I encountered Nan Goldin’s work in person at the age of eighteen while studying art in Paris. Her work was exhibited at the Centre Georges Pompidou where I spent most days after school. It was my sanctuary; having just left Lebanon, I often felt lost in Paris. But I knew my way to museums where I would sit in silence for hours, absorbing art with my entire being. At eighteen, broke yet hopeful to pursue a career in the arts in spite of the odds or my own family’s desire for me to forgo this endeavor, meeting Nan’s work transformed me. I’m sure it has transformed millions of people, yet my connection to it felt personal. The intimacy, the composition, the use of color, the honesty her work conveyed gave the viewer permission to exist, not as a product in society, but as a human. Every day after school, the photographs, the stories, the life Nan Goldin captured became part of my intimate experience of living in Paris, my existence between countries, identities and religions; her art planted a seed within me.
Nan’s work spans decades: from the HIV epidemic in the eighties, to the harm of predatory pharmaceutical companies, to documenting and celebrating queer experiences from the seventies over fifty years to today, her work always centered the intimate and personal experiences that allows us to connect with the larger social context, and understand that everything is political.
Years later, at a dinner at a friend’s house in New York City, I noticed she was there. My heart stopped. I approached her and asked: Nan Goldin? She smiled while eating her last bite of dessert. She gave me an inviting look that welcomed me to sit by her. I sat uncomfortably at first, a little star struck, but as soon as we started talking, I felt as though we had met many times before. I readjusted my position and shared my teenage encounter with her work. We dove right into discussing the situation in Palestine, it was after all hundreds of days into this harrowing genocide. We were both invited to explore ways that art, culture and our collective efforts could be mobilized to end the violent occupation of Gaza. We stayed in touch.
On another occasion, we had lunch on a terrasse in Brooklyn and a vision came over me. As we were discussing the reality of the art world with Palestine and Lebanon, the work of Mohamad Abdouni came to my mind. I had brought Nan an issue of Everything is Political where Mohamad’s work was featured: Treat Me Like Your Mother. Nan carefully looked at the images, and there, a thought escaped my mouth, I asked her: “Would you like to meet Mohamad? His work is directly connected to your legacy and I could see this encounter not only as a magical moment between two artists, but as a wrinkle in the fabric of reality: Lebanese queer artists meeting a New York icon that has opened up his world and imagination.” The idea made her smile, then we smoked a cigarette together before her cab picked her up. As I was driving back home that day, I couldn’t help but feel as though time was folding, my eighteen year old self, my world in Lebanon and the world I had built in NewYork were finally connecting. That connection sparked new possibilities, a meeting of cultures. From that moment I began inquiring about inviting Mohamad to fly to NewYork, for the first time in his life, and sort out this possible meeting of the minds. I let the idea guide the process, and completely surrendered to the possibility of connecting art worlds together. When I texted Mohamad about it, we immediately jumped on a call—his first words were “you made my week”.
Months later, we walked up to Nan’s apartment, arms filled with cookies, flowers, lunch, cameras, newspapers. Little did we know we were about to spend a magical afternoon bridging cultures and experiences in such a rewarding way. While waiting for her to join us in the living room, we saw the gorgeous sunlight travel across the art on the walls of her rich collection of sculptures and paintings by friends who once were like family. Once Nan entered the room, Mohamad, Charlie (Mohamad’s best friend and muse), and myself exchanged stories on politics, drag queens in Lebanon, Syria and Palestine, queer culture during the war, all stories captured in Mohamad’s book “Treat Me Like Your Mother”.
The conversation kicked off around cigarettes, coffee, cookies and exchanging books and signatures between both photographers.
CÉLINE: Nan, You are an icon in the art world, were you surprised to know you were an icon for queer artists living in Lebanon and Palestine?
NAN: Actually I had no idea that my work had traveled there. I’m deeply gratified to know this. I hope it helps make queer people there feel visible.
CÉLINE: Your advocacy for Palestine didn’t start this year. When we met, you shared that you used to be aware and active for the cause in the 70’s and 80’s in New York. Can you share more about how you got involved?
NAN: In the 70’s when I was a teenager, a boyfriend of mine showed me a book about the camps for displaced people in Palestine, and I was outraged. From then on I refused to go to Israel or let my work be shown there. I was on my own cultural boycott. Later, I worked in a bar in Times Square and the woman who owned the bar, Maggie Smith, was my political mentor. She was deeply involved with the Puerto Rican Liberation Movement and prisoner rights. It was during this time that I went to a few PLO meetings. In those days there was no internet so you had to find these things out, by word of mouth. For a few years leading up to October 7th, I was going to Pro-Palestine protests here in New York.
CÉLINE: Your speech in Berlin was shared by millions of people. Before you left, you were concerned about the gallery potentially censoring you. How did it go? What can you share about censorship in the art world and what you think about the artist’s role in these times?
NAN: It was my mountaintop speech, I’m thrilled that it’s gone viral.
The museum did try to censor me. Without my knowledge, the Director of the museum, Klaus Biesenbach, set up a symposium with panelists that were almost entirely Pro-Zionist. The intent was to disprove my position. It was very bizarre that a director of a museum would go so far to disavow an artist he was showing in his museum. So he gave a speech right after mine that was drowned out by the voices of STRIKE GERMANY who orchestrated a powerful action.
I also gave an interview to Hanno Hauenstein who reported about the censorship that had occurred at the Neue National galerie. We made a new credit slide for the analogue slideshow of The Other Side and The Ballad of Sexual Dependency, that reads “In solidarity with the people of Gaza, the West Bank, and Lebanon. And the Israeli civilians killed on October 7.” They had coerced us to take the slides out and we had, but I decided it had to go back in and they wouldn’t allow it. When they reached out to the paper to say that they hadn’t censored me, I wrote to thank them and asked when I could put the slide back in. I’m happy to say the credits are in the exhibition now.
It’s abhorrent that Germany has censored about 200 artists, writers and academics, about a quarter of them Jewish, since October 7th. It’s crazy that Germans think it’s okay to tell Jews they’re anti-semitic in support of Palestine. There’s a policy in the German government that criminalizes boycotting Israel or showing support for Palestine. The policy is called Staatsräson- a key part of German foreign policy which views Israel’s security linked to German national interest, and a “logical consequence of Germany’s responsibility for the Holocaust.” meaning that the German state can not exist without supporting Israel. Which is meant to assuage their guilt about the Nazi holocaust. It’s illegal to make a comparison between the Nazi holocaust to what’s happening in Gaza. The conflation of anti-zionism and anti-semitism is very dangerous as it empowers the extreme right wing who are truly anti-semitic.
CÉLINE: Reclaiming silence was powerful. Since all phones were off while it was happening, that part wasn’t shared with the world. What was it like in person?
NAN: Good question. Actually Céline, it was your idea and it was brilliant. I asked the whole audience to observe silence. I extended the silence to four minutes which represented one one-hundredth of a second for the 44,757 people “officially” killed in Palestine by Israeli forces, half of them children, and the 3,516 people killed in Lebanon by Israeli forces and the 815 Israeli civilians killed on October 7th. The silence was also in honor of the at least 10,000 people buried under the rubble. I wanted people to feel uncomfortable so they could feel what it would be like to have their bodies hijacked for a minute. The audience of a thousand people maintained the silence, which was so moving. Everyone put away their phones so I haven’t found any footage. As I said in my speech, these numbers are a gross undercount and certainly not up to date today, two months later. The Lancet reported that the numbers were closer to 186,000 people. The killing didn’t cease with the ceasefire.
For me the extended silence was the most powerful part of the speech.
CÉLINE: It’s hard to cope with everything that is unfolding in real time, on our screens, the level of evil is just at another threshold. We also have a change of administration in the US, one that is on the far right and deeply invested in fascism. Do you see a parallel with the past elections, even going as far as when Bush was elected? How do you think this will affect the art world and our basic freedoms?
NAN: We’ve entered into the most dystopian of times that could ever be imagined. We’ve feared the encroaching fascism in the political structure of America for decades but now it’s full fledged. It’s terrifying. In 2000 I left America for a decade after Bush stole the election. I believe this was the beginning of the erosion of the meaning of truth. Trump has cemented this into the concept of “Fake News” which has been extremely dangerous. But leaving the country was a meaningless way to resist.
Now I’m trying to find a way to engage meaningfully with what’s here to stay. I find it hard to breathe here.
I fear that nobody is safe. I fear for Palestine, I fear for the people who’ve been working so hard to support Palestine. I fear for all the people who’ve been fighting for freedom and justice. What’s especially terrifying is that anywhere you look, evil policies are being put into place. The planet is rebelling against us. AI is creating even more sophisticated surveillance in social media. Trump is talking about moving people from Gaza to Indonesia and opening his hotels on the land. Elon Musk gave a Nazi salute but the ADL defended him and called it an “awkward gesture”. It’s absolutely terrifying that we’ve arrived here. I also hold Biden and Harris responsible, for their legacy of genocide. Maybe if they stopped sending billions of dollars worth of weapons, they would have gotten more support.
CÉLINE: Many of us are at risk during this upcoming presidency. Do you feel that art, the power of images, has the power to change the way things are going to be? In other words, does art still hold the kind of power that changes politics?
NAN: About Art, I wish I could say yes. I don’t expect it to change policies or the government, but my hope is that there are gestures made that are strong enough to open people’s minds.
Artists have always been the ones who speak out. If more artists had publicly supported Palestine, the people who spoke out wouldn’t be so blacklisted. There would be more of a sense of unity. The collective voice is stronger. The more of us there are, the more of us there are.
