On spiritual architecture: business, culture and imagination to boot Profile by Aziza Sami Daily, at 7.30am, a tallish, formally dressed man in his early 50s -- elegant but unassuming -- makes his way past the wrought iron gate of Al-Saqiya (the Water Wheel, otherwise known as El-Sawi Cultural Centre), the by now constantly rocking 5,000-square metre performance and exhibition space underneath the 15 May Bridge, Zamalek. If he fails to show up there, mind you, he will almost certainly be sighted on his way up to the director's office at the publishing and advertising agency Alamiya, of which Al-Saqiya happens to be the best-known branch. His name is Mohamed El- Sawi, he is a trained architect with an active interest in -- even a vision for -- contemporary Egyptian culture and, together with his brother Abdel-Moneim, he runs the aforementioned agency with business-like precision. But it is to him, too, that the thought of an open and diverse cultural centre bearing the emblem of a water wheel is due; so is the impressive fact that, in the remarkably short period of a little over two years now, the wheel has, so to speak, already turned into the hub. In the spacious hallway that makes up part of Wisdom Hall -- the theatre he designed -- workers were vacuuming the floor when we met, 7.30am sharp. He led the way into an even smaller part of the structure, its predominantly grey walls offset with instantly appealing pictures of Louis Armstrong (combined with which the Mozart posters, outside, gave an idea of the eclectic abundance that has made this place so distinctive). This room is, typically of Al-Saqiya's structure, multi-functional: furnished with three tables and plenty of seats, it serves as a classroom for sculpture lessons and a lounge for performers as well as a conference room. Fuul sandwiches and café-au-lait were brought in: El-Sawi's breakfast; my share was duly wrapped in aluminium foil, at my request, to be consumed a little later; for, not surprisingly, I'm never awake quite so early... A couple of evenings before this conversation, as he often does, El-Sawi introduced a Riff band performance of Nat King Cole favourites -- a small, impromptu speech identifying the performers -- after which he stood unobtrusively in the aisle, watching as the numbers animated an increasingly responsive full house, jazz lovers ranging in age from 20 to well above 60. A few days earlier, he had likewise overseen a classic oud repertoire -- similarly successful. Now he looks forward to a Sudanese-international music evening, among many performances yet to be introduced on this month's programme. Al-Saqiya hosts some 100 events every month, juggling performances with visual art and a broad spectrum of lectures -- and El- Sawi tries to be present, however briefly, at each and every one of them. Every time a concert is playing, he feels genuine concern that audience members, bored or disappointed, might get up and leave: "It doesn't happen that often now but I always worry that it will, because when it does it means that the artist up on stage will be broken." Such insight is typical of El- Sawi, who has managed in the space of a few years to occupy a unique position on the local cultural scene. A graduate of the Architecture Department of Helwan University's School of Fine Arts -- he had completed his schooling at the German School -- in the late 1970s El-Sawi joined his brother Abdel-Moneim Jr in taking over the administration of the company established by his father, Abdel-Moneim El-Sawi Sr, a well-known journalist and sometime minister of culture. And it was in their hands that Alamiya -- "The world has no boundaries", so read the company's motto -- started soliciting sponsors for hitherto unheard of events like automobile desert rallies and Cairo spring parades; some ventures (Holiday on Ice, mainly) left the newly expanded enterprise in several years' worth of debt. Once a rubbish dump routinely providing the space for drug consumption -- one of many illicit activities, in fact -- the space occupied by Al-Saqiya has turned into a beacon of independent culture -- Alamiya's latest and arguably greatest feat. El-Sawi's policy breaks away not only from state control but from the artist hierarchies normally operative in traditional venues, opening the door to fresh talent and enabling the young to work on building an audience base of their own. Remarkably, as the mind behind the scenario now tells me, it was in a nearly accidental way that the project was born. "The company," El-Sawi recounts, "was in the process of encasing the walls of the Gabalaya Street tunnel with marble -- that's the one that passes beneath the 15 May Bridge -- a task we undertook in return for being able to advertise on the newly refurbished walls free of charge. While working we dug into the wall adjacent to the bridge foundation -- and there it was, suddenly, that amazing space, full of rubbish and syringes but still, it's potential was clear to me as soon as I saw it." In response to a proposal, the then governor of Cairo Abdel-Rehim Shehata gave El-Sawi "a carte blanche" to clean up and re-build the space; promptly enough, the space's galleries and hallways slowly began to emerge. The stage, back room and exhibition space making up Wisdom Hall were gradually expanded: El-Sawi established Word Hall and, further down the Nile bank, River Hall, which, notwithstanding the sound insulation, remains in harmony with the river bank environment, with stone steps leading down to a stage flanked by a small garden that gives directly onto the water. "Legalities -- permits and other paperwork -- came later," he goes on, "but the governor's initial support was a definite push. We kept expanding into the space underneath the bridge until we reached the façade of the nearby mosque. Most recently, we added the Earth Gallery right at the point where the bridge crosses the Nile to Mohandessin... Some people have suggested we should build a wall to fence off River Hall. And I say no: the water adds another dimension to the experience. "I feel this kind of thinking is ignorant, almost heathen," El-Sawi, himself a believer, retorts in response to the suggestion that the centre's proximity to the area's biggest mosque may be inappropriate -- a line of thought that rests on the supposed discrepancy between religious practice and artistic expression, for which El-Sawi has no sympathy -- and little patience. "Appreciating art is like religious worship in that it is a manifestation of what it means to be a human being. And no, I've never felt that people coming to the mosque find our presence in any way offensive." This almost Sufi take on religion invests El- Sawi with a lot of fellow feeling, however different he may feel himself to be from others; exclusionism just doesn't chime with his brand of spirituality. "I think Al-Saqiya should be open to everyone," he says, "a space for mixing and mingling freely, regardless of where the people who meet here have come from. One evening the security people came to ask me whether to let a young man who appeared to be drunk buy a ticket to one of our performances -- I told them never to send anyone away, especially someone like this. After all, is it better for him to come in and spend the rest of the evening listening to music or go back outside with nothing to do but drink some more?" Such "Sufism" conceals a business-like astuteness, though. El- Sawi's sense of visual poise, for example, feeds into Al-Saqiya's promotions and advertisements, with the result that the posters displayed on the poles holding up the bridge are an arresting presence. Changing in quick succession, like a film on a reel, they reveal El-Sawi's love of architectural design -- the art of imagining, and then realising, a variety of forms in space. It's a skill he constantly draws on at Alamiya, where his latest task was the design of a fountain to be installed at the entrance to Luxor Airport. In every aspect of his life and work, there can be seen this capacity to combine a transcendent sense of beauty with the practical requirements for sharing it with a large number of fellow human beings. This is, to him, the very essence of design. Al-Saqiya's own design may not be up to the standards of "top professional units, because this requires specialisation", he says, but it remains an example of "any able" architect's ability to make form follow function: "We're lucky to have ended up with such good acoustics, for example, though we've also done a lot of insulation of our own..." Business sustains aesthetics; culture turns into community service; and, in no small measure, sculpture complements architecture. At an early age El-Sawi would design and build marionettes, he says; he has enjoyed clay sculpture for as long as he can remember. "I also like to clean up litter, especially in the places where I work," he flashes a smile. "I'm really very partial to doing this." Consistent with this mind-matter dualism, media attention is important to El-Sawi, but only "because it promotes the artists who come to perform here". It makes him personally happy to see Al-Saqiya celebrated, he admits, but "I don't seek out the media" -- a statement not hard to believe in the light of his failure to give the photographer "the aggressive executive look" he was after. "It honestly isn't me," El-Sawi pauses. "Come to think of it, rivalry doesn't really work in the cultural domain at all." Equally important is punctuality. Shows at Al- Saqiya begin at either 8pm or 8.30pm, exactly; they finish at 10pm, at the latest. People have perceived this as a limitation, but it is in line with El- Sawi's carefully planned lifestyle: dawn prayers followed by an hour's jog on the club track -- El- Sawi also happens to be a professional-level long-distance runner -- and then, immediately, work. From Al-Saqiya to Alamiya and back, a journey interspersed by many a fund-raising mission, El-Sawi's day is a hectic affair that requires punctuality. Once again, being in harmony with the natural cycle of the day turns out to be necessary for the financial viability of the enterprise. "The financial environment in Egypt doesn't facilitate delegating authority, because things are either in a state of flux or about to change by a sudden [legal] decree. Personal contacts are important. And you keep up with all this at the cost of your own creativity. Sometimes," he hypothesises, "I feel I want an eighth day of the week, during which to disappear and do what I really want to do." Like what? "Like thinking up a new project," he responds, impossibly, "a new contest, or a combination of the two, a souq Okaz, for example, as in the traditional Arabic 'literary market' where poets compete in verbal skills. We can come up with something like this to promote classical Arabic, which has become almost extinct and not at all liked amongst the younger generations." This ability to conjure up dreams, generating projects: it seems to rest on boundless energy. Will El-Sawi have the wherewithal to do even more than he's done, helping others replicate the model of Al-Saqiya in the provinces, for example? "Why not," he says with quiet enthusiasm. "We could support other individuals, at the very least with advice, if they decided to devote themselves to such a venture. It could start with one room divided into corners -- music, books, perhaps a small stage..." It is all too easy "to spread yourself thin", though, he says. "Then again, we may yet obtain funding ourselves to set up another Al-Saqiya in Fayoum or Mansoura..." For now he dreams simply of "opening up Al-Saqiya to young people who cannot afford the regular ticket price. The vast majority of our society is poor, yet people think an event is successful if it draws 10,000 people. What is 10,000 in 70 million?" And his mind is instantly engaged in practicalities. "I want to do something here by widening our base of sponsors so we can really subsidise activities, offering a new category of ticket at the price of LE2 or LE3, to be sold separately well in advance of the event." Unconventional modes of fund-raising have undermined El-Sawi's reputation, however: he is accused of using culture to procure money. Certainly both are elements of the same equation, he responds good-naturedly; which comes before the other matters little: "My mission is culture, not money. The point is to use funds, even profit, to get people to enjoy culture, whether in the form of a musical or theatrical performance, a debate, a lecture or an exhibition. I do this because I sincerely believe that culture is more important than money because it empowers you. When you have culture you can resolve problems and make decisions. You can tackle the problems of life." Anything goes, it seems, so long as it contributes to the cause: Al- Saqiya's chocolate festival, for example, drew teenagers lured by the opportunity to sample chocolate and learn some facts about it into art exhibits and musical performances centred around Al-Saqiya's own "Chocolate Museum", which "traced the history and evolution of the product from its earliest beginnings until now". But where does a businessman involved in culture stand in relation to the state, the traditional patron of the arts? "At the personal level," El- Sawi says, "Culture Minister Farouk Hosni has given us nothing but encouragement. From a legal point of view, on the other hand, we have a contract with the government to occupy this space and run it as we do. People sometimes ask, what if the contract is not renewed? And I say, I don't see why it shouldn't be. I do what I can as long as the contract holds. If the government decides to annul it, well -- I get to see more of my children, spend more time on my private business and save that part of its budget that I spend on Al-Saqiya." Its many other facets notwithstanding, Al- Saqiya (otherwise known as Saqiyat Abdel- Moneim El-Sawi) -- that small cosmos of creativity operating under the emblem of Egyptian agriculture's oldest, indispensable irrigation mechanism, which is also the title of a novel by Mohamed's father -- can be seen as a tribute to a man who, as his son now insists, shaped the latter's understanding of life, its cultural and business aspects alike. "He was a man of few personal ambitions," El-Sawi says, "his utmost aspiration being to buy a new pair of shoes, for example. But at the collective level, whether as writer or minister, he believed in making culture available to the average Egyptian. The very idea behind Alamiya was to use advertising profits to publish books that everyone could afford." Unlike the association with Abdel-Moneim El-Sawi Sr, the name "Al-Saqiya" took some thinking: "At first I thought it could simply be El-Sawi Cultural Centre, but young people find the Arabic word for culture, thaqafa, extremely repellent; it happens to rhyme with kaaba, depression, and for many of them it means the same thing." By contrast fresh, upbeat amalgams like Wist Al-Balad, for example -- a band that combines traditional with modern elements -- draw in young people. Even serious artists like oud virtuoso Nasir Shamma -- El-Sawi's own "absolute favourite" -- are popular thanks to their inventiveness. Attending a concert by the band Insomnia along with his two daughters, El-Sawi noted that the oldest member of the audience could not have been more than 18 years of age. Nor does he attend simply as an administrator: "When music is well conceived and well performed, whatever the genre, you are transported. I personally feel I am floating in the seat, not sitting on it." Driving his car, however, El-Sawi always has the Quran network turned on, "because it moves me deeply to listen to the great masters of recitation. Incidentally," he adds quickly, as soon as he remembers, "next week we have an event marking Sheikh Mohamed Rifaat's 125th anniversary". What about his legacy? "In our country, where the personality cult continues to predominate, I want to be able to disappear while Al-Saqiya goes on -- through a board of trustees, say..." At this point the silence of Wisdom Hall gives way to noise as we emerge onto River Gallery, further down. A water wheel transported from Abdel-Moneim El-Sawi Sr's home province of Sharqiya stands in the garden. Two newborn kittens are playing on the stone steps leading down to the river. "What are you two doing here?" he asks gently as we pass them. They are carefully picked up, out of the way, and placed under a hedge. "You know, there's a cat that's got into the habit of lying here, on those same steps, during performances. She's probably their mother. When the performance is over and people are going back up the steps, she goes on lying there. And people simply go round her so as not to step on her as they go up and out. To see this really reassures me. It means there's nothing to be afraid of here, she too knows the place is safe." photos: Mohamed Wassim
