We are proud to present Majd Kurdieh’s eighth solo exhibition, featuring a new series of narrative oil paintings. In this body of work he deepens his exploration of surrealism, using the symbolism behind his characters and his universe to illustrate an honest, introspective view on life’s journey. Each painting has its starting point in a line of poetry or writing, either the artist’s own words or those of the great poets Abu Tammam and Mahmoud Darwish.
This exhibition also marks ten years of Fann À Porter working with Majd Kurdieh. In March 2016, we hosted his inaugural exhibition, The Land Needs Ironing, in Villa 45, Jumeirah 2, our gallery’s current home of ten years.
Artist statement:
غيمةٌ
تسيرُ ببطءٍ
يتغيّرُ لونُها على مزاجِ الشّمس
والقمرُ الصّاعدُ مِنَ التّلال يسرعُ قليلاً ليدركَ الغيمةَ قبل خروجها مِنَ المشهدِ...
وفي اللحظةِ المناسبةِ لتلاقي الغيمة بالقمر، تظهرُ الشّخصيّات وتروي أحداث رحلتها
إلى أين تمضي يا عصفور؟ وأنت تكنسُ بجناحكَ أضواء المدينة كالغبار عن شرفةٍ نبتت من الرّكام
إلى أين تمضين يا فراشةُ؟ الغيمةُ ليست قُطنًا للرّاحة، والدّنيا كلّها أقسى من جناحك
أمضي بسذاجتي ودهشتي الأولى، موقناً أنّ الوردة الألف قد تكسر الحجر
من أين أتيت يا عصفور؟
من ذاكرتي؟
أما زلت تذكرني حين رميتكَ بحجرٍ وأغمضت بصري خوفاً من أن أصيبك؟ وطرتَ في الدّنيا هربًا منّي... هل أنت أنا؟
من أين أتيتِ يا فراشةُ، من خفقةِ قلبها أم من ابتسامتها الّتي أتعبَها طولُ الأمل؟
أتيت من كلّ الّذين لا مكانَ لهم رغم زحام المدينة
أمّا الآن، في هذه اللّحظة ننتظر ملامسةَ الغيمة للقمرِ وعند ظهور الشّخصيّات...
نوقفُ المشهد؛ نُسمّيه "لوحة"
مجد كردية 2026
A cloud.
Moving slowly.
Its color changing with the mood of the sun.
And the moon, rising from the hills, hastens
slightly—trying to catch the cloud before it
leaves the scene…
At the precise moment when the cloud
meets the moon, the characters appear and
recount the story of their journey.
Where are you going, little bird?
You sweep the city’s lights with your wing
like dust from a balcony that has grown out
of the rubble.
Where are you going, butterfly?
The cloud is not cotton meant for rest, and
the world is harsher than your wing.
I move forward with my naivety and my first
astonishment, certain that the thousandth
rose might break the stone.
Where did you come from, little bird?
From my memory?
Do you still remember when I threw a stone at
you and closed my eyes, afraid I might hurt you?
You flew out into the world, fleeing from me…
Are you me?
And you, butterfly—where did you come from?
From the beat of her heart,
or from her smile, worn thin by the long wait of
hope?
I came from all those who have no place,
despite the crowded city.
And now, in this moment, we wait for the cloud
to touch the moon.
And when the characters appear…
we stop the scene.
We call it a painting.
Majd Kurdieh, 2026
