Gamal Nkrumah talks to Hemat Salah, a woman artist helping to restore authenticity to Egypt's furniture and décor heritage Adrab purplish-red parka is draped on her knees, presumably to keep her warm, because we are in mid- winter, nearing the Coptic Christian Feast of Epiphany, and it is drizzling outside. That was when I first met Basant six months ago. Today, in the scorching heat of June, she is perspiring profusely as she knits a particularly intricate pattern. She puts up with being told off by her superiors. She understands that she is an apprentice, at least for the time being. She knows that her goal is to be a good seamstress. She is certainly not a troubled 20-something dealing with conflicting emotions, who for now has chosen to stand by her fiancé who she proudly describes as a futuwwa (gangster). Alas, he isn't much of a kassiba (earner). His main vocation seems to be intervening in ugly neighbourhood disputes, enforcing by sheer physical strength and bravado the dubious moral order of the hara (alleyway) with the occasional public enactment of masculinity. "Oh, my life wasn't always rosy," she chortles loudly enough for the other girls to glance over at us from a distance. "Life is rosy now," and she hums, almost hysterically, a catchy tune first sung by Suad Hosni, the Cinderella of Egyptian cinema in the swinging 1960s. Basant mimics her idol with such sweeping turns of musical phrase that it is hard for the other girls not to join in this litany of love, daydreaming and boundless abandon. Given her carefree disposition, Basant doesn't strike me as a particularly diligent worker. Her job is a monotonous series of largely thankless tasks. She has quickly created yet another crocheted masterpiece, having put down her knitting needle with its hook at one end, she proudly points out to me, for drawing the beige yarn to form intertwined loops. "It is a joy working with these industrious girls of the St Simon's Development Centre. They are fast learners," artist Hemat Salah insists. They are widely perceived as anonymous backroom staffers, nimble-fingered artisans in countless, nameless sweatshops. They are, however, the veritable depository of the arts of the ancient Egyptians. She stops, shakes her head, and reaches for another glass of water. "I live on small grants and the sale of these women's handicrafts. They are the guardians of the long-lost artistic heritage." Shabby might be chic for some. Most of the works produced by the peasant women in Fayoum or the slum-dwellers of Moqattam that Salah employs have a modest market value. "That is not the point. I do not want to create exorbitantly expensive designs with state-of-the-art technology. I seek sentimental value crafted in the ways of my ancestors. Call me nostalgic. Yes, I am unabashedly so. I cherish the ancient methods of working wood and traditional textiles," she says. "Yet, I see myself as innovative and creative. I don't want blindly to replicate the past. I try to enhance the texture of the arts and crafts of yesteryear. And I do this by providing employment opportunities for young jobless women in cities and rural areas alike." Two incidents illustrate the point. Several months ago, Salah had commissioned Umm Toni to create a pillow made of rough jute cloth, but instead of the dun-coloured or beige natural hue, she suggested bright colours with geometric patterns. At first, Umm Toni was hesitant. Hitherto, she had produced the natural-tinted tawny colours that Salah's clients admired. She asked Salah to choose the colour scheme, and they decided on bold stripes of vivid green and bright orange. The psychedelic pattern was an instant hit with customers. Salah then insisted that Umm Toni use her imagination in conjuring up similarly multi-coloured patterns. Umm Toni came up with turquoise and canary yellow. And later fuschia, purple and navy blue. "Now you've got the knack of it," Salah beamed with evident delight. Karima, a peasant woman from Fayoum, concurs. "We work with date palm fronds to produce a wide range of products that are beautiful to behold and also functional." The legacy of a long history of use is something that these women can capitalise on. Salah teaches the women she employs to understand and appreciate the aesthetic nature of their crafts. "We celebrate the designers' creativity and ingenuity, and we also wonder at the makers' skills and the sheer beauty of the materials used." That was a path that Salah travelled successfully during her years as an artist and journalist with Al-Ahram. She speaks with unrepressed excitement about her constant travelling, both abroad and in Egypt. Though she has never maintained a long-term relationship, she doesn't dwell too long on the implications. "I think some people pity me because I couldn't do that -- family, friends, even the women I employ." She ducks into the back of her diminutive cream-coloured Volkswagen beetle, dives into the mess and comes out with samples of her latest work. "Two years ago, I was into natural colours; today, I am into colour, period. My clients love it." Then she dashes to look into one of the many boxes stacked along the walls of her studio in Dahshour. "Yes, I am an artist at heart, and I love painting. The real art, though, is the work of art that is functional. Instead of painting a portrait of a peasant girl, I now utilise the handicrafts that peasant girl is capable of producing. These pieces of art perform a practical function. Perhaps I've become more practical, but no less artistic." Salah says that her work with the women feels a bit like counselling. "I have found a niche. I have become a trend," she confides. "I am no longer interested in art for art's sake. I want to create works of art that are also useful objects of everyday use." Her transformation from artist to entrepreneur was not easy, though. It took her some time to get to know the women she was working with and to understand their problems and concerns. "As an artist I was a bit of a loner. I am a social person by nature. Now I enjoy working with people. I learn from them, and they learn from me. We improve our respective skills together, and we become friends in the process." "The risks and rewards must be balanced. If they are completely unbalanced, then the project cannot function properly." Salah's project, like several others, has been supported by a number of donor agencies. Chief among these are United Nations-affiliated organisations, such as the International Labour Organisation (ILO), the UN Industrial Development Organisation (UNIDO) and the UN Development Programme (UNDP). Apart from collaborating closely with the ILO, UNIDO and the UNDP, Salah also works with Egypt's Industrial Modernisation Centre (IMC). "The IMC and the UN-affiliated organisations have been invaluable support," Salah stresses. The starting point for the transformation was far from ideal. "We live in a globalised world, and the innate conservatism of the peasantry often restricts women's efforts to earn a living independent of their menfolk," muses Salah. "We have to change some ingrained bad habits." Foreign views are still fostered by stereotypes. "We in Egypt often ape foreign fashions, even when they are not suited to our climate and our environment." Salah's penchant for hedonism prompted her to construct a comely cottage designed according to the traditions of ancient Egypt and using local materials for the decór. She works with peasant women in her hometown of Dahshour, where she has participated in several workshops. The ancient necropolis of Dahshour is noted for its Old Kingdom monuments, including the famous Bent Pyramid of King Snefru. The setting lends an unequivocal air of authenticity to Salah's venture, especially since Dahshour was designated a World Heritage Site by the UN in 2009. Salah does all the networking in venues such as "garden bazaars" all over Cairo and in other cities and resorts in the country. The British Club in Maadi and the Swiss Club in Kitkat are only two venues that Salah shows up at with her handicraft on display to market the work of her women. Success, Salah warns, does not necessarily breed success. Hard, indefatigable and steadfast work does the trick. Salah has tapped into a large pool of unorganised and cheap labour. But she has no qualms about generating informal jobs that many say amount to moonlighting. Yes, there is no long- term security in such jobs, but there is money to be made by women who would otherwise be penniless homemakers. "The product is in my hands, or rather the workers' hands." Salah boasts some passionate and dedicated workers prepared to put in long hours for little pay, because they accept that they are apprentices. The most important quality that is needed in both customer and skilled worker alike is loyalty. Salah's venture has evolved from community-based institutions into a professional-run organisation. Artisans, artists, peasants and slum-dwellers collaborate to produce quality, marketable, functional works of art. They do not necessarily interact directly, but Salah is the reference-point that worker and customer relate to. "I'm trying to bring in good, conscientious, hardworking artisans to my project. Most are women -- the seamstresses, the fabric makers, the knitters -- but some are men, like the carpenters and the upholsterers." Some workers act on their own initiative, though sometimes things go wrong with products not turning up on time. That is Salah's main concern. It is not unlike a factory production line. Some of the artisans are totally professional, while others are apprentices. The impact on their individual lives has been tremendous. "The change today in their lives is obvious," she extrapolates. But Salah has to dip into her own pocket for some of the rest. "Workers need to act professionally. They must learn what professionalism means, what it entails." She markets their crafts in exchange for their labour, giving them the tips that help them improve professionally. "I cannot accept sub-standard products. And the workers need to understand that they are hired out for social and corporate events," she hastily adds. An army of seamstresses, carpenters and other artisans is put into action. Projects such as Salah's help keep young people busy. All this takes a lot of management. "We have a rather non-professional command structure, but below this is a fairly professional organisation," Salah explains. Discipline and process are more important, she concedes, than passion for the art, the product and selfless dedication. "I'm under no illusion about that," she stresses. "I'm an artist and a non-profit organisation, but this venture is not for people ready to dedicate their free time to work for nothing." Salah is well placed to talk about the differences between a company and her venture. She is well aware that often it is the management structure that makes the difference between a winning venture and a losing one. She also had other practical challenges. She was computer illiterate, and her personal computer was loaded with her work -- images of designs, sensitive bank details, background information about products and prospective customers. Yet it was infected with viruses, and she was at a loss as to how to proceed. She turned to various computer and IT companies to deal with her computer challenges -- viruses, security, installing software, and connecting peripheral equipment such as a digital camera and a printer. Their supplying software and IT services and handling back office processes proved to be invaluable to Salah and tremendously enhanced the productivity and professionalism of her venture. Being an amateur venture can generate its own set of problems. It is difficult, for instance, to enforce discipline, and often it is hard to attract the right quality of workers. "Seventy per cent of my customers are foreigners, mainly expatriates," Salah concedes. "However, I am trying to market the work of the women who work with me to Egyptians, too." This is why Salah attempts to interact with different women's associations, such as the Women's Association of Zamalek. "I sometimes explain the nature of the work I do at lectures, seminars or special gatherings. I often find that the women I talk to respond positively and want to help. Sometimes, professional jealousy arises." Salah shrugs. "People generally are keenly interested in history and art." Old furniture in Egypt was made without nails, a typical Egyptian style of carpentry that has survived down the ages from ancient Egyptian to Graeco-Roman and Coptic times. The ancient Egyptian fashion of sewing short planks together to build keel-less vessels appealed to Salah. She loves using authentic Egyptian wood, such as carob, tamarisk and juniper. "Local tamarisk is a very versatile wood," she muses. "Then there is the equally pliable salt cedar, the local Egyptian cedar, as opposed to Lebanon's famed cedar." Such timber was used in the royal solar boats of the ancient Egyptian First and Second dynasties, long before the solar barque of King Khufu of the Fourth Dynasty, which used wood imported from Lebanon. The most important aspect of the exercise was that mortise-and-tenon joinery was used. No nails were employed. The mortise, or hole, and the tenon, or penetrating piece of wood, can be thought of as akin to the sexual act. Inserting the tenon into a cavity (the mortise) creates a union between two pieces of wood. "They are like inseparable lovers, a male [tenon] and a female [mortise]," Salah chuckles. Pictographs of boats dating from Pre-dynastic Egypt between the ancient Red Sea ports and Upper Egypt depict such vessels made using these techniques. Today, Salah uses the mortise-and-tenon joint method to produce modern furniture. "I am always looking for something new. But to do so, I have to dig deep into the old." Salah is driven by a sense of purpose. "I believe that my work is useful for the community," she reiterates. "I share my meals with the girls. We eat koshari [a dish of rice, pasta, chickpeas and lentils] together. We become friends. I listen to their problems. I get to know them, and they get to know me." Still, Salah is acutely aware that friendship per se has no market rate. "If I cannot count on them, then I stop working with them. One of the most vital aspects of my work is punctuality, and the girls I work with must be punctual in order for me to deliver the goods on time to my customers. Whenever I am late in delivery, I lose customers. That is not good for business. It gives me a bad reputation which I cannot afford." Salah has the final say about the finished products. Her main aim is to work within the constraints of a limited budget, using readily available local materials and minimal tooling. "Sycamore and mulberry are typical Egyptian trees that I use in carving my wood products. I use authentic Egyptian products. I refuse to use imported products. The whole point of my work is to use local products and raw materials," Salah contends. Wood drying is an ancient art. It has been used in Egypt since time immemorial and is traditional in many parts of Africa. "I visited Zanzibar and saw the wood-carving techniques used there. I was very impressed with what I saw." Seasoning lumber is yet another ancient art. Reducing the moisture content in the wood prior to its use was a technique perfected by the ancient Egyptians, and Salah is keen to revive it. The most precious tree then and now is the date palm. Virtually every part of the tree is used in the furniture industry, which is why Salah chose the date palm as a symbol of her venture, called Turathiyat. If the date palm and the sycamore are symbolic, so is the flax plant, which represents a link between past and present. Linen fabric produced from fibre from the stems of the flax plant is as important an industry today as it was in the days of the ancient Egyptians. The ancient Egyptians perfected needle-netted linen techniques, and the Egyptian Copts inherited the art in successive periods, with a spectacular blossoming in mediaeval times. The Coptic qualansuwa, or monastic hood stitch, is only one of the techniques used today that dates back to ancient times. Blanket stitch (used to reinforce the edge of thick materials) is yet another technique that Salah incorporates in her work. Sewing methods securing thread into textiles is another ancient art. Cable knitting -- a cable-knit piece of fabric -- and embroidery stitch are different variations on the same theme. "The upholstery is done by men. There is a sort of segregation of labour according to gender -- a division of labour if you will," she says. "I soon realised that each texture needs to be treated differently and separately," she adds. "The upholsterer is the supplier. He doesn't work with me like the girls." Her mind harks back to memories of her childhood and the influence of her mother, who to this day works with her. "I was given my first sewing machine when I was eight years old. Mother gave it to me as a birthday present. I still treasure it to this day. I don't use it, of course," she giggles girlishly. "Mother often accompanies me when she can." Her mother accompanied Salah on her trips to Nubia, the oases of the Western Desert, Siwa and the Red Sea highlands bordering Sudan. Salah travels widely in search of inspiration and new ideas about how to use her local materials and the lost arts of the ancient Egyptians. She has gained experience during travels in Africa and South America. In Zimbabwe, she saw local women generating income from producing curios and handicrafts. In South America, in Peru, Chile and Bolivia, she witnessed peasant women in action, eking out a living from producing the crafts of their forebears. Her work is exciting in its precision, composition and authentically Egyptian presentation. Innovation helps Salah build on traditional cottage industries. "The training of the trainer is a most important process," she says. She makes trunks, canapés, divans, sofas, chairs and tables designed for country houses and seaside chalets, bringing cheer to hoteliers in search of culture and heritage. A growing number of start-ups and established ventures are today exploiting the opportunities provided by existing facilities, such as those of Saint Simon's. "With St Simon's, I use their brand. I don't use my own Turathiyat tags," Salah notes. "The girls are not necessarily concerned with how much I sell the final product for. We agree on a sum of money for the artifact they produce. I market their products. It is only fair, because the entrepreneur takes the risk." Creative industry is a new frontier. Many businesses appear confident, including Salah's, but then she insists hers is not a business in the traditional sense. That confidence is encapsulated in Salah's venture. There is a drive in the furniture and design industry towards innovation, greater productivity and higher-skilled jobs. Salah cannot compete with the state- of-the-art designers of upscale furniture manufacturers. She shies away from the brash pleasure beaches of the Mediterranean and Sinai, studded with the flashing lights of amusement arcades and shopping malls. She has her eye on the leading edge of emerging sectors -- the so-called creative industries. Salah also knows that she has to look beyond Egypt, and has no doubts about when or how to do this. "It is now or never." The third key component of the "game," as she calls it, is to understand that she is designing for customers as diverse as her products. She dreams of becoming a household name, buoyed up by a resurgence in popular interest in traditional made-in-Egypt products. Originality, durability and strength are the keys to her vision. The increasing yearning for authenticity has created a growing sense of optimism in such industries. The forums she works through, and above all her tireless networking, makes hers much more hospitable to interaction with like-minded and complimentary businesses.
