Take It Personally
- Noor Albar
- Nov 14
- 4 min read
As our friendship developed, I learned more about the Peruvian landscapes that so mesmerised Alessandra Risi and found striking similarities with my own homeland, Saudi Arabia. Together, we began to understand the paradoxical nature of belonging – the subjectivity of proximity. I tried to stay present, dropping in for studio visits, late-night chats, early-morning cafes, and whenever Risi had an exhibition opening, I made sure to visit.
One mild evening, while walking through the streets of London, I was struck by one of Risi’s new paintings (Fig. 1) displayed prominently in the window of Mucciaccia Gallery, marked with the words ‘Opening Soon’. I quickly noted the date in my calendar, eager to attend. The piece felt deeply familiar. I recalled how disheartened she had been when given feedback that her work appeared “incomplete”. Despite her insistence on the aesthetic integrity of the piece, the criticism persisted – until it was presented to the curatorial team of LATAMesa, who told her, “You have documented the problem (fires), but not the solution,” referring to the divine intervention of rainfall that comes after all hope in human solutions has faded.
The group show at Mucciaccia Gallery – curated by LATAMesa, a London-based Latin American collective – brought together three artists, each introspectively revealing how they see the world. On the evening of the opening, a bouquet of pink tulips in hand, I arrived feeling slightly anxious. Alessandra was the only person I knew, and my companion had decided to cancel. Still, I promised myself I would remain present.
When I handed the bouquet to Alessandra, she thanked me warmly. Her aunt exclaimed, “You’re the friend who always brings her flowers! Tulips are my favourite too – how kind!” I smiled, but soon found myself surrounded by unfamiliar faces. I scanned the room, taking in the artwork, searching for meaning – taking it personally. Then, across the crowd, I caught sight of one of Risi’s paintings, Muerte en Movimiento, 2024. Standing before it, I felt as if the canvas itself whispered, “Hello, you. It’s been a long time.”
I had never seen the piece before, yet it felt as though it recognised me. The noise of the room faded into silence, replaced by a gentle hum in my mind that grew loud enough to drown out the mingling voices. I stood there, speaking the language of silence. Time slipped away. I cannot say how long we conversed – the painting and I – but I soon noticed others gathering, drawn to the same quiet resonance. Each of us, it seemed, was taking it personally, seeking our own reflections within the work.
The muffled hum eventually subsided, replaced by a faint voice in my head whispering: “It’s your late grandmother’s Persian rug.” In that moment, I understood why the painting had felt so familiar – it was a visual echo of my childhood evenings, lying beside my grandmother’s bed on that warm rug (Fig 3), urging her to tell me another story. She would yawn and insist, “That’s enough, we need to sleep now.”
When I returned to the present, to the buzz of the gallery, I caught sight of Alessandra passing by. I stopped her and asked, “Can I ask you something?”
“Sí, of course,” she replied.
“Why did you blur it?”
She smiled softly. “That painting was one of my earlier works from the RCA. I blurred it because I wasn’t sure – and also because it reflects the distance of memories.”
A peculiar likeness, I thought. Perhaps that is the only power we truly possess: introspection – the search for ourselves in every fleeting encounter. This brought to mind Carl Jung’s Memories, Dreams, Reflections (1995), where he argues that dream interpretation is a deeply subjective process. Every dream is a mirror of the self, and only the dreamer can decipher its meaning. Each dream, like each artwork, is bound to our own realities and memories. Taking it personally, then, may be the only way to understand. If two people dream of a palm tree, the image means something entirely different to each of them, shaped by their unique experiences. If we accept that everything that happens is subjective, perhaps introspection is the only form of clarity available to us. Perhaps taking it personally is how we find our way back to ourselves.
As I stood, still entranced by the painting, another visitor approached me.“Excuse me,” he said, “you’ve been standing here for quite a while. What do you see in this painting? Because I see a lot of things.” I had been enjoying my silent conversation and wished to keep it that way, so I simply replied, “That’s a good thing, no?” To my slight dismay – and growing curiosity – he continued, “I see a beach, and I see people fighting.”All I could see was a familiar rug and the warmth of childhood memories. It was fascinating to once again experience the subjectivity of proximity: though we stood less than a metre apart, he saw distant, unfamiliar figures, while I saw one deeply familiar face.
We both took it personally.
References
Jung, C. G. (1995). Memories, Dreams, Reflections. (A. Jaffé, Ed.). London: Fontana Press.
Image Credits
Fig. 1: Lluvia Milagrosa, Lluvia que Apaga, y Limpia, 2025, in the window display of Mucciaccia Gallery, London. Image: Courtesy of Mucciaccia Gallery.
Fig. 2: Alessandra Risi with her painting Muerte en Movimiento (2024) on the opening night of the exhibition at Mucciaccia Gallery, London. Photo: © Noor Albar
Fig. 3: The Persian rug that inspired a moment of recognition in the gallery. Photo: © Noor Albar