An Article by D. M. (1146 words, 6 min. read)
In 1964, a sharp cry of rebellion broke through Beirut’s seemingly polished art world. It came not from a painter or a critic, but from the brechtian playwright Jalal Khoury—a man of the theater who dared to call out what others only whispered. In his article “Je suis inculte!” (“I am uncultivated!”), published in Magazine, Khoury rejected the rigid elitism of the Sursock Museum’s Salon d’Automne. He wasn’t just poking fun at artistic snobbery. He was confronting a deeper wound: a cultural institution that, in his eyes, had turned its back on the people it was meant to represent.
Now, decades later, the Sursock Museum responds with a bold and introspective exhibition that borrows Khoury’s very words as its title. Je suis inculte!, curated by Natasha Gasparian and Ziad Kiblawi, is not just a return to the archives. It is a confrontation with the ghosts of Lebanon’s artistic past, and a poignant meditation on what it means to build a canon in a fractured, ever-evolving nation.
Searching for a National Identity in Paint
The Salon d’Automne began with the promise of progress. In 1961, when the private villa of Nicolas Ibrahim Sursock opened its doors as a museum, it seemed Lebanon was ready to shape its cultural destiny. The Salon, with its juries, awards, and formal structure, aspired to elevate Lebanese art, aligning itself with European models. But in doing so, it imported not just a format, but a set of values that didn’t always speak to the complexities of Lebanon itself.
Who, then, was this art for?
By 1964, the cracks in that dream became visible. The painter Shafic Abboud, celebrated for his colorful abstractions, was awarded first prize for Enfantine, a purely abstract work. Jalal Khoury saw in this decision a betrayal—not of aesthetics, but of meaning. He remembered Abboud’s earlier works, rooted in memory and folklore. Now, Abboud seemed to have turned away from Lebanon’s visual language toward a European modernism that felt alien to everyday life.
I am vulgar,” Khoury wrote, “but I insist on remaining so.” It wasn’t a renunciation of art. It was a plea for art that spoke the language of the street, the market, the village, the war-torn city. Art that felt like home.
A Battle Between Two Visions of Beauty
At the heart of Khoury’s critique was a profound question: Should Lebanese art aspire to be global and abstract, or should it remain anchored in the soil, the struggle, and the faces of its people?
This wasn’t just a theoretical debate. It was deeply personal for many artists of the time. Take Paul Guiragossian, whose elongated figures cried out with the anguish and tenderness of exile. His canvases pulsed with raw emotion, far from detached abstraction. Or Helen Khal, who taught generations of students that self-expression must be honest before it can be beautiful. Her delicate yet powerful compositions reflected an inner world shaped by both heritage and modernity.
Still, others like Yvette Achkar and Nadia Saikali embraced abstraction as a form of freedom, breaking from representation to speak through color, rhythm, and intuition. Their works defied the idea that abstraction had to be foreign; they made it their own, reimagining modernity in a language that resonated with personal history and Lebanese terrain.
But the Salon’s repeated preference for one aesthetic over another created an atmosphere of exclusion. Jury decisions were scrutinized. In 1968, when Jean Khalifé served on the jury, the reaction was so intense that some artists boycotted the Salon entirely. Rafic Charaf, a visionary whose paintings shimmered with myth and protest, never fully trusted the institution. And Aref el Rayess, fiercely committed to social engagement, often stood on the margins of Sursock’s version of modernism—even as his brilliance was impossible to ignore.
In response, alternative spaces like Dar El Fan blossomed, breathing space into a scene that often felt suffocated by institutional expectations.
A Museum Reflecting a Wounded Nation
As the country slid toward civil war in the 1970s, the museum—like the nation—faced its own collapse. The Salon d’Automne went silent for eight years. When it returned in 1982, just months after the horrors of the Sabra and Shatila massacre, it did so with a message of resilience: that art could still shine through the darkness. But the artworks on display rarely addressed the violence that had changed the country. The museum, many felt, remained too quiet—too formal—in the face of tragedy.
In the postwar era, a new generation of artists emerged, unafraid to speak of loss, memory, displacement, and politics. Yet they often looked elsewhere for support. The Salon had become a monument to the past, not a platform for the present. And the Sursock Museum itself entered a period of uncertainty. Its glory dimmed until a major renovation in 2015 brought hope of a renaissance.
But Lebanon’s crises were far from over. The economic and sanitary collapse, and finally, the devastating port explosion of 2020. The museum was damaged physically and symbolically, once again caught in the chaos of a nation in pain.
Rewriting the Future, Gently
Today, Je suis inculte! is more than an archival exhibition. It is a brave act of self-reflection. By re-centering Khoury’s impassioned voice, the museum isn’t just retelling history. It’s owning its contradictions. The exhibition does not seek to resolve the tensions it reveals. Instead, it allows them to breathe.
And perhaps that is the most generous thing an institution can do: to step down from the pedestal of certainty and listen.
As a closing gesture, the exhibition introduces the work of surrealist painter Georges D. Corm—a quiet, unexpected turn. His presence suggests that the future of Lebanese art need not choose between realism and abstraction, between tradition and rupture. It can hold them all, as long as it remains honest.
In the end, Khoury’s cry still echoes. But maybe now, it no longer sounds like defiance. Maybe it sounds like invitation.
