Tazeen Qayyum's drawings are a vortex of words that pull viewers in to think more deeply

CBC

08-02-2025

The first word Tazeen Qayyum painted was tauba. The Urdu word means repentance or penitence, an act of seeking forgiveness.
Trained in the art of miniature painting from Pakistan, where she emigrated from in 2003, the Oakville, Ont.-based artist was aware of the rich tradition of text in Islamic art — even in miniature painting — but she'd never focused on the written word in her work before. In 2018, however, she felt stuck in her personal life as well as her artistic practice, and she started writing tauba on a large piece of paper at home.
"I felt like I really needed to connect with the higher being, and I [needed] to have an inner conversation. The very first word I chose was tauba. To bring yourself down to that level, you have to submit."
Then, in October 2023, Qayyum was working toward a solo exhibition. Like many around the world, she watched with horror as the events in and around Gaza escalated into a drawn out war between Israel and Hamas.
"There was no way for me to do anything else but the words you see on the wall, and reflect on this time," she says, referring to her newest body of work.
The result of that rumination is here/now, Qayyum's latest exhibition currently on view at Red Head Gallery in downtown Toronto. Written in tight, intricate coils that form spirals on paper, the words — including rahm (plea for mercy), daem (continuous, incessant), fehm (to understand), khawab (dream, aspiration) and zikr (to remember) — are a personal call to action. The works draw the viewer in, inviting them to enter into dialogue with the word and the artist.
Rahm, for example, the centrepiece and starting point of Qayyum's exhibition, is an ongoing installation. She'd started it last October with a piece of paper, intending to finish it within the usual 20-by-30-inch frame of her other works. Each time she wrote the word, she offered a prayer for a resolution to the crisis in the Middle East. The work would only be complete, she'd decided, once her prayer ended.
Typically, she works on a single word before moving onto another. She starts at the centre, drawing out the words with care, while listening to qawwalis (a form of devotional music, often associated with Sufism). She zones into the word and out of the world around her. But this time, as the wardragged on, her painting spilled out from one piece of paper and onto several more.
"The paper ended, but my prayers didn't," she says.
Her artwork has always been sociopolitical, from the moment she set pen — or brush — to paper.
"A singular incident triggers and this becomes my voice, my expression — whether it was my miniature paintings in the beginning, the figurative work or coming to the work with cockroaches," says Qayyum, referring to a previous series featuring the insect. That body of work, which spans over two decades, was inspired by the U.S.-led "war on terror" after 9/11 and Qayyum's own experience as an artist splitting her time between Canada and Pakistan. A more recent collection of text-based work that was shown in Pakistan, featuring Urdu words such as rehmat (blessing), izzat (respect) and gairat (honour), was inspired by feminist movements in Pakistan, including the Aurat March.
The practice of etching out words started as an act of reflection, allowing her mind to wander even as her hand focused on the inscription. When she was working with the word tauba in 2018, her partner, artist Faisal Anwar, was travelling. Qayyum was alone at home with her daughter, drawing into the night, as long as the CD of qawwali music would play on.
It was a deeply personal project that gave her purpose, she says. Like many artists at some stage in their career, she had been at a crossroads, questioning what her artwork meant in the grand scheme of life, and feeling stagnant. That initial work spun out into a series of engagements, many of them live performances — from festivals such as Nuit Blanche Toronto, the Salam Orient Festival in Vienna and the Bangkok Art Biennale to exhibitions at the Royal Ontario Museum and the National Museum of Qatar.
There were hesitations, of course. Qayyum recognized that she's not a trained calligrapher. But the idea of performing these works, writing out a vortex of words in public, spurred her on.
"I've always been in my own world growing up; I was a quiet child," says Qayyum. "Those performances were giving me that space, where I can completely detach myself from the world … I can bring a focus right to those words and the thoughts, and try to make some sense of my work and then the world around me.
"My work has always been my voice, where I think I can be more upfront and aggressive," she continues, "whereas, as a person, I am not confrontational at all. I can lose any argument."
But with age, Qayyum, who recently turned 51, has begun to feel a new confidence.
"Being in the West, coming from Pakistan … and as a woman, there's always been different kinds of fears — of meeting people or conversing with people," she says with a laugh. "Now, when I am in a room or a gallery or meeting museum staff or curators, it really hits me: I have much more experience than anybody in this room."
That sense of faith in herself has given her a new perspective on what continues to be a meditative art practice.
"There's a sense of hopelessness," she says. "We keep on talking about inequality, equity and justice and all that, right? And then you realize that nothing has changed. No matter how far back you go in history, it's a continuous cycle."
"But still that comes from a space of hope," she continues. "That rage also comes from the same place because you are hurt. You want it to end."
The hesitations she once had about her lack of training in calligraphy, her preference to avoid in-person confrontation and even the despair she feels with the current state of the world have all given way to an urgent need to respond.
"I am also not shy of … exhibiting this work, right? We've seen how [speaking out] is affecting people's careers and voices. So even with that sense of censorship or fear, I am not scared of what I want to say — and what needs to be said. My activism is poetic in nature."