Omar Mahfoudi

Yes, cinema is essential to my work, it inspires me immensely. In painting, I sometimes struggle to construct a narrative in a linear way; instead, it happens in the moment, through impulse and spontaneity. I like to confront techniques and subjects without necessarily trying to tell a story in the classical sense. Cinema, on the other hand, is built around a guiding thread that drives the narrative, a script that immerses us in a setting and a mise-en-scène designed down to the finest detail. Filmmakers play with both image and sound, whereas in painting, only the image speaks. And that’s precisely what interests me in cinema: the light, the compositions, the sets, the staging, etc. My paintings are often constructed like a film scene.
If I had to choose one film, it would be 2001: A Space Odyssey by Stanley Kubrick. This film tells a story that spans across time, from prehistory to a future dominated by technology and artificial intelligence. It depicts human evolution, from a primitive state to an era where machines take on an increasingly significant role. This idea of a journey, of transitioning from one world to another, strongly resonates with what I explore in my work.

For this exhibition, I wanted to immerse myself in a nocturnal atmosphere where blue dominates. I usually tend to favour pastel and warm tones in my paintings (reds, oranges, and their derivatives), and I have always used blue as an alternative to black. A dark cobalt, for example, to outline the contours of characters or the silhouettes of trees. I have been greatly inspired by the Impressionists, who rejected this colour, black. Blue has a coldness that fascinates me and takes me back to my childhood in Tangier, facing the sea. It is a shade that has accompanied me for years.

Indeed, I am drawn toward abstraction. The two-year break between my last two solo exhibitions was a period of intense work and reflection. I began to focus more on removing elements rather than adding them. The figure no longer exists to assert its presence in the landscape, and the surrounding plant life fades away, making room for more abstract or linear horizons — sea, sky. I’ve even started to eliminate the horizon itself. This shift has allowed me to explore light reflection, moving toward a more blurred image.
I have always believed that painting should be about subtraction, not addition; getting to the essence. The goal is for the painting to speak for itself, without relying heavily on narrative. This tension between figuration and abstraction is central to my practice.
Waiting for the Light to Change immerses us in a certain level of abstraction. Similarly, moving through the night serves as a metaphor for abstraction. In the dark, we lose our bearings and references, as the environment becomes unclear. Painting at night brings me closer to the notion of dreaming.

It’s true that I often speak about the significance of light. When I first began painting, at 18, while living in Tangier with my mother, I worked in my bedroom. My main source of inspiration came from books, which served as my only connection to the outside world. I was immersing myself in art history, discovering the past of art. I was particularly fascinated by expressionism. German Expressionism, in particular, had a strong influence on me. Many people described my work as “tortured” because it came from the inside; I didn’t draw inspiration from the external world. I deliberately avoided outside influences to prevent my art from falling into the folkloric orientalist tropes often found in Moroccan painting.
People often told me I was fortunate to live in Tangier, a city of light. At the time, I didn’t fully grasp that. Over the years, however, that light gradually became embedded in my work, almost unconsciously. Now that I live in Paris, the so-called City of Light, I find it to be gray and dark. At the same time, I feel somewhat detached from nature in my studio. These two absences, nature and light, have become central themes in my work over the past five years.
Many artists have said that colour is light, and light is colour. I’ve maintained both light and colour as core elements of expression, striving to resist figurative representation. Even though my work may appear figurative, it’s often disrupted by my spontaneous and raw gesture or is obscured by water.

Yes, growing up between two worlds gave me the ability to see things from multiple perspectives, both from within and from the outside. My painting has always been influenced by Western art movements, whether from the 20th century or earlier. The history of Moroccan painting is more recent; it truly emerged after the protectorate, in the 1940s, with the first Moroccan painters appearing in the 1960s.
I believe this dual influence is reflected in my work. The confrontation between these two artistic heritages pushes me to seek a form of poetry that escapes what is predictable or concrete. I enjoy playing with contrasts, with tensions between two opposites, because it is often within these spaces that something spontaneous and powerful can emerge.

Aniconism can be defined as the absence of representation in monotheistic religions. I’ve always found myself in confrontation with this idea. In my family and surroundings, I was told that depicting human figures was like defying God. The belief was that when you represent a figure in art, whether in sculpture or painting, you cannot breathe life into it or give it a soul, only God has that power.
But for me, it was never about challenging divinity. What interests me is exploring my own condition, representing figures to speak about existence, about presence. This pushed me very early on to ask myself questions: what is figuration? What is representation? And what is abstraction? These are reflections that still accompany me today.

This restriction has always existed, and each generation continues to question and reinterpret it. From the early days of Islam, when representation was forbidden, some artists were already bypassing the ban by creating illustrated miniatures. Later, in the 1970s, there were poets and young people who challenged these taboos. When Moroccan painting emerged, it was primarily through a naïve approach, with very simple figures. Other artists drew inspiration from abstract forms rooted in local traditions, such as mosaics or the patterns found in Berber carpets.
I think my generation also experienced a form of resistance, particularly regarding the representation of the body and the nude. Today, the new generation continues this struggle, refusing to be confined by limitations, whether social, religious, or political. And that is essential because art is, above all, a space of freedom.

Art, for me, is a way to navigate and make sense of the world. Since the beginning of my practice, I have been interested in the tension between the real and the imagined, between what is remembered and what is dreamed. I see my paintings as spaces where fragmented memories, landscapes, and figures come together in a suspended moment, much like how we experience time and existence itself. Whether it’s exploring solitude, the vastness of nature, or themes of displacement, my work is about questioning how we inhabit the world; physically and emotionally.

Yes, in a way. I am drawn to the idea of isolation, not in a negative sense, but as a space for introspection. My figures exist within landscapes that are often vast and immersive, but they are never fully alone, the natural world surrounds them, embraces them. I think this echoes the existentialist notion of searching for meaning in the midst of uncertainty. The figures I paint are not just representations of individuals but also reflections of memory, nostalgia, and even the self. In some ways, they could be seen as self-portraits, carrying the weight of lived experience and imagination.

The idea of waiting is essential to my creative process. In painting, there is a suspended time, a moment of contemplation that precedes the act of painting. In my studio, I spend long moments observing, watching the variations of light filtering through the window. These transformations influence my work, as they capture that almost imperceptible moment when an emotion is born and finds its place on the canvas.
Also, I have shaped myself as an artist in a largely self-taught way, outside of academic frameworks that sometimes constrain personal expression. This quest for freedom has guided my approach: I have always felt closer to modern painters, to their pursuit of spontaneity and pure emotion, rather than to overly formal learning. Today, my work is evolving towards more abstract and minimalist forms. The spontaneity of the gesture is essential, even though I sometimes retain subtle figures that serve as landmarks for the viewer. They anchor the composition and allow for a journey between abstraction and dreamlike imagery. To preserve this sense of freedom, I let myself be guided by waiting, observation, and the impulse of the moment. It is within this dynamic, between contemplation and spontaneity, that my painting comes to life.