Interview by Neda Mostafavi
Portrait by Nicolas Gysin

Since March 2024, Mohamed Almusibli has been the new director and chief curator of Kunsthalle Basel. Almusibli’s curatorial work is guided by a sensitive engagement with contemporary artistic positions. He has demonstrated a close connection to artists of our time, an innovative perspective on the use of new technologies, and a great interest in connecting local and international scenes. For his visionary programme design, he focuses on innovative and emerging practices while putting them in dialogue with history. In 2019, Almusibli co-founded and directed the non-commercial art space Cherish in Geneva, providing a platform for emerging local artists while also enabling several international artists’ first presentations in Switzerland. Most recently, Almusibli served as an advisor for the Hartwig Art Foundation in Amsterdam, and between 2021 and 2023, he was a lecturer in the MFA program at ECAL, Ecole Cantonale d’Art de Lausanne.

Neda Mostafavi You’re one of the youngest directors of the Kunsthalle, an esteemed institution dear to the heart of Baslers as well as the global art community. I’m interested in your path until now. You studied art as well as curatorial practice – how does your practice in one field influence the other?

Mohamed Almusibli I actually started in the history of art and Arabic at the University of Geneva, with a focus on medieval art. I’ve always been drawn to both medieval and contemporary art; to me, they’re connected because both are experimental in their own ways. They both use images to communicate rather than simply define, which fascinates me. I was trying to link these different eras, and that’s how I ended up in Zurich to study art theory. That’s also where I began experimenting with curating and writing. My first exhibitions were very DIY, often with friends, and I liked the idea of connecting their work to art history. I’d even print out images of historical paintings from Google and display them next to my friends’ pieces. One time, I took over an empty classroom and curated a show called To Whom It May Concern. It happened during Zurich Art Weekend, so we actually had a small crowd. It was exciting to get feedback in real-time. Then, while studying art theory, our department merged with the art department. This shift encouraged me to take my writing more seriously, and I started exploring it as poetry and even fiction. A few curators invited me to present my work, leading to my first solo show. Suddenly, I was thinking about my writing as something physical – as sculpture or installation. And from there, things just kept unfolding. Growing up, I was taught the “Oriental way,” where it’s hard to say no – so I’d smile and nod, and I guess that’s how I became an artist.

NM What do you think would have happened if this chance situation didn’t occur?

MA Honestly, who knows? Maybe I would’ve leaned more into curating and tried to become a director earlier, like in my twenties. But it’s hard to say – I just went where things led me! 

NM You were already writing poetry. What kind of things were you writing before the programmes were merged?

MA I was really into poetry and the way language interacts with visual art, especially through ekphrasis – describing a work of art in a way that almost paints it with words. I was also exploring theory like poststructuralism and psychoanalysis, from thinkers like Bourdieu, Deleuze, and Guattari. Language itself was a big theme for me. I became interested in figures who engaged deeply with language, like Louis Wolfson, who wrote Le Schizo et les langues. He created a unique way of translating sentences into Spanish, Italian, German and French so they would mean and sound like English – all to avoid speaking his mother tongue, which he associated with trauma from his mother. That way of using language as both a shield and a tool really stuck with me. 

NM So you were always working with text-based practices?

MA Kind of, yeah. It was also a time when a lot of new voices and ideas were coming up. My generation was exploring questions around the Gulf and the Middle East, but from a fresh angle. I was really drawn to that, and I remember being impacted by Sophia Al-Maria’s first novel/memoir, The Girl Who Fell To Earth. That book stuck with me, and my writing started leaning into those kinds of stories.

NM The medieval was probably more Western-focused and then you veered East. As is often the case in Western academia... Was your school providing insight into what was happening elsewhere?

MA Actually, yes! At the University of Geneva, my Arabic teacher was really into contemporary art – she’d studied Arabic in Lebanon and introduced us to Lebanese artists like Walid Raad and Akram Zaatari. That was my first exposure to conceptual art from Lebanon, and I remember just thinking, “This is amazing!” It opened up a whole new world for me. 

NM Did you always live in Switzerland?

MA I was actually born in Yemen – both my parents are from there – and we moved to Switzerland when I was four. Growing up, I had to come to terms with not being able to return and figuring out what my connection to my homeland really meant. 

NM I have a similar relationship to Iran.

MA I get that. My only connection to Yemen was through stories and voices since I never got to experience it in person. The way my parents described it was so vivid that I sometimes feel like I have actual memories of it. I’ll catch myself thinking, “I know I’ve seen this,” even though I haven’t. 

NM And still you’ve never been there after leaving?

MA I’ve only been back twice – once when I was 8 and again at 17. So, not really. I’d love to go now, but the situation makes it difficult. 

NM People often say to me, “Do you go back?” But I have never been there.

MA Exactly – “go back” to where? I mean, I can go back to Geneva! After finishing my bachelor’s in theory and media art in Zurich, I realised that I needed a balance between theory and practice. Winning the Kiefer Hablitzel prize, which is awarded to Swiss artists under 30, gave me the chance to return to Geneva and pursue a master’s in fine arts. I moved in with my friends Ser Serpas and James Bantone, and we turned our apartment into an exhibition space. 

NM That’s Cherish?

MA Yes, that was Cherish. We were all close friends, so starting it together made sense for each of our work and growth. Thomas Liu Le Lann joined us, and later Marguerite Mikanowski. We actually named it after an R&B girl band.

NM It sounds like a 1990s R&B reference for sure... 

MA It’s early 2000s, actually! The band was made up of four sisters –two of them twins – singing together. It felt like a perfect name for what we envisioned: a space that was welcoming and friendly. We wanted to avoid that “too cool for school” vibe that was common in other off-spaces, which often felt cold and unapproachable. I remember seeing spaces where communication was practically nonexistent – maybe just a blurry iPhone photo as a poster, a title, and no press release or explanation. I thought, “This isn’t inviting at all.” Since Cherish was set up in our home, we wanted it to feel warm, almost like a family space, where everyone felt comfortable. It was a bit of that Oriental hospitality I grew up with. Marlie Mul, an artist and designer who heads the program in Geneva, created a logo that captured that warmth and welcoming feel. Philippa Schmitt, a graphic designer and artist who was an art student in Geneva at the time, worked on our flyers, which helped us communicate our vision effectively. We put a lot into making our images, flyers, and press releases engaging. We also had guest rooms in the apartment for artists during installations. Each time we selected an artist, we had to ask ourselves, “I love their work, but can I live with them for a week?” 

NM I love the idea of this weird hospitality experiment to foreground in your artistic and curatorial practice. It brings strange issues to the fore and forces you to confront them. You might love a piece and then be super disappointed when you meet the artist. If their views and ideals are different from yours, you may not know how to feel about liking the work. I’m interested to hear more about the more banal aspects of the experience, cooking together, sharing a bathroom, and how it changes the way that you experience the art. I imagine your perception can’t help but change?

MA Definitely, and it’s funny you bring that up because after Cherish closed, one of our ideas was to publish a cookbook instead of a traditional catalogue. We’d become known for our dinners, whether we were sharing a Domino’s pizza or cooking lobster. Food became part of the Cherish atmosphere, and we had great memories around those meals. For example, Zahra Hakim, an artist we exhibited, lives in Geneva with her family, so she didn’t need to stay with us. But she loved the idea of hosting and came over regularly to cook big Iranian dinners for everyone. During her show, she’d make these meals once a month, and people could sign up to join us. We’d all sit together in the exhibition space, eating her food, surrounded by her work. These dinners weren’t just social – they became part of our curatorial practice. They brought people together, created a warmth around the work, and encouraged interaction in a way that felt natural. During Covid-19, when other galleries were closed, Cherish was still a home, so we could keep having small dinners and shows. People came from all over Switzerland because it was one of the few spaces still open, and it created this rare, close experience of art, with the artist right there, sharing the moment with us. 

NM What was it like for you and your flatmates to live with the art?

MA It was definitely an experience. You can like an exhibition when you see it in a gallery, but living with it is something else – it can completely change how you feel about the work. Most of the art was set up in our living room, so we’d usually negotiate with the artist to leave us some space, like the couch or the dining table, just so we could function. For example, Giulia Essyad created this massive wedding cake sculpture that took over our dining table, so we ended up eating on the couch or even on the floor. Another time, Shuang Li filled half the living room with a ball pit, covering the couch, so we found ourselves gathering at the dining table for every meal instead. We kept adapting to the art around us, and I think we enjoyed it. When you see the same piece every day, you start noticing new details. Living with art changes your relationship to it – it becomes part of your daily routine, something you experience in layers over time.

NM I’m interested in the impact that this proximity, that relationship between you guys and the artists and the art and that whole situation created. At Cherish you were creating art as a situation and now you’re in this big institution that is so established and formal in a way. As you said, maybe Cherish was a way to activate Geneva, because it was sleepy in some regard. Switzerland can be accused of being relatively sleepy, but Basel is the capital of culture of this country, and I think is not suffering from lack of activity.

MA Absolutely. While I was doing Cherish, I was also teaching in art schools and working independently as a curator with various institutions and galleries, both within and outside Europe. That experience taught me to manage projects at a larger scale, working with bigger budgets and teams. I collaborated closely with the Centre d’Art Contemporain in Geneva and, more recently, with Beatrix Ruf at the Hartwig Foundation, where we were building the foundation for a new museum. Cherish was a passion project but also a career move, a chance to experiment while I was gaining experience in more established, structured settings. Moving to the Kunsthalle may seem like a big leap or even an early one, but those combined experiences – both formal and experimental – really prepared me for it. Each experience fueled the other, in a way.

NM I’m not asking relative to your age – I’m more interested in Cherish as a unique experience, and what you took from it. Kunsthalle under Elena Filipovic’s leadership was known for being visionary and daring. Since we haven’t yet had the chance to experience your programme for Kunsthalle, what are your ideas for the institution and how does it relate to what we’ve discussed so far?

MA One of the most valuable things I took from Cherish, as we’ve discussed, is the idea of true hospitality. I’m thinking a lot about how the Kunsthalle can be a genuine host – a place that feels welcoming not only for artists, but for every visitor who walks through the doors. Contemporary art can feel distant or exclusive, but I want to break down those barriers and make Kunsthalle Basel a space where everyone feels at home. Just like at Cherish, I want people to feel invited and included, to sense that this is a place for them, no matter who they are or what their background with art might be. In a way, I see the Kunsthalle as an evolution of Cherish, a chance to create that same spirit of warmth and connection but on a bigger scale. It’s about creating experiences that resonate, spark curiosity, and, hopefully, leave people feeling that they truly belong here. .