MAKTABA is an artist-run, deeply-rooted space invested in representation and culture located in Tio’tia:ke / Montreal, founded by Sundus Abdul Hadi
Visit MAKTABA.ONLINE or in-person at 165 rue Saint-Paul Ouest
MAKTABA MANIFESTO
“Now before I forget, I would like to remind you of something you hear often: ‘Hey, come on. We want to eat bread.’” - Jewad Salim, 1951
As a multidisciplinary artist, I’ve engaged with the idea of space-making as an artist, a writer, a curator, and now as an independent bookshop owner. With care being central to my practice, I’ve approached all my projects with a micro to macro lens on self, community and the world. Knowledge of self, critical thinking, and world-building are core elements I have always returned to. Throughout my practice, I’ve consistently revisited the question of artistic sovereignty with my peers; dare we ask, “how do we make our practices sustainable?” If there is no space for the collective us on the tables in our so-called industries, what does it take to create our own space, on our own terms? Almost two decades into my practice, I still define my process by returning to the manifesto of the Baghdad Group for Modern Art from 1951: “The new generation of artists finds the beginning of a guiding light in the early legacy of their forefathers.” And our grandmothers, too.
I yearn for the ancient culture I come from, for the traditions that gave us knowledge of the stars, mythological storytelling, and the first written word. The age old saying, “Books are written in Cairo, printed in Beirut and read in Baghdad” speaks to my soul. I grew up with tales of Beit el Hikma (The Grand Library of Baghdad) and images of the book-lined Al Mutanabbi street reflecting Iraq’s global impact through literature and knowledge production. I also grew up with stories about Hulago turning the waters of Dijla blue with ink in 1258 AD, entire libraries burning down with every conquest and invasion over the centuries, and suicide bombings on paper-filled streets in my lifetime. Books are cultural capital; knowledge is power. Destroying books is an act of domination. In 2003, when the librarian of Basra, Alia Mohammad Baqer, saved 30,000 books by smuggling them into her home and around her community, she knew that the British-US invasion and its ensuing chaos would make the library a target. She was right; the site itself, the library, was first used by government forces, looted and then burnt down.
The nostalgia for a past I never experienced is a permanent fixture in my experience of displacement, one I consistently seek, but never seem to find. I inherit both the wisdom and struggles of my ancestors. It is in this liminal space where my work lies, where I've always drawn inspiration. As an Iraqi immigrant in Tio:tia’ke, opening Maktaba is the closest I’ve gotten to laying down roots in a place that for a long time felt transient. However, since giving birth to my own children here, I have come to appreciate the future-ancient traditions of a land that my ancestors could never have imagined their descendants to call home. And so, I give thanks and blessings to the Kanien’kehà:ka Nation, the traditional custodians of the lands and waters on which Maktaba stands today.
While Maktaba may be perceived by many to be a business, it was intuited and intended as a site-specific art installation, a curatorial project, a storytelling experience, and a gathering place for our growing community-(ies). Meaning both “library” and “bookshop” in Arabic, Maktaba is an artist-run, deeply-rooted space invested in representation and culture. There was no blueprint for Maktaba. I didn’t model it on anything - not the business model, nor its aesthetic or mission statement. If anything, it is modelled on the notion of home, as wide and endless as such a concept can be. It draws from both my individual and collective experience. I created Maktaba in a void - to fill a gap, to embody a space I envisioned for my self, my community. In turn, it becomes an offering for my city in all its diversity. The return for the offering is the support of our community in keeping us running, in becoming collaborators of the space, transforming as our collective needs change and evolve. The exchange is more valuable than money, or clicks, or shares. It keeps the cycle of care alive.
To quote Jewad Salim again, “Good art performs a noble service, and a good artist serves humanity.”
A space is nothing if not for the bodies that occupy it, the conversations that it holds, the experiences had within it. A bookshop is universal. A book is ancient, timeless. Whether the book-lover browses along Mutanabbi street or Jimbocho in Tokyo, books are portals to other worlds. Browsing bookshops is an art, as is curating their shelves. Books have been central to my artistic practice - my references have always emerged out of the physical form of a book, whether it was a printed image or a theory. I use books to escape into fictional worlds and characters, I use books to cook, to teach my children how to read and discover, to seek self-knowledge and healing. I’ve used books in my spiritual practice, in my academic career, as objects to collect. I love books so much that I made my own books. I guess you could also say, I love bookshops so much, I made my own bookshop, too.
The book industry is by no means perfect. In fact, it reproduces the same -isms as the arts, academia, and media, reflecting our capitalist driven society with all its issues. The marginalized are either pushed to the sidelines, or tokenized, or written about. Care-full curation of books is critical, or else we’ll be regurgitating more of the same harmful narratives that run rampant in the world. As many good books as there are, there are just as many bad ones. However, I feel more empowered to approach this mammoth industry with a disruptive business model than I ever did as an independent artist or writer straggling both the art and publishing worlds. After all, money is still exchanging hands, so there are no qualms on either side. However, when you value culture over commerce, the power dynamic shifts ever so slightly. Supported with the visible and invisible labour of family and kinfolk, the tribal structure of both Maktaba and We Are The Medium is a counter-action to the regular model of the arts industry, because decentralizing business from the arts is what creates cultural currency.
In the last pages of TCOYS, I wrote:
“The presence of art spaces that are sites of community and empowerment are temporary, unfortunately. There has yet to be a permanent site for such convening, in the context of art, at least in Montreal. I believe it to be possible, sustainable, and scalable. The continuing work involved in building and creating safer spaces for our work and narratives to exist lies ahead of us.”
And thus, the seed was planted for Maktaba. In the evolution of my artistic practice, I see the links and connections between all of my work. I entered the world of books first as an avid reader and lover of books, browsing bookshops and finding home in them wherever I was. Evolving into an author and small publisher has sensitized me to the experience of the individuals behind the books we love. My work as an artist and curator are similarly entwined, one feeding into the other in a symbiotic relationship, never through competition, but through building new narratives, new worlds in which we can boldly take up space. Power in numbers.
In a way, Maktaba is the new table, and the bread. Its is an answer to my first question on artistic sovereignty, it is a tangible example of community-care. Whether it lasts one year or ten, I’ll be grateful. It has been more rewarding as any other project I have done to date, except maybe writing my own books. What I can only strive for is evidence of cultural impact in my own city and the greater diaspora, something impossible to measure without perspective and time. What excites me the most is hearing about sister spaces around the world, sprouting up around the same time as Maktaba, all responding to an ancestral call into the future, imagining systemic change on a collective level through knowledge, community and care.
Sundus Abdul Hadi
Tio’tia:ke | Montreal
February 2023