This article appeared in Being Serwan Baran Issue #69 dedicated to tackling the journey of Serwan Baran, an Iraqi artist who transforms the brutal realities of war and human suffering into visual narratives. Born in Baghdad in 1968 and shaped by his experiences as a soldier, Baran’s work is rich with authenticity and emotional depth. His art reveals a complex psyche and a deep connection to the human experience. Through dark, brooding canvases, Baran explores themes of pain, resilience, and hope, urging viewers to confront uncomfortable truths while embracing our shared humanity.
During his time as a soldier in the Iraqi Army, Baran was forced to paint realistic, propagandist images depicting battle victories and the casualties who fell at the hands of powerful fighters during the Gulf War. He also refrained from creating personal and anti-war works out of fear of retaliation. Once Baran left Iraq and eventually settled in Jordan, he reflected on his experiences and his work took on strong political undertones: Only Slogans focused on wall slogans pre- and post-Saddam; Whispering centred on silence and transmitting information; and Elected, portrayed the current democratic climate. One of his most celebrated expressionist series focused on the freakish and figural depiction of Army generals using earthy tones and muddled backgrounds. The satirical works recount Baran’s traumatic military past and aim to ridicule the leaders he and other soldiers were once made to revere. Another subject central to Baran’s work is the dog; building on his interest in history and mythology, he learned about the role of canines across cultures and used that knowledge in his art to depict the dog as both a symbol of transition from life to death, and an instrument of the brutality of the war. Baran discusses how his exile impacted his artwork in greater detail and tells us more about how mythology influences his painting.
What artworks did you create in Jordan?
The first project I worked on was called Shiarat Fakat or Only Slogans at Orfali Art Gallery in Jordan, a political exhibition, which highlighted the politically charged murals and slogans on Baghdad’s walls. My memory was formed by the slogans on the walls glorifying the Iraqi rulers at that time. These walls were used as canvases for political expression, showcasing the shifting political landscape and the absence of a unified homeland. While the slogans remain the same, the names of the politicians and people in power changed. For example, on one wall was written, “Long live the leader, Saddam Hussein”. Then on that same wall, they removed the name of Saddam Hussein and put the name of someone else. The wording remained the same, but the names were changed. One of the scenes that impressed me was a big national flag on the wall. [Then] a person came and drew a donkey on the wall. The addition of the donkey was a great artistic scene. It was done in a primitive way. I took a picture of the donkey and kept it in my memory. I replicated it but artistically through the idea of time: how slogans were written on the walls, and then were erased and replaced by other slogans. But through erosion, the colours would vanish, and the previous slogans would reappear. The idea of time came up; how time changes and faces change.
Another exhibition I did at the Orfali was Whispering. After Shiara Fakat, I felt that we couldn’t speak; we used to be silent, today we are still silent, and we don’t know when we will be able to speak loudly. The idea behind Whispering is people whispering in each other’s ears and gossiping and how news travels from person to person. I saw that our world was truly based on rumours and how information changes. I created Whispering to look like a film on long horizontal canvases, showing how information moves from one head to another.
Then I created an important exhibition called Elected. It was exhibited at a gallery called the Matisse Art Gallery in Marrakech. Elected tackled the mocking of current democracy, a political show that I couldn’t exhibit in Jordan. Elected is a ballot box about the lies of the elections, and ultimately how our votes are useless and the people who will be elected are already chosen. After that, all my work had a political point of view. Everything was about oppression.
Was there any backlash about your work in Iraq?
When other artists and I used to exhibit in Iraq, the officials did not understand our work. If we drew something unattractive and they asked what it was, we used to say that the work is about the enemy. However, it was exhausting. We were afraid.
In Jordan, they don’t care what we portrayed about Iraq or the Iraqi experience. I worked for approximately five years on army officers in high ranks in Amman with the Orfali Gallery. Then I exhibited the same show at Nabad Art Gallery in 2013 titled On the Edge.
The idea was that in Iraqi mythology, when rich people, important leaders and kings, die, they are not buried in Iraq. They are buried in Bahrain. In Bahrain, there are three million Dilmun graves called the Dilmun Burial Mounds. When you go to Bahrain by plane, you could see about three million small hills. When they conducted an archaeological dig in the area, they found three million graves inside, but only for the important people, not the ordinary people, which they sent in boats. I was inspired and created the idea of putting the generals in boats to get rid of them. The work was called The Last Survivor. I created a sculpture of a general; half of him was made of bones and the other half was normal.
In 2019, Paolo Colombo saw the work and wanted it to be shown in Venice. I executed the work again, in a larger size. The first one was 120 cm, and the larger one made for the Venice Biennale was 190 cm.
Can you talk about why you use a lot of numbers in your paintings?
Yes, our identities are often reduced to numbers in society. After 2003, I realised that we are just numbers. When I entered the army, they gave me a number. When you enter the prison in the Arab world, they cancel your name, they only give you a number so no one can contact you. It’s all numbers, our mobile number, our car plates. We are born with a number and die with a number; I explored this concept in a show called Moujarad Arkam. Our lives are filled with numbers, from birth to death, and I wanted to reflect that in my work. It was a joint exhibition created by me and Ahmed Albahrani in the Al Markhiya Gallery in Qatar in 2013.
You did a series called Canines. Can you elaborate?
I explored the concept of dogs as a link between life and death in various cultures. I created feral, terrifying dogs to represent the brutality of war and humanity’s crimes. It was a powerful project that conveyed the monstrosity of conflict.
I read a lot of books, and I saw that there is an animal that is common in all cultures and in mythology. It is the link between life and death. It is called the Onubis, in the Egyptian myths, the guardian of the tombs. In Greek myths, there is Cerberus, also a dog with three heads, which takes the body to the other world. In the Mayan civilization, when people die, they are buried with a dog. So, the dog is an expression of the relationship between life and death. I wanted to draw a dog that was a joke to the world, and to humanity, denouncing the crimes that happened, and that are still happening, so I created a project about feral dogs called ‘Canines’, the dogs of war.
Do you use mythology in your work?
It depends on the project. For example, at the Venice Biennale in 2018 in the exhibition Fatherland, I presented a project called The Dinner, inspired by The Last Supper. The Dinner represented a group of soldiers having a meal during the war. I imagined it in my head – you place a bomb on the table in the middle of the dinner: all the people die and the food stays in its place. The idea is food in exchange for death.
What does food in exchange for death mean? It means we are given money as a ransom for our children to live, and we go to war to die.
So, I painted a large piece showcasing a group of soldiers in top view i.e., in the eye of the bird. I intended to draw it in the eye of the bird for two reasons. The first is when you draw in the eye of the bird you don’t have perspective, because everything you see is in real size, so I got rid of the perspective. The second important thing is the witness of God. Drawing in top view you are looking from above as if God is the witness of this massacre.
When I started the project, I went to Iraq. I went to see the families whose children died in the war. I asked them to tell me about their experiences. Coincidentally, one of the families sent me a letter from their son. When I saw the letter, I started to ask the other families if they had letters.
There was a woman whose husband was killed during the war. Usually, the martyr is buried with his clothes. He is buried with his blood. But she kept the suit. After I went to see her about letters, she told me she had the suit and insisted on giving it to me. She said to me, ‘My children are grown up and married, and this suit is no longer of value. And I don’t want to stir up any feelings in them.’ So, I said, ‘Give me the suit, and I will try to use it in my work.’
She moved my imagination. I went to ask the other families, and I started accumulating suits. I cut these suits, and I made a collage of the names of the martyrs inside the work. It was exhibited at the Venice Biennale in 2018.
I chose the title Fatherland because we are familiar with ‘motherland’ as being our land and nation, but we live in a patriarchal male world, and our war was a male war. It was the men who were fighting, so I came up with a title which was more appropriate and alluded to the masculine element. All the works I created highlighted the masculine qualities that are related to Fatherland. The word Fatherland is not to mock the word ‘motherland’, but it is a reality for people who lived in this masculine world of war.
The Venice Biennale collection is the culmination of a 10-year experiment. During the last 10 years, I worked on a series of works on the generals, on soldiers and on the war. I began working on this in 2011, on the human condition, on the soldiers who were injured, hurt and who were imprisoned. In 2013-2014, I worked on the aircraft carrier, which is the destruction of everything around us because of the war machine. The Biennale represented the end of that experiment, which ended with ‘The Dinner’.
Did you create a work related to the Tower of Babel?
I studied at the University of Babylon and was inspired by the Babylonian culture. Although I didn’t work directly on the Tower of Babel, I was influenced by the ancient civilization’s use of clay and their artistic expressions. Every time I had a break at the university, or I was in an anxious state, I would climb that tower and take all the energy from it. So, I worked on Naram-Sin, one of the Ashurian fighters, the grandson of King Ashurbanipal and one of the most important military leaders. I studied the prison at that time and the Pharaohs’ prisons, and I saw art across periods repeating itself in different clothing. When I looked at The Blind Leading the Blind by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, it really influenced me. The idea was that we were in a hole, in the abyss. In the 20th century, John Singer Sargent also tackled that idea. I reviewed all of this information and realised that the fate and treatment of imprisoned soldiers has always been the same.
You started working with clay. Why is that?
Coming from a clay civilization like Babylon, I feel a strong connection to the material. Most of my work is in clay, and even when I use other materials, I try to maintain the look and feel of clay. It’s a tribute to my heritage.
Do you draw prisoners because of your experience in prison?
I don’t draw prisoners because I was imprisoned. It was a common experience for my generation. During the war, I saw many prisoners and the devastation caused by conflict. War is a great loss, not a victory. I wanted to draw the truth, but in Iraq you couldn’t risk it.
Instead, I focused on realistic experiences and portraits, often painting over my works multiple times due to the lack of resources. It is only when I left that I was able to explore the themes that interested me.
Tell us about your Prisoners of Opinion series.
In Prisoners of Opinion, I started working on colours. How does colour determine the fate of our lives? Iraq at the time was very chaotic, then there was the revolution, so a lot of innocent people were sent to prison because they had opinions. I noticed that young university students were imprisoned as if they were criminals, so I decided to work on how colour would determine the fate of our lives. The uniform that one wore determined their fate. The blue one meant the prisoner was under investigation. When the prisoner was sentenced to two or three years, he had a yellow uniform. When he was dressed in red, it meant execution. This subject has a big impact on me, especially in the Tishreen revolution.
I also worked on a project on the white flag. A lifted white flag means surrender in Iraq, so we were prevented from wearing white undergarments so that the American military wouldn’t remove them and we’d be taken away as prisoners. So, I made a complete project on it called White Flags and it was shown at the Saleh Barakat Gallery, Gallery Misr in Cairo, and the Errm Art Gallery in Riyadh.
