory history.

EIP: How do you see Slow Forest within the larger art-world turn toward nature?

CÉLINE: Gallery spaces are closing, but nature-based projects are thriving, especially upstate. The white-cube gallery feels increasingly irrelevant; art doesn’t live on white walls alone.

Slow Forest expands what a “gallery” is. and questions who has access to art and nature. Both are often privileges. Here, they are opened up, bringing together art audiences, environmentalists, cultural workers, communities that need to connect.Walking in nature is freeing. Adding art to that creates an even more expansive feeling.

EIP: What do you imagine the future to look like, for the world and for art?

CÉLINE: We’re in a time of deconstruction—dismantling colonial ways of separating art from politics, environment, and culture. The future will redefine what’s “precious”: clean air, water, and nature will replace material status symbols. Current wars— in Congo, Sudan, Gaza—are all resource wars. Art must reflect and question these realities, guiding society toward new ways of building.

EIP: In your book, you write about education as a colonial tool. In what ways is Slow Forest a school, and what can people learn here?

CÉLINE: For five years, I didn’t realize I was already in the school I’d been searching for. I imagined it as a building in New York—an expensive, institutional space—but that’s a colonized idea of education.

What if school is everywhere? What if it’s nomadic, outside institutions? The forest is that school, a cradle for ideas, allowing us to think beyond walls, to be legitimate and sovereign in nature, as nature.

When people come here, they feel it — and once they feel it, it becomes real.

EIP: That’s beautiful. Céline, that was my last question. Thank you so much.

CÉLINE: Thank you. I hope I answered all your questions. This was such a fun interview.