Watch & Listen: Sa'dia Rehman

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Video transcript

My name is Sa'adia Rehman, and I'm an educator and multidisciplinary artist. My work is rooted in drawing, but I work in video, sculpture, performance.

The name of the exhibition is the river runs slow and deep and all the bones of my ancestors / have risen to the surface to knock and click like the sounds of trees in the air. And it's on view at The Wexner Center for the Arts. The exhibition has a collection of works that I've been thinking about as the artist in residence with Learning and Public Practice.

I was really diving into several different disciplines. As you can see, there's a two-channel video in the show. There's signage in the show that I had hand-painted. There's also welded rebar. There's a found, you know, found material that I had been, you know, really hoarding this stack of Urdu primers. So that work is titled Burn It, Bury It, Drown It. And that references the three ways that, one, a Muslim could respectfully discard a Quran. And then there's also the mono prints, and there's also a textile piece made of denim. My sister's denim, my partner's denim, and also my denim. It is completely, you know, multidisciplinary show. But I, you know, I love that about my practice because I can kind of expand and then, you know, expand the scale, expand the material.

For this show, I have been working intuitively and transiently. And so some of the materials that you see in the show, such as rebar, oil, as well as clay, are directly influenced by a 10-day trip that I had taken on to on the Indus River close to where my family was displaced. When I saw this gallery, I immediately gravitated towards this space. And I chose it because of the very narrow vessel-like shape. It evoked a boat for me, and I was thinking about my relationship to water, the sea, the ocean, and, you know, rivers. And so that story came into mind, my family history of displacement and then also the questions I had, how we, or I, we as a family, we as a society, I as a person and an artist, carry that trauma within the body.

Podcast transcript

Melissa Starker: This is WexCast from the Wexner Center for the Arts at the Ohio State University. For this episode, we're happy to present a recent public conversation between Sa’dia Rehman and their sister Bushra Rehman. Sa’dia's a featured artist in the Wex Winter-Spring 2023, exhibitions with the solo show, the river runs slow and deep, and all the bones of my ancestors have risen to the surface to knock and click like the sounds of trees in the air. 

Bushra is an acclaimed poet and storyteller. Her latest book, the coming-of-age novel Roses, in the Mouth of a Lion, was a New York Times Book Review editor's choice, and was named one of the best books of 2022 by NPR. The talk shares the warm and supportive dynamic between the siblings as it illuminates their respective working processes, how they approach medium, and how the history of their family has fueled what they created. Emily Haidet, the Wex’s community, public and academic programs manager, introduces them.

Emily Haidet: I'm Emily Haidet. I'm part of the Learning and Public Practice team here at the Wex, and I'm happy to welcome you to this program featuring Sa’dia Rehman and Bushra Rehman. I use she her pronouns. Uh, my brown hair is pulled back in a clip. I'm wearing a green sweater, textured sweater, trying to invoke spring a little bit. I'm joining you from the Wex lobby where we're hosting our program today. So over the summer, when Sa’dia and Dionne Custer Edwards and I were thinking about public programs around the exhibition, Sa’dia really expressed that it would be lovely to host a conversation between them and their sister, Bushra—of course, an accomplished writer and artist in her own right. So, today, Sa’dia and Bushra will explore their respective practices, connections in their work and identities as siblings. So, at the end of the conversation, we're going to open it up to Q&A, both in person and also those attending virtually can ask a question.

I want to quickly thank and acknowledge our donors. Learning and Public Practice programs are made possible by the American Electric Power Foundation, Huntington, the Martha Holden Jennings Foundation, and the Big Lots Foundation/ Support for Learning and Public Practice residencies are provided by Mike and Paige Crane. 

I'm now going to introduce our speakers. Sa’dia Rehman explores how contemporary and historical images communicate, consolidate, and contest ideas about race, empire, and labor. Rehman has exhibited work at venues including the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Queens Museum, Kettler International Drawing Space, Asian Pacific American Institute at NYU, and Pakistan National Council for the Arts, among many others, Rehman received the Aminah Brenda Lynn Robinson Fellowship, the Meredith Morabito and Henrietta Full Fellowship, and was awarded several residencies. Rehman's work has been featured in the Brooklyn Rail, New York Times, Harper's Magazine, Hyperallergic, Color Lines, and Art Papers. Sa’dia's exhibition, which you all got to take a look at, is on view at the Wex through July 9th.

Bushra Rehman’s dark comedy Corona was chosen by the New York Public Library as one of its favorite books about New York City. She's the co-editor of Colonize This: Young Women of Color on Today's Feminism, and author of a collection of poetry, Marianna's Beauty Salon, described by Joseph O. Legaspi as, “A love poem for Muslim girls, queens and immigrants, making sense of their foreign home, and surviving.” Her new novel, Roses, in the Mouth of a Lion, which is available in the Wex store, is a modern classic about what it means to be Muslim and queer in a Pakistan American community, was chosen as a best book and editor's choice by the New York Times, The New Yorker, The Washington Post, and more. So we're going to begin with a reading from Bushra before we jump into conversation.

Bushra Rehman: Hey everyone, thank you so much for coming out. And  my name is Bushra Rehman. I have brown hair that is open with lots of white in it too. I'm wearing a green sweater and blue jeans, and I have brown eyes. And I just want to thank the Wex and Emily and Dionne, and everyone who's been part of this committee, because the show is just so amazing. And I’ve been loving walking around and seeing the incredible exhibits, and it's just been such a thoughtful process as we've been planning this event. And it means a lot. 

So, as we were sharing with them, Sa’dia and I have been working artists side by side for decades, but we've never actually sat down. And I mean, obviously we talk all the time, but we've never had a conversation in public about our art. Although in private, we are constantly talking about our family and art. 

So I'm going to read to you from Roses, and then I'll read the title poem if we have time, and maybe one more poem, too. 

Alright, so Roses, in the Mouth of a Lion. So, it's interesting. Sa’dia's art is about what our family's life was in Pakistan, and I write a lot about what our family's life was like in Queens, New York City, in a working class immigrant neighborhood. And my father, what happened was when he came here, they were living in an apartment in Brooklyn, and there were these other Pakistani people in the apartment building. And those people—New York City life—were their best friends until, you know, the end of their lives. And what they did was, they decided to move to Queens and start a masjid. And so they built this Pakistani, very tight-knit Pakistani, religious community around that masjid in Queens. And I write a lot about that community. 

The chapter I'm going to read is not the first chapter, but all you need to know is that Razia is the main character. Her best friend, Taslima, and her are kind of rebellious. And the way that they're rebelling is they like to listen to pop music, like to American Top 40, you know. And so at the time, because this is a historical novel, it's from the eighties, <laugh>, you know, they're listening to Casey Kasem's American Top 40, but the hilarious thing, which, of course no culture is static, culture is constantly changing, evolving. They think they're, you know, participating in American culture. But Tiffany, the artist Tiffany who wrote, I mean, who sang—not wrote—"I Think We're Alone now,” is actually Arab. Her last name was Darwish, Tiffany Darwish. <laugh> Casey Kasem, also Arab, you know. So there's this funny way that they believe that they're doing something really rebellious, but they're still participating in <laugh>, you know, Arab American culture. 

Alright, this is called “Clock Radio”: 

On Saturday mornings, I went to the Taslima's house as early as possible so I could catch Casey Kasem's American Top 40. We were like junkies at the racetrack. If our songs were called, we felt we were winning. When our songs fell behind, we were personally insulted. Taslima got away with listening to music in a way I never could. She had a mother who wasn't as religious, a door she could loc,k and a clock radio. Well, it was her sister Aliza's clock radio. Their father had given it to Aliza so she could get to Flushing High School on time, not realizing that now Aliza and by extension and me and Saima could listen to music as much as we wanted with just the press of a button and the turn of a dial.

We listened every second. We got the volume turned down low. I love that clock radio. The time was told in neon red digits. There were smooth buttons all along its light purple surface—“Not light purple,” Taslima always insisted, making fun of the way her sister Aliza said it. “Lavender.” [Lavender was a very popular world <laugh> among the queer community, but also in the eighties.]

One Saturday, we were propped up on Taslima’s pillows, our heads close to the clock radio. Our talking was interrupted by the pre-recorded chorus, “Casey's coast to coast... ” and the distinct rasp of his voice. “Hello again, and welcome to American Top 40. My name's Casey Kasem, and we're counting down the Billboard top hits. These are the records you are buying and record stations are playing all across America as rated by Billboard magazine.”

I turned to Taslima. “Isn't it a catch-22? The radio plays the songs people buy, and people buy the songs the radio plays.”

“God, ever since you read Catch-22, you think everything's a catch-22.” <laugh> “I'm going to tell Aliza to stop lending you her books.”

The chorus sang, “American Top 40,” and Casey Kasem continued. “Now what you've been waiting for: this week's number-one song in the land. We sat up excited. ‘I Think We're Alone Now’ from the album Tiffany. That's the girl herself, 16 year-old Tiffany with ‘I Think We're Alone Now.’” 

Taslima and I jumped out of bed. For weeks, we'd been doing endless renditions in front of the mirror. Even though we made fun of the way Tiffany danced, it ended up becoming the way we danced—and you should watch the video later so you'll know what I'm <laugh> talking about—putting our hands through our hair, winking and doing a weird herky-jerky wave with our chest. We strained our voices trying to hit Tiffany's high notes. 

Feel free to sing along with me: 

"I think we're alone now... <laugh> 

... Doesn't seem to be anyone around... <laugh>. 

There was a banging on the door. It was Aliza, “Taslima, what are you doing in there? It sounds like an earthquake. And you're not alone. We can all hear you." <laugh>

We turned off the radio but couldn't stop laughing. Aliza banged again. “I told you a million times not to play with my radio. I mean, clock.” We heard her run downstairs, but we knew Eliza wouldn't really tell, because then the radio would be taken away and Eliza wouldn't be able to listen to music, either. 

We lay down in the bed, out of breath, not opening the door in case Aliza was waiting outside to pounce. After a few minutes, there was another knock. “My God, what does a girl have to do around here to have some peace and quiet?” Taslima whispered in an exaggerated voice like Blair from The Facts of Life. I broke into more laughter. 

The knock came again, gentle this time. “Taslima?” 

“Abu?” 

We sat up and she quickly turned off the radio and opened the door. Instead of coming inside, Taslima’s father stood outside and peered in. He was different from the other fathers. He read Urdu poetry, kept a vegetable garden, and cooked the most delicious biryani. For the last few years, he'd been sick with an illness no one understood. His work clothes hung on his skeletal frame. 

“Razia.” He acted like he hadn't seen me in forever when the truth was, I spent more time at Taslima’s house than I spent at mine.

"Asalaamu alaikum, Uncle."

"Wa alaikum asalaam." He smiled at me, then turned at Taslima. “Beta, what are you doing?”

Taslima looked at the clock radio, guiltily. “Nothing, Abu.” She tried to change the subject. “Are, are you going to work?”

“Ah, yes. Work, work, work.” 

He sighed and came into the bedroom. “Did I ever tell you about my first job when I came to America”? Uncle took any excuse to sit down and tell a story. He sat now on the edge of the bed. Taslima and I moved over. 

“You know those places that make food very quickly?” 

“You mean fast food, Abu?”

His eyes lit up. “Yes!”

“You worked at McDonald's?” I asked, amazed. 

He shook his head. “No, the other one, the girl with the red hair. 

“Wendy's?”

“That's the one. It was my first day. So the manager gave me an easy job. He said, ‘You, wash the dishes.” So I gathered all the dishes”—he imitated carrying a large stack of plates—"and put them in the sink. Then, boom!” 

Uncle blew his hands up in the air. “The sink exploded.” 

“What? Why?” Taslima and I burst out.

“I thought it was a sink, but it was really a deep fryer. You know, where they make the french fries?” <laugh>

“Yes, Abu, I know, but how did you not know? You know American sinks are full of dirty water with dishes soaking in them.” <laugh>

“I thought it was water, not oil.” He shook his head. “The manager was so angry they had to close down the kitchen and throw out the oil. Very dirty oil. They used it for months.” <laugh> “The manager said to me, ‘You are fired’. But I didn't speak English well then, I didn't know what fired meant. I thought he was saying I started a fire. So I nodded, ‘Yes.’” <laugh>

Taslima and I both were trying not to crack up. 

“Well, after that day, the manager was going on vacation. I just kept coming every day. After two weeks, the manager returned. I still didn't know I had no job. I just knew this was the man who was angry at me. So when I saw him, I hid under a table. <laugh> The manager saw me and said, ‘You, what are you doing here? I fired you two weeks ago.’” <laugh>

We couldn't hold it in any longer. Taslima and I burst into laughter, imagining her father getting caught hiding under a table. Taslima’s father smiled. It was always this way with our fathers. They made stories of American cruelty seem so funny. The digits of the clock radio caught his attention. “OK, Beta. It's time for me to go.”

He patted his thighs a few times as if he was revving himself up, then lifted himself slowly. He smiled, looked at the clock radio and said to Taslima right before walking out the door, “You're never alone beta. You'll always have me.” He was so thin back then, walking away from us, the shadow of the young man inside of him always tugging at his sleeves. 

<applause>

So that... thank you. That's one chapter kind of in the middle of the book. Um, and you know, I think you know, I'm just so proud of Sa’dia and I can say that 'cause I'm her big sister <laugh>. And I think you know, what she did was, I actually never published any of the poems I wrote about the Tarbela Dam. I always would write about Corona, Queens. I often wrote about my mom <laugh>. So I'm going to read you a poem about our mom, so she has her her time here too. She will be upset if she is ignored. <laugh>. 

But I thought I would also read the poem that inspired the entire exhibit, which is not published—well now it's published, it will be published— but Sa’dia has me thinking that maybe my next book will be about our father, who, as she shared, passed away in September. Um, and the Tarbela Dam. And she's been sharing a lot of her research with me, things that I never knew because, um, our dad just never talked, you know. He was very—and you know, now when we think about it, we’re like, oh, all the trauma, right? And maybe it was his personality, but also it was what happened to him and his family. And these are stories that I only learned when I went to Pakistan. The last time I was there was 20 years ago, when my grandmother was passing away. I was very close to my maternal grandmother. And I heard these stories, then I wrote this poem:

My Aba’s Masjid, which is “my grandfather's masjid.” 

These days there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid 

the river runs slow and deep, and there are boats that run in the sky, like air 

the ground where my ancestors foreheads touched in prayer 

has turned into the sound of water, the sound of air 

has been absorbed by the silence of the fish 

coated on the rocks at the bottom of the riverbed 

where my mother came, a shaking bride, the fish procreate endlessly 

where the women combed out their hair, there are strands of grasses and seaweed rocks that lay and roll like boulders where our father played in the trees.

these days, there are fish who swim in and out of my Aba’s masjid. 

the river runs slow and deep, and all the bones of my ancestors 

have risen to the surface to knock and click like the sounds of trees in the air

<applause>

Thank you. I think I have time for two poems about my mom. And so, you know, again, I would often write about what it was like for my parents when they first came here, and they came in the seventies, you know, so they were some of the—you know, in Corona there were not many Pakistanis. And so they experienced a lot of racism. And, um, I wrote this poem called “Rapunzel's Mother, or A Pakistani Woman Newly Arrived in America,” because I think about that fairytale of Rapunzel and how, um… I don't know a lot of people, if they know the background of that fairytale, because I think Disney erased that part. The reason she's in that tower in the first place was that her mother was pregnant and had a craving for her neighbor's vegetables. And her neighbor was a witch. And so, when the father went and stole the vegetables, he was caught. And then he promised his first child to her. And I think about that because the kind of, um, food scarcity that my mother was coming from, you know, when she came to this country, we have pictures of her in a grocery store, just like beaming <laugh>, you know? But, you know, she had to give up her children in that. We became, turned out very, very different than she had planned. <laugh>. 

Rapunzel's mother, or a Pakistani Woman Newly Arrived in America

And with a cabbage, a box of eggs so clean she could easily forget the source of their existence

My mother filled her silver cart and moved in line to make her purchase 

The cashier turned a sharp glance at the small brown woman with a pierced nose and covered head

She didn't fit into this, an American supermarket. 

“And what,” asked the cashier, “are you willing to pay for this?” 

She held the head of lettuce in the air 

It reflected off her rhinestone glasses and the hairspray in her hair 

“But this,” said my mother, “is America. I thought there was no barter here” 

“Hmmf,” said the cashier, “There's give and take all over the world. What made you think you'll be different here?"

She shook her head in her plastic hair. 

“Well, I have money” 

My mother tried to act like she didn't care

Her English broke all over her and fell apart in the air

But the cashier cackled, “No, no, no, my dear, what I want is here”

And she pointed a nail, silver painted and crooked, at my young mother's stomach, which I had just begun to share

“That is the price you'll have to pay, my dear, for this fresh lettuce”

“Each egg that erupts into a new blown head shall be the property of this here, supermarket, country, and nation”

“And don't even think of running because we've got the goods on you 

along with every other immigrant. We've got your passport, your foreign passport right here”

She made to reach into her too-tight jeans. But my mother, she ran out of there 

The shopping girl openly laughed behind her

And the lines and lines of customers just stood there with their stupid grins 

My mother ran, the door opened by itself

My mother ran, but she still found herself in a foreign land, far away from home

<applause>

Thank you. And I'll stop there 'cause I'm excited to talk to my sibling Sa’dia and have this conversation. <laugh>. 

So I guess I will start with the first question, or did you want to say anything before we start?

Sa’dia Rehman: Um, well, I'll do a visual description. So, my name is Sa’dia Rehman. My pronouns are they/them. I have short, wavy hair and I'm wearing a black top and gray pants with Doc Martens, seated with my sibling Bushra here on stage. Okay?

Bushra Rehman: Yes. And thank you. And thank you, everyone, for joining us out there as well. You know, so I did mention I'm very proud <laugh>. And you know, I think that there's this, it's a very healing thing. And I do think it's interesting that this is happening as our father passed away, because I, I think… I don't know if any of you have felt this way after losing someone, suddenly you just want to know everything about them. Like, everything that you never knew about them. And I feel that this project is a beginning of that exploration. It’s a history that now, you know, our children can have, the nibblings can have. So thanks for doing this work. And I also wanted to say that, you know, for us, this is one story of our family. But you know, as we can see all around us, the Indigenous people are displaced from this land. And we are in solidarity with all people who are forcefully displaced. Um, and it's so important to tell those stories. 

Where I live, Upstate New York, they were trying to build a dam during the pandemic, and I was like, fiercely organizing against it because I was like, not again. You cannot do this to us again, you know? So I feel like we were able to, um, to postpone that project. And the thing about when we talk about clean energy and hydroelectric power, I just want to say this before I forget, is that there's all this funding that's available and sometimes that funding may go to the people who are going to do this building in like a very destructive way, you know? And so when we talk about clean energy, when we talk about hydroelectric power, and there's funding available for people to do those projects, like, who are those people doing those projects and how are they approaching them?

And in our organizing, we were able to find so many loopholes in their proposals. And that was how we were able to delay the building of the dam. And in the Catskills, um, where I live, I was thinking one of my first questions is, you know, I feel like our ancestors are with us here. What are your thoughts on ancestors and artistic creation? And when you were working on these pieces, when you were in Pakistan—I did not go on that trip, but I was so happy that you did—did you feel our ancestors there? Did you feel them when you were creating this work?

Sa’dia Rehman: The short answer is yes, <laugh>. So, I mean, another thing that you can probably figure out about the both of us is, she has the words. I have the images.

OK, so yeah, I think what you brought up before it was about, you know, our father dying. There was an urgency to kind of capture this story, but it was a story that had been in our lives and in our bodies for years. And then we were seeing it happening over and over again. So this isn't just a past historical timeline, but it's something that's happening as we're sitting here today. So, you know, last year I did go to the Indus River. I wanted to see the village, which is submerged, completely submerged. And it was 184 villages that had been pushed out forcefully in the late sixties, early seventies. So that a hydroelectric dam, the Tarbela Dam, could be created. And there's many, many dams on the Indus River. This is just the one dam that had affected my father's family.

And so when I went, I went with several family members: cousins, uncles, you know, my brother and my sister-in-law, and my nephew. And so before going on the journey on this motorboat for two hours in silt… You know, the bottom of the reservoir and the river was completely silt. Our motorboat got stuck two hours up the river and had to be pushed out so that we can return to the shore. But before we got on that boat, I had told everyone, I'm going to be documenting this trip. If you don't want to be in the camera, then just tell me and I'll, I won't, you know, document you or I'll try to not have you in the shot. And, you know, they were all fine with it. And then I also said, you know, there are young kids with us, and explained the history as I did right now.

And then I also told them, essentially this is a graveyard that we are riding this motorboat on. And, um, we just have to remember that. And so I think, you know, when I said that, I did feel my ancestors as well as several other spiritual leaders on that journey, but also I think in the studio. And that was what has been like a special part of making this body of work. This body of work does not end here at the Wex show. It's the origin and it's going to evolve and continue, as my work usually does with the ephemerality and the evolution of material. So, yeah. 

How do you feel about ancestors when you're writing? You mentioned you didn't come on the journey, but I feel like we've been, this is like a family history that we've been tracing for years. So where do ancestors come in for you?

Bushra Rehman: Well, it was important for me to come here last night, um, and see the work before. 'cause I felt like I, it was going to be emotional and I wanted to like, process it. So the uncle I write about in that story “Clock Radio” passed away, you know, soon after that scene. And I was talking to Sa’dia about it, and I was like, it's been 23 years since he's passed away. I can't even believe it. And what I think what I'm doing right now, I'm working on the next book, and the next book is going to be all about grief. And, um, basically like that character, that father character is going to pass away and everything that we've been experiencing—um, you know, with the grief—I'm putting that into this story. And I'm thinking of this uncle and this ancestor because he was one of a crew of, like, I don't know how many families. There weren't that many. There were like, five or six Pakistani families that started this masjid in Queens. And one of my sisters was taking a class on Muslims in America. And it turned out that, that masjid is one of the first Sunni masjids to be built from the ground up. And that's our father. And this uncle was very much a part of that history, you know.

So for me, like, this entire book is full of ancestors because so many of the aunties and uncles that I write about are no longer with us. It took me almost 20 years to write this book. And in that time, and especially during the pandemic, many people passed away in our community. And so a lot of times, people ask me like, “Well, are you afraid of writing about your community?” And I'm like, I'm trying to preserve their memories. I'm trying to preserve what they did and what their struggles were. And um, that's why I write, you know? I think there's so much about honoring and respecting and preserving them. And I feel them with me, you know? And when I write now, when I set that intention like you did, I can feel them with me and they help me. And you know, I think this is a, I dunno, it's nice to get older and spiritual again, <laugh>. So, but yeah.

Sa’dia Rehman: Um, yeah. And also, it's very important to kind of think about that documentation and how we kind of, you know, work with different material. As in like, I work with clay and all the other disciplines—sculpture, video—that you see in the gallery space. And then we translate an unwritten kind of story—specifically, this, you know, family history in Queens or even the displacement of family members. And so, I kind of want to talk about our siblinghood <laugh>. And so nowadays, and you know, when this talk was advertised, people had come up to me and they were like, you two are sisters? They don't believe, you know, growing up I was always like, Bushra's little sister. Um, But then also, you know, Bushra had done Art Omi recently, and I was also at Art Omi the summer before, and then she got, you know, “Oh, you’re Sa’dia’s sister?” 

Bushra Rehman: I enjoyed it. I like that. Yeah. <laugh>. But it's different when it's like your…

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. And so I thought, you know, I was surprised to hear that people were shocked that, you know, we were related. And then I was just wondering, like, just want to answer like, how did that happen? How did the, these two creative people come out of this family of, you know, we're six siblings? Yeah. I, I want you to start, and then I can kind add to that.

Bushra Rehman: One thing they kept saying at Art Omi was like, we've never had two siblings at this residency. I mean, so I guess it's a numbers game, because there's six of us, like you said, <laugh> right? 

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. Probability. 

Bushra Rehman: Oh, probability. But then I also think, and we were talking about this last night, you know, our parents really let us play a lot. Like, we played a lot and we didn't have a lot of money when we were much younger. And so, we didn't have like, toys. It was only our imaginations, you know? And I remember there was an attic and we would just be in the attic all day in the bad weather, making up, uh, movies, stories, you know, just playing together. And I think that that kind of playfulness that we were allowed to have as children, you know, our mom was so fierce, and I write about her a lot in the book and in a lot of stuff, and she wanted us to not have the kind of life that she had. And so she took on a lot, and I realize this now, she took on a lot of the domestic labor so that we could just do our homework. We could go to school and we wouldn't have to do a lot of that, the drudgery, which now it's bad because I don't know how to do anything. I don’t how to cook. But, you know, <laugh>, my poor daughter will attest. But I think we were like, we were just allowed that space, you know? And we were growing up in New York City, you know, so in New York City, it's like you just cut school and go to the Met. You could just, there's all these galleries. There's, um, I remember bringing Sa’dia to a Shahzia Sikander show, and she was really young. And also, Sa’dia moved in with me when she was 18. I was 24 and she was 18, and she moved in with me. And, um, I was going to all these like, openings and shows and things, and so she was just always with me all the time. 

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah, I mean, I was also going to say the New York City thing was a big part of it, because we were just running around and there was, you know, multiple of us. So there, it's a team, it's a soccer team, <laugh>. So we were just like, running around the city from like sunrise to sunset and possibly after, and then just come home. And so that imagination was really important during that time. And, um, yeah, tagging along <laugh> too, as the little, uh, person, um, tagging along,

Bushra Rehman: SAWCC and, um…

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah, SAWCC and all these other—the South Asian Women's Creative Collective, which is a collective, I believe, born out of, uh, New York City, of creative South Asian people. And so we, yeah, we grew out of that moment. It was founded in ‘97, and so we would always be surrounded by, you know, writers and visual artists and theater people, and musicians, all of South Asian descent and, and

Bushra Rehman: And queer, like, very queer collectives. And a lot of these… oh, sorry.

Sa’dia Rehman: No, go ahead. You go ahead.

Bushra Rehman: So, you know, I think a lot of these people… Sorry, <laugh> this is what happens. We will be sorry. But, you know, a lot of these people, the artists that we were coming up with, were just like us. Our parents had come in the sixties or seventies, and they knew all about community organizing because, you know… Our parents came here, but their siblings could not come here because the Naturalization Act of the sixties that allowed only professionals to come meant that, you know, our dad was one of the youngest of 12 kids. He was the only professional in that way that could come here. So, none of his family was here. So, his friends were his family. And so I think in these artists collectives, we were creating collectives of like, queer South Asian artists of a certain generation, and we were acting like we were all family, you know? It wasn't just like, you go to a show. It's like, you go to a show, you sleep over each other's houses, you move in together, you date each other, you break up, you still stay friends. You know, it was just like this constant. I think those people I met in the nineties are still my chosen family.

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah, they are family. So the stories continue, you know, with the chosen family. And I think like, when that was happening, when I was tagging along and <laugh>, you know, uh, in these groups, usually I was the youngest person in the group, and so I was like, everyone's younger, you know, sibling. And I was doing things like stretching canvases, you know, doing the office managing for someone, um, all these artists. And so, you know, through that work I was still making my own work. Bushra was often writing and reading her poetry, and we often just talked about our work. And so there was sort of a collaboration and also conversation happening about creativity and, yeah. 

Bushra Rehman: Well, I feel like we're always each other's sounding boards, too. And it's good to have just like that one person who, you know, is going to believe in you and is going to want the best for your work. And who is also your ideal audience. Like, Sa’dia is my ideal audience. So when I write, I'm thinking of Sa’dia, you know? If I have a question about anything, I trust Sa’dia's opinion for everything. And it's just amazing to have a person like that in your life that, you know, will give you the honest answer about your work, and will push it. But who will also like, celebrate it, you know? And it's really helpful to have that. And I think, you know, even if you don't have a sibling, like there's ways to have believing mirrors in your life just to find that. I remember Kurt Vonnegut used to say that he wrote for his sister. And I'm like, I'm just, I’m like Kurt Vonnegut, I write for my sister <laugh>—for my siblings,

Sa’dia Rehman: Sorry. And also like, I think the sounding board is often true with my work. When I'm in the studio and there's something that's not working, I call Bushra and I'm like, this isn't working. And then she's like, but this! Look at this! Look at that line. Look at that color. Look, that reminds me of this. And I was like, oh, yeah, OK, let me just keep, and she's like, keep working. Just keep going. And then, that's what kind of helps me move through the day in studio. Yeah.

Bushra Rehman: Yeah, cool. We have a few more questions. Um, should we… yeah? To each other? Oh, about the primer, <laugh>? Should we start talking? 

Sa’dia Rehman: Let's talk about that primer.

Bushra Rehman: OK, so we were like, laughing about this last night because… do you want to tell the story?

Sa’dia Rehman: And we likely will laugh about this here.

Bushra Rehman: And then she was like, don't laugh too much, because it's very serious. <laugh> You know, we're in a museum, it's a deep, dark work. <laugh>.

Sa’dia Rehman: So this is what we do. We often like laugh. And so I'm glad that you're seeing this, too. So <laugh>,

Bushra Rehman: Um, well, do you want to tell the story of what happened with the piece that you saw?

Sa’dia Rehman: Um, there's a piece in the show. It's a bound stack of Urdu primers. And these Urdu primers were primers that, um, I had learned Urdu from my mom, uh, brought them back from Pakistan. And then, you know, we read and wrote in those workbooks. And, you know, essentially learned poetry and also moral stories and fables in Urdu from those primers. And so, I had been carrying these primers for years from studio to studio to studio. And then when we got here to this point where I was, uh, building the show, and the curator, Dionne Custer Edwards, and I were in the studio, we were talking about materiality and, you know, loss and erasure and the family history of displacement. One day I, I spotted the stack of primers in the studio, and I was like, oh, why not just like, make a stack of Urdu books and I can just retrace the stories and make the paper.

And then, I kept like looking at this, and the bound stack was also looking at me, and we were having this conversation, and then I decided to just bind, like, rope this stack of primers, tie it to a rock, and submerge it in a vitrine. And so with that, it was evoking a stack of Qurans that I had found on this journey that I had talked about earlier, to the Indus. This stack of Qurans had shown up on the riverbed. And the most respectful way to discard a Quran is by burning it, burying it, or, you know, submerging it in water. And the title of the piece is Bury It, Burn It or Drown It, in the show. And so I wanted to kind of evoke that stack of Qurans. It was such a full metaphor.

One would discard a Quran, by the way, if it was illegible, if it was torn, you just couldn't read the words anymore, and you would submerge it in water so that it was even, you know, further illegible. You can't read the written word. And so, the ink kind of disappears over time as the water kind of takes it over and it sits in the pool of water. And so I wanted to evoke this with the stack of Urdu primers in the show. And, you know, I had already done it. The show opened and I told Bushra about these primers in water and <laugh>.

Bushra Rehman: Well, first I think as you're making it, you were like, OK, don't be mad <laugh>, but I'm going to take all of our childhood Urdu primers and destroy them. And I was like, oh, can I have one? 

Sa’dia Rehman: I don’t think those were the exact words. <laugh> Something.

Bushra Rehman: Yeah. But we were, and you know… one of the things, I love the Urdu language. Urdu poetry is so beautiful. I want to dedicate myself to studying Urdu and translating Urdu poetry into English. It's one of my dream projects. And so when we were learning Urdu, when our mom was teaching us, it was from these like, beautiful primers. And they're very colorful. And one thing that's really funny about them is that when they would print them, the image would always be like slightly out of the lines. I can't even describe it, but it would just be like, slightly out of the lines, like when they did the printing. So I kept saying, well, Sa’dia, could you just like save me one? And she was like, no. And I was like, just one? I, I just want to have… <laugh> No. 

I'm just kidding. I'm kidding. Not that way. I imagine. I'm obviously not that way. You see how Sa’dia is <laugh>? She's an amazing person. I just joke, but like, it was very funny. Yeah, you did say not.

Sa’dia Rehman: I know. I think I did, like, say a stern no. 

Bushra Rehman: Yeah, she did. It was <laugh>. And I kept being like, but why can't you just save me one? And I still don't understand, but I'll say that what I do understand is—that what I did understand was—that the emotional, the tiny bit of emotional pain I was having around the loss of that memory and that language and that, um, text, and that object, what is that compared to what we're talking about, right? So my emotional pain is part of this exhibit <laugh> in a different way than you even thought. But you know, it was just like, it was so, like, my feelings about it were so visceral. But then I was like, oh, but look at what everyone lost. I'm just thinking about the book from when I was a child, you know? And I had such a strong reaction to it. Um, so I felt like, I think that that's why it's good you didn't listen to me. I'll go to Pakistan and find some more <laugh>.

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. There's, I mean, there's that original primer that our fingerprints are on. You'll never be able to replicate or find again. <laugh>

Bushra Rehman: <laugh>. Um, this isn’t helping.

Sa’dia Rehman: But you know, when, when Bushra had asked me for, you know, one of the books—and I'm sure if my other siblings are watching, they're going to be calling me soon, like, what, what did you do <laugh>? I was thinking, this has now turned into a material. I mean, it holds so much memory, but it's now material. And that pain, that loss of language, you know, the submersion, the tracing, that all that history that those primers kind of carry, I didn't want to, you know, destroy it. But I kind of wanted to watch it just like, slowly disappear. And that is kind of what is happening all over globally, in many ways. Not just the, you know, dam infrastructure. There's many ways that these things are happening. And so yeah, I wanted to do that with the Urdu primers.

And then also just thinking about the language of Urdu. It is the national language of Pakistan along with English, because Pakistan is a, you know, it was colonized by the British, and so it's not the language of my, our, our family. Yeah. <laugh> It really isn't. Like you hear, Urdu, yes, in poetry and you know the huzzels that I'm sure you've heard of, and you've heard it in some older Bollywood movies. Often the music is in Urdu—maybe not today because of, you know, right wing India now. And so, there's also that part because, um, my family speaks Hindko and Pashto, and those are also disappearing languages. Once the family was, um, displaced from this area in the Indus, the language is also changing generational, general… what is it? 

Bushra Rehman: Generationally.

Sa’dia Rehman: Generationally, thanks. Tongue twister for me. The younger kids aren’t speaking Hindko. They are learning Urdu in their schools. And so, it's spoken by all my cousins that are, you know, up to my age and a little older. And so watching that language disappear is quite shocking, but also hurtful. Because it's not just, you know, you lose your property, you lose your home, you lose the memory. It's also the tongue.

Bushra Rehman: So yeah, so you were like down with Urdu, basically. <laugh>. It's true, and you know, and as we all know, the loss of language is a loss of a way of thinking. Because for those of you who speak multiple languages, you think differently in every language, you know? And so it is, it's a much bigger loss when we lose a language. And I remember asking our father, because he spoke so many languages, what's your favorite language? And he was like, obviously my mother tongue, Hindko. Yeah. And I was like, I didn't know that. 

So we open it up to audience questions? 

Emily Haidet: Yeah, absolutely. We can open up to questions. 

Audience question: Hi. Thank you both. Maybe not a question, but an observation that maybe you can both speak to. Both of you move really fluidly between materials and, uh, particular sort of traditions, and also just conventions of writing. And so like, that something that seems to be this kind of fluidity. And I'm wondering if you could speak to that.

Sa’dia Rehman: Hmm. Um, yeah, I mean, I didn't mention the text in the show. So there's… it is a show with many things happening. There's sculpture, there's video, there's text, there's also a wall drawing, there's the primers, there's monoprints. And so I think materially I am now just… it's just coming out of me <laugh>. I don't know. It just is. I've never felt that before as an artist. And I've been a visual artist, practicing visual artist, for 20 years now. And um, this is the first time that it is like a visceral, like, evocation of material. So whatever I can kind of grab onto and create, that's what I create with. And you know, obviously there's like testing and things that go in the trash, and so I think it's really not about, uh, just this one material that I want to focus on. But it just continues to hop from one material to the next, to text, to video, to, you know, other media. And I think that happens just because of the content. Yeah.

Bushra Rehman: Yeah. I like that word fluidity, because it ties into our water theme. I remember when I was, I got into an MFA program and they were like, well, if you're doing fiction, you can't take poetry classes. And I was like, that doesn't make any sense, because for me, writing in multiple genres, it's where I'm at in my life. Like, I started writing poetry because it was all I had time and space for. And then as I got older, I was able to write prose. I think it's amazing to kind of explore material from many different angles. And I even want to do comedy. I want to do music, I want to write a screenplay. I want to translate. There's so many things I want to do because I feel like it, but it's always going to be exploring the same material, you know?

And I think that to explore material for many dimensions, it's so joyful. It can be so joyful, you know? And healing, I think one thing we haven't talked about is the healing part of art practice. I always came to writing as a healing practice. I teach writing as a healing practice because I do feel like there's a way that when we write down our stories, when we take ownership of our own stories, especially if we are marginalized people in any way, we are showing pride in our lives and caring for our lives in a way that maybe we are not experiencing in the outside world. We're giving our lives like, such deep respect. And I think that's why I always start from the autobiography and move from that place, because I want to honor my life and the lives of our, my family and community.

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah, and also that reminds me, what you just said, that when I started working, I started working out of grief. And I wasn't looking at it as like a healing method. And it probably was. It probably saved me. But I feel like it was also the only way that I could communicate. And so whenever I'm in the studio or whenever I'm making, I'm the most happiest. Yeah. And I, whenever I like exit the most happiest, I'm still like, that just keeps me up. Yeah.

Bushra Rehman: Yeah, I know. A lot of people are always like, why are you always laughing? All these terrible things always happen to you, <laugh> And then I'm like, because I'm always writing. I write every day. I have communities where I meet with other writers and artists and it's such a joyful way to live. And that's why I love public programming like this, I go to art museums—because we need art so much. I know you all know this, I don't have tell you, but yes. Thank you for that question.

Audience question: Hello. Hi. So you said you were both kinda like, surrounded by art and artists and like, creating and playing from like a young age. So like, at what point did either of you sort of sound like, oh, I’ll just be a writer, or, I'm going to be a visual artist? Was there kind of a conscious like, OK, this is what I'm going to focus on? Or did it sort of like emerge?

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. I mean, I remember that very day. It was in 1997 <laugh>. 

Bushra Rehman: Oh God. 

Sa’dia Rehman: Or like 96, September 10th. <laugh> Yeah, it was in 1996 or seven. And I was in high school at that time. And I'm the type of person who likes to know what's next. I like the planning. And I was like, I don't know what I'm going to major in, in undergrad. And Bushra was like, nah, it’ll come to you, don't worry. And you know, there's time for that in undergrad. But I was like, I want to know right now. And so we were in New York City, I had come in and we were hanging out. We went to Pearl Paints, rest in peace. And then we looked through The Village Voice, rest in peace.

And then we were looking through to see what gallery shows were around and we were just going to go gallery hopping in, at the time, Soho in New York City. And we were flipping through The Village Voice and Shahzia Sikander is at Deitch Projects. And, you know, for a Pakistani ear and tongue, Shahzia Sikander is a super Pakistani name. <laugh> And I was like, wait, what? And we just ran to that show and I saw. At the time, I didn't know any Pakistani artists; actually, the group that we were in was mostly Indian artists and slowly then with Sri Lankan and Bangladeshi, and then us two Pakistanis were there. So seeing Shahzia Sikander’s work, I had… I actually met her last week and it was amazing. I told her this story and she was like, oh my God, <laugh>. So yeah, I think that very day, as soon as I saw that show, that kind of opened the door for me. because I was like, oh, I can do this, too. I mean, not in the same way, but I think just having her name out there, I thought I could do it too. 

Bushra Rehman: So yeah, I mean, for me, I always loved writing.  But I never thought I could make a living from it or in any kind of way be a working writer, because I'm closer to 50 than anything. Again, there were no Pakistani writers. Even this book, it's funny that it's getting all this applause because it took me over 10 years to try to find a publisher. Like, no one wanted to publish it. And for me, the writing was always something I did for myself. And I would just work all kinds of other jobs, like work at bookstores—that’s one of my favorite jobs—and then I worked as a caterer. I was just always working. I never got another, like, real, job job because I always was like, I want to be writing. The only time I got a job job was when I was a public school teacher for three years and I helped start a school in Queens. But that's when I was like, if I do this, I'm never going to write.

And so it was always a hustle, a lot of poverty, a lot of hustle. But I just knew that this was something I always needed to do for myself. And so step by step, one thing would lead to another. Like, one friend would say, oh, why don't you send to this publisher? Oh, that agent is looking for someone. And so it was, and it was always within community, I think Colonize This, the book I did when I was young, which is a collection of essays. I'm the co-editor, with my friend Dais Hernandez. There's 28 essays from amazing writers writing about their relationship as people of color with feminism. And that happened because I was at an open mic, I was performing, and Daisy came up to me and was like, hey, you want to co-ed a book with me?

And I was like, 25. And I was like, sure. I didn't know what that was. I didn't know what that meant, how much work it was. But I sometimes say our family is doing better now, but the kind of, uh, under-resourced way I grew up made it very possible for me to live as an artist and not need a lot <laugh> and just only do my art all the time. And only think about that. And yet, the wealth I feel like I have in terms of quality of life and experience is just like nothing else. I always tell my students that you have no idea when you start on this path of art, what's going to happen. It's incredible. Anything can happen. 

One of my other favorite jobs was, it was a flexible kind of job where I would go into all the public schools in New York City and teach poetry to children through this organization called Teachers and Writers Collaborative, which was started by Jude Jordan and Kenneth Koch because of the terrible arts funding for New York City public Schools. And I loved that job because I loved writing poetry with children, you know? So yeah, I think I was always working other things. I think this is one of the first times in my life at this age, almost 50, that I can now mostly make a living from writing.

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. And also, I forgot to say that obviously Bushra was an influence too, because I would watch Bushra be like, traveling and on open mics, all of that. And I was like, I want to do that too. It sounds so fun. And also, while Bushra and Daisy were editing the book, we were living together in an attic, and we were both, you know, making and eating peanut butter sandwiches…

Bushra Rehman: [whispering] Back in the attic. 

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah, back in the attic eating peanut butter sandwiches and just, you know, living our lives. And so it sounds utopic, but it was very difficult. But I think we both had this goal. We really wanted just to make our work. 

Bushra Rehman: Daisy writes about your art that you were making in Colonize This. Like, a project you did when you were 19. Yeah. So Daisy, actually, in the intro to Colonize This, writes about Sa’dia's work. 

Sa’dia Rehman: Mm-hmm. <affirmative>.

Audience question: I understand some of like the themes in the exhibit, having followed your work previously, OK, this is my second time seeing it, so I noticed themes of surveillance come up as well. I understand the themes of ancestor veneration a lot as well and resonated with that previously. What I don't understand clearly is, uh, how the jeans piece fits into these themes. I think it's both of your fabric, right? 

Bushra Rehman: <laugh> 

Sa’dia Rehman: mm-hmm. <affirmative>. 

Audience: So yeah, I just wondered if you both could talk about that. And I haven't read your work before, but your words have already offered so much solace, so I really can't wait to read your book. Thank you. Thank you both for being here.

Bushra Rehman: Thank you so much.

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah. Thank you for that question and that comment. And so, uh, the jean work…

Bushra Rehman: I want my jeans back, by the way. <laugh>

Sa’dia Rehman: Sorry. After the show. After the show.

Um, yeah, the jean work. So the work in the show, I had been an artist in residence at the Wexner Center for three years. And so had been working on this body of work since the beginning. So what you see in the show is just a selection of work from three years. And that denim piece is one of the first pieces I made thinking about this theme. And so I was—again, I'm always collecting material and if I find multiples of it, I just keep it and it goes with me, and it's really very heavy stuff sometimes <laugh> But it comes with me everywhere I go, much like the Urdu primers. And so the jeans, I just started collecting my old jeans, Bushra's old jeans and also my partner's old jeans. I didn't know what I was going to do with them. I didn't even think, you know, why am I collecting these two people's jeans with mine? <laugh> 

And so I just started stripping them one day. I wasn't even thinking about really the content, of what exactly this means, or that I had this umbrella theme that I wanted to explore, the tracing of my family's history and their displacement from this area, from this body of water, the Indus River. And so I just started cutting the jeans into strips and then stitching them together and then placing them in different forms. And then it became this kind of long banner that you see in the gallery space. About 122 inches by approximately like 19 inches, 20 or 22 inches.

When I stepped back, I was also thinking about how much water it takes to create jeans. That was never part of the story when I was making it. But stepping back after making it, like, how much water does it take to create these jeans? And usually, denim factories are often along river beds, like the Colorado River, and it kind of sucks the river's energy to create the electricity and the energy to make these jeans. And so that's kind of where that work came out of.

Bushra Rehman: You know what I love about that? I love that piece so much and I know someone at some point wanted to buy it and you were like, they're not the right person to have it <laugh>. It's like, sacred. And at first I was like, but Sa’dia. And then you were like, no, the right person has to have it if I'm going to. Because it's special to you. You know? 

Sa’dia Rehman: Yeah.

Emily Haidet: So I think we're about at time, but I want to invite everyone to continue to hang out, check out the store. Bushra will be around if you want a book signed. We can have some snacks and continue the conversation. Thank you so much, Sa’dia and Bushra.

Bushra Rehman: Thank you so much. Thank the Wex so much.

Sa’dia Rehman: Thank you all. 

<applause that fades out>

Melissa Starker: That was siblings Sa’dia and Bushman brought together on the occasion of Sa’dia's Winter-Spring 2023 exhibition at the Wex. For more information about our exhibitions and all things Wex, go to wexarts.org. For the Wexner Center for the Arts, I'm Melissa Starker. Thanks for listening.