The artist traces soil as a living lexicon, material, memory, and meaning, unfolding in a delicate floor-based installation that hovers between formation and erasure.
20 March 2026
In ‘Ilā Turāb’, Zemmouri transforms soil into a shifting inscription that unfolds slowly across the floor. What first appears as a dense accumulation of earth gradually resolves into language, inviting viewers to move, look closely, and reconsider the relationship between matter and meaning. In this conversation with Suzette Bell-Roberts, the artist reflects on the fragile threshold where soil becomes script, the cyclical movement between “from the earth” and “to the earth,” and how her practice approaches questions of memory, ecology, and belonging through the quiet materiality of dust.
Ilā Turāb, installation view. ©️ James Stapleton.
Suzette Bell-Roberts: ‘Ilā Turāb’ unfolds as a floor-based inscription that shifts from dense accumulations of soil toward legible script. How does this gradual emergence of language shape your thinking around perception, presence, and material transformation?
Fatiha Zemmouri: ‘Ilā Turāb’ begins with a very simple gesture: soil placed directly on the ground. At first, it appears as a dense, almost formless accumulation. As the viewer moves through the space, this density slowly opens, revealing a script that gradually becomes legible.
For me, this slow emergence matters because meaning itself often appears in a similar way. It does not arrive immediately; it requires attention, time, and proximity. Language in the work is therefore not given from the outset. It reveals itself progressively, through the viewer’s movement and perception. At the same time, the transformation from matter into language is never fully complete. The writing remains fragile, almost unstable, as if it could return to dust at any moment. What interests me is precisely this threshold where matter begins to speak, yet still remains earth.
Ilā Turāb detail. ©️ James Stapleton
The phrases ‘min turāb’, ‘from the soil,’ and ilā turāb, ‘to the soil,’ operate in a quiet dialogue within the installation. How do you conceive of this movement between origin and return as both a visual and a philosophical proposition?
The phrases min turāb – “from the soil” – and ilā turāb – “to the soil” – evoke a movement that feels both simple and fundamental. Together, they suggest a cycle: emergence and return. Visually, this movement is carried by the material itself. The soil forms the writing, but it also contains the possibility of its own disappearance. The words seem to arise from the earth, yet they never fully separate from it.
On a more philosophical level, the gesture speaks about the condition of life. Everything emerges from matter and eventually returns to it. I do not see this as something tragic; rather, it suggests a quiet continuity – a cycle that connects bodies, memory, and landscape.
Ilā Turāb, installation view. ©️ James Stapleton.
By allowing writing to dissolve into earth, you collapse distinctions between text and terrain. What does it mean for you to render language as matter, as sediment, as trace?
In this work, writing is not ink placed on a surface; it is earth itself. This choice immediately changes the nature of language, making it something physical and unstable. When language becomes matter, it loses the authority of permanence that we usually associate with writing. It becomes closer to sediment, or to a trace left on the ground -something that can shift, scatter, or slowly disappear. What interests me here is precisely this fragile condition. The words are present, but they also seem to hover on the edge of dissolution. Language is no longer fixed knowledge; it becomes something that emerges from the ground and could just as easily return to it.
The work is created in situ and invites viewers to navigate it physically. How do you choreograph the body’s encounter with fragility, dust, and spatial inscription?
The work is directly on the floor, so the viewer cannot approach it from a distance. The body inevitably enters the work’s space. This proximity creates a very particular awareness. Visitors tend to slow down, often instinctively, as if they were entering a fragile landscape. The soil, the dust, and the writing demand a certain attentiveness. There is also a perceptual ambiguity in the work that interests me. From a distance, the surface of the soil can almost resemble a textile – something soft, almost velvety to the eye. Yet the body knows that it is earth: dry, dusty, and potentially uncomfortable. This tension between what the eye perceives and what the body understands becomes part of the experience. I often think of this encounter as a quiet choreography. The viewer’s body becomes part of the work’s perception: moving around it, adjusting its steps, and gradually discovering the writing from different angles.
Ilā Turāb detail. ©️ James Stapleton
Earth functions here not simply as a medium but as a metaphor, archive, and threshold. What symbolic and political resonances does soil carry within your broader practice?
Soil is a very charged material. It is the ground we inhabit, but it is also an archive that holds traces of life, decay, and transformation. In my practice, earth often appears as a threshold between presence and disappearance. It carries memory, yet it also reminds us of the inevitability of return. There is also a political dimension to soil. It is deeply connected to land, territory, and belonging. In many contexts, it becomes a site of conflict or displacement. By working with earth in a fragile, ephemeral way, I try to approach these questions indirectly, through material rather than representation.
There is a palpable tension between ephemerality and preservation in this installation. How do you negotiate impermanence within the museum’s institutional space?
Museums are traditionally spaces of preservation, where artworks are expected to endure. ‘Ilā Turāb’ introduces a slightly different condition: a work that remains vulnerable to time and to its environment. Rather than trying to eliminate this tension, I accept it as part of the work. The installation is stable enough to endure the exhibition, but it never becomes fully fixed. This fragility is important to me because it reminds us that not everything can be preserved indefinitely. Some forms of meaning exist precisely because they are temporary.
Silence and restraint anchor the work’s immersive quality. How do you resist spectacle while sustaining an atmosphere that is both meditative and charged?
The work relies on very minimal elements: soil, space, and writing. There is no dramatic gesture and no visual excess. This restraint is deliberate. It creates a quieter form of attention, inviting viewers to slow down and notice subtle variations in texture, density, and meaning. For me, intensity does not necessarily come from spectacle. It can also emerge from silence – from the presence of a simple material and from the awareness that something fragile is unfolding before us.
Ilā Turāb detail. ©️ James Stapleton.
In presenting ‘Ilā Turāb’ at MACAAL, what conversations do you hope to open around ecology, ancestry, and the cyclical nature of belonging?
Presenting ‘Ilā Turāb’ at MACAAL creates a particular resonance, because the work engages directly with earth as both material and symbol. I hope the installation can open reflections on our relationship with the ground we inhabit – ecologically, historically, and culturally. Soil connects us to landscapes and to the generations that came before us. Through the cycle suggested by min turāb and ilā turāb, the work evokes a sense of belonging that is not fixed or possessive. It is a form of belonging grounded in transformation – in the understanding that we are part of a much larger cycle that ultimately exceeds us.
The exhibition is on view at the Museum of African Contemporary Art Al Maaden (MACAAL) in Marrakech, until the 19th of April 2026.
