At dawn, before the mountain air has fully warmed and before the village stirs awake, a furnace is already burning in Beit Chabeb. Inside a spacious but timeworn workshop, metal begins its slow transformation into something far more enduring than its raw form. Here, in this quiet corner of Mount Lebanon, Naffah Naffah continues a craft that has defined his family for more than three centuries: bell making.

He owns the only factory in the region that makes them. The bells he creates will one day ring across valleys, call the faithful to prayer, toll in mourning, or peal in celebration. Yet before they become voices of churches, they begin as molten bronze poured carefully by the hands of a man widely regarded as Lebanon’s last traditional bell maker.

Craft Rooted in Migration and Memory

The story of the Naffah family’s craft stretches back to the early 1700s, when Russian bell founders settled in Beit Chabeb. Drawn by Lebanon’s growing Christian communities and the need for church bells across Mount Lebanon and beyond, these craftsmen brought with them specialized knowledge of casting techniques that were rare in the region.

Among their apprentices was a young local man named Youssef Gabriel, an ancestor of Naffah. Under Russian mentorship, Gabriel learned to shape clay molds, calculate alloy mixtures, and tune bells to precise tonal frequencies. According to family history, when he cast his first bell successfully, his mentors were so impressed that they bestowed upon him the name “Naffah,” meaning “accomplished” or “successful” in Arabic.

The name endured, becoming a surname and, more importantly, a responsibility. Generations of Naffahs would dedicate themselves to preserving the integrity of that craft, transforming Beit Chabeb into a regional center for bell production.

Inside the Workshop

Today, the workshop feels suspended in time. Wooden tables carry decades of burn marks. Rows of heavy molds rest against the walls. Tools — some inherited, others handmade — hang in deliberate order. The scent of heated metal mingles with dust and oil.

Bell making is both science and art. The alloy, primarily bronze, must be mixed in exact proportions. The clay molds must be shaped with meticulous precision, forming the inner core and outer shell between which molten metal will be poured. Once cast, the bell must cool slowly to prevent cracks. Only then begins the painstaking process of tuning — removing minute amounts of metal from inside the bell to achieve the desired pitch.

When Naffah strikes a finished bell for the first time, the deep and resonant sound fills the workshop — vibrations shaped by centuries of accumulated knowledge.

The historical significance of this craft has been formally recognized, with records preserved in the archives of Holy Spirit University of Kaslik. Yet beyond documentation, the workshop itself is a living archive.

A Regional Legacy

Over time, Beit Chabeb earned a reputation that extended far beyond Lebanon’s borders. Bells can weigh between 60 and 250 kilos. Churches across the country — and in Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Iraq, and Palestine — sought bells cast by the Naffah family. Each bell bore not only a distinct tonal identity but also the mark of a workshop known for precision and durability.

In a region where church bells mark the rhythms of daily life, a bell was not simply an object; it was a long-term companion to a community. It would outlive priests, parishioners, and often even the buildings that housed it.

More Than Metal

In Lebanon, where history is layered and identity is complex, crafts like bell making carry symbolic weight. They represent continuity in a country often marked by rupture. They embody patience in a society frequently tested by crisis. A handmade bell resists disposability, it demands time, requires listening, and is meant to last for generations.

The Weight of Being the Last

Today, however, the craft stands at a crossroads. Naffah works alone. He produces approximately thirty to thirty-five bells per year, each one requiring weeks of labor. His day begins at five in the morning and often stretches until early evening, interrupted only by a brief pause to collect his children from school.

There are no apprentices currently learning at his side. Industrial production has made imported bells cheaper and faster to obtain. Lebanon’s ongoing economic challenges have made it increasingly difficult for traditional artisans to survive solely on heritage crafts.

To be called “Lebanon’s last bell maker” is both an honor and a burden. It carries pride in mastery, but also the awareness that an unbroken chain stretching back three centuries may soon depend on whether someone chooses to continue it.

The Waterlilies of Basta

Years ago, I first encountered the name ‘Manetti’ while shopping in Basta, one of Lebanon’s famous antique districts. Behind a pile of furniture, a painting peeked out, its blue, green, and silver brushwork shimmering in the corner of a wooden frame. In its corner, two signatures placed side by side read: ‘Manetti-Nammar.’

I negotiated with the dealer and bought the nearly ten-foot long painting on the spot. After receiving the payment, he admitted he was happy to get rid of it — “nobody wanted it because it wouldn’t fit on their living room walls!”

This painting does not belong on a living room wall, I thought, it belongs in a more public space. I arranged for a truck to drop it off at our office’s storage space where it sat quietly for months while I travelled for work. While abroad, I told my father that I had bought a special painting but hadn’t taken a picture of it. When we returned to Beirut, my father and I turned the storage light on and took a closer look at the painting — yes, it was something special indeed. But who were the artists?

There was very little information online about Ferdinando Manetti (also referred to as Fernando or Nando), and even less about Nammar — so I started with his story.

Nicolas Nammar

Nammar, though less well-known than his contemporaries, was a pivotal figure in Lebanon’s artistic evolution. Born in Beirut in 1925, he trained in Europe before returning to his homeland in 1953. His work blended classical techniques with a growing interest in modern art, and he became one of the founding members of Lebanon’s most important art institution, the Académie Libanaise des Beaux-Arts (ALBA).

His style veered toward classical draftsmanship with a delicate handling of light — a sensibility that likely resonated with Manetti’s structure-driven approach.

Their collaboration on Waterlilies is unusual in the context of the period. Joint signatures were rare among Lebanese painters then, suggesting that the work may have served a specific public commission or pedagogical purpose. Nammar’s participation hints that this painting might have been both a dialogue between teacher and student and a reflection of a friendship shaped by the lively Beirut art circles of the 1940s and 50s.

While it is difficult to distinguish exactly which passages belong to which hand, the more ethereal brushwork in the water’s surface and some of the softer transitions in the lily pads bear similarities to Nammar’s later work. But to better understand the collaboration, I traced the eventful journey of Ferdinando Manetti.

Ferdinando Manetti

After some research, I discovered that Manetti was born in 1899 in San Giminiano, Italy. He began his studies in painting, focusing on fresco techniques, and was entirely self-taught. His father owned a hotel in San Gimignano — still in existence today, though no longer in the family — and expected his son to carry on the family business. Ferdinando, however, always knew he wanted to be a painter and strongly resisted that path. His education came through careful observation and extensive reading, and his artistic vision was largely shaped by the influence of artists such as Modigliani, Cézanne, and Toulouse-Lautrec. By the late 1930s, he had moved to Ain Karem in Palestine to create religious artworks.

Ain Karem is known as the birthplace of John the Baptist and is where the Virgin Mary visited her cousin Elizabeth who lived there. During World War II, Manetti and his family were imprisoned by the British in 1940. This was the fate of all Italian civilians in Palestine at the time — and, likely, German civilians as well — who were considered “enemy” nationals by the Allied forces. Four years later in 1944, he was allowed to return and paint in the Church of the Visitation in the village.

The Madonna of the Prickly Pear Cactus

The apse of the Church of the Visitation unfolds like a triptych, with Manetti’s Madonna of the Magnificat at its center. The Virgin stands in a golden, hilly landscape, flanked by two large prickly pear cactus bushes and surrounded by small desert flowers. At her feet kneel the Franciscan patrons of the church, while a choir of angels hovers above. Dressed in a royal red gown and blue mantle, the Madonna embodies both grace and divinity.

Manetti’s vision feels strikingly modern — a moment of revelation rendered in vivid form. His decision to replace the traditional palms and olive trees of the local environment with the prickly pear cactus is unusual and symbolic. A plant with no tradition in Christian art, the cactus may reflect the desert landscape Manetti knew during his years in a British detention camp. Thus, the mural becomes a personal emblem of endurance, gratitude, and faith.

This dialogue between the sacred and the earthly continues on the north wall, where ten pairs of angels appear to stand on yellow desert sands. Their bright wings and flowing robes evoke heaven, yet they are rooted in the same desert world as the Madonna. In one pair, a guitarist and a trumpeter stand beside a small cactus, both with golden halos that glisten in the light, next to which Manetti signed his name and the date, 1944 — the year of his liberation. The cactus here becomes his symbolic signature, a quiet expression of his own renewal and freedom.

Smaller images of the cactus appear throughout the church — in Biagetti’s façade mosaic of the Madonna arriving at Ain Karem, and in the upper church floor mosaics among animals and plants. This recurring motif, with its red fruit and resilient form, was likely a deliberate choice, expressing both artistic joy and spiritual gratitude.

His Move to Beirut, Lebanon

After completing his work at the Church of the Visitation in Ain Karem in 1946, Manetti moved to Beirut.

In the years following World War II, Beirut’s art scene was at a crossroads. The city had become a meeting point for Levantine, Armenian, and European artists, each bringing their own vision and style. The atmosphere was electric — galleries were sparse, but intellectual circles were thriving, and Beirut was quickly becoming the cultural capital of the region. In this environment, the Académie Libanaise des Beaux-Arts (ALBA) emerged as a key institution for training a new generation of artists, many of whom would go on to define modern Lebanese art. Manetti, with his classical training and emphasis on form, found himself teaching students there who were beginning to explore abstraction and the European avant-garde.

In some ways, he was a bridge between the old and the new, providing a grounding in the fundamentals while also encouraging experimentation. Several Lebanese families acquired his paintings or commissioned pieces, and the Church of Notre-Dame-des-Anges in Badaro features one of his mosaics at its entrance. His teaching culminated in a 1963 exhibition at the Bristol Hotel, and he was preparing another show in Italy when he passed away in Beirut on March 18, 1964.

Known for a poetic realism, Manetti contrasted with fellow Lebanese artist Cesar Gemayel, whose thick, vibrant oils celebrated color and form. Manetti’s work, on the other hand, followed the Italian tradition of subtle painting, seeking order and refined exuberance. This discipline made him a compelling mentor to students such as Shafic Abboud, Huguette Caland, Paul Guiragossian, Yvette Achkar, and Jean Khalifé, many of whom became leading figures in Lebanese art themselves.

The artists he mentored would go on to forge their own paths in Paris and beyond, but they always carried with them Manetti’s disciplined approach to painting.

From Desert Bloom to Waterlily Stillness

Manetti and Nammar’s later Waterlilies continues the visual language Manetti developed in his Madonna of the Magnificat. Like the desert cactuses surrounding the Madonna, the lilies symbolize renewal and quiet strength, thriving in their natural environment while carrying religious symbolism.

The composition reflects Manetti’s love of rhythm and balance, and the size of the painting is reminiscent of wall murals. A colleague of mine suggested that the painting was likely once located at the entrance of a residential building or a public space like a cinema or restaurant — which made sense considering its scale. The evenly spaced lilies echo the structured arrangements of his earlier apse, while the cool blues and greens replace the desert golds without losing harmony or calm. The silver strokes of the water ripples, reminiscent of the golden halos of Ain Karem, reveal a secret feature of the painting — they glisten in the moonlight. Their shapes also echo the outline of the desert rocks of the Madonna of the Prickly Pear Cactus.

Though less overtly religious, the work retains the meditative spirit of his sacred scenes. Nature becomes a language of devotion — whether a cactus rising from sand or a lily floating on water, each image speaks of innocence, faith, and beauty.

Together, these works trace Manetti’s evolution from sacred narrative to reflective meditation. The Madonna of the Prickly Pear Cactus celebrates resilience and devotion, while Waterlilies transforms that same sensibility into quiet contemplation, showing his enduring ability to find the divine in nature.

Mario Manetti, The Artist’s Son

In 2021, I reached out to the artist’s son, Mario Manetti, with a picture of the painting. He shared some of his insights with me:

“We lived for a large part of our life in Lebanon, at that time one of the most pleasant countries to live in. My father taught painting at the Lebanese Academy of Fine Arts where most Lebanese modern painters learned the art of painting. Nicolas Nammar was one of his students.”

That confirmed the mystery of the second signature — it reflected the hand of Nicolas Nammar, the respected founder and president of the Association for Lebanese Artists and Sculptors. He took a young Aref El Rayess under his wing, and they eventually collaborated to establish the Institute of Fine Arts at the Lebanese University in 1963. He would become a key figure in shaping Lebanon’s postwar art scene, mentoring the next generation of modern painters — but that subject deserves its own article.

Later, Mario expressed appreciation for my sending a picture of the painting that his father had painted over half a century earlier. And in the end, we hung the painting in the center of our Beirut office — it didn’t belong on the living room wall.

Omani traditional arts constitute a living expression of the country’s social life, values, and collective memory. Through poetry, movement, music, and dress, these practices articulate identity, pride, and belonging. Central to many of these performances is traditional attire, which functions as both ornament and symbol, reinforcing the ceremonial and cultural weight of each occasion.

Al Razha

Al Razha is one of the oldest traditional arts in Oman and is practised across much of the Sultanate. It combines swordplay with poetic exchange among skilled poets. Performers appear in full traditional dress, wearing the khanjar and carrying swords and shields, emphasising the art’s martial character and historical depth.

Al Azi

Practised in all governorates, Al Azi is an art of praise, pride, and poetic recitation. Led by a principal poet — also known as the Al Azi — the performance celebrates faith, ancestry, moral values, and leadership. Traditional dress is essential, with the khanjar worn prominently alongside the sword and shield.

Al Tariq

Meaning “the melodious tune,” Al Tariq is a vocal Bedouin art performed without musical instruments. Sung individually and then repeated by others, it is traditionally associated with camel travel. The melody remains constant, while the poetry reflects memory, tribal pride, and admiration for endurance. Performers wear the dishdasha and khanjar as part of the formal presentation.

Al Wanah

Al Wanah is a Bedouin group performance traditionally sung near tents or around fires. Often described as the art of memory, it is marked by introspective gestures and emotional restraint. Verses are sung by a lead performer and echoed by the group, conveying themes of longing, travel, and remembrance.

Al Taghrooda

Al Taghrooda is a Bedouin art associated with horses or camels. In horse Tagrood, energetic chants and poetry encourage riders and celebrate bravery, chivalry, and prized animals. Performers often wear the khanjar to intensify the ceremonial and spirited atmosphere.

Al Habot (Al Medan)

Al Habot is widely performed at weddings, social gatherings, and official celebrations, particularly in southern regions. It is performed without musical instruments and relies on poetic exchange. Performers wear formal attire, carrying swords and sticks, with the khanjar serving as a key visual and symbolic element.

Al Rabobah

Al Rabobah is a musical ensemble performance involving both men and women. It features dancers, a lead singer, chorus vocals, and percussion, alongside the rababah, a bowed string instrument with deep resonant tones. Traditional dress and jewellery play an essential role, with male performers wearing the khanjar during the dance.

Al Madar

Al Madar is traditionally performed in Dhofar and appears in two main forms. In one, large groups process together, led by men wearing khanjars and carrying swords and sticks, followed by women adorned with jewellery and accompanied by percussion. In the other, men and women stand in opposing lines framed by musicians.

Al Bara’a

Al Bara’a is practised in Dhofar and parts of eastern Oman. It features one or two dancers at a time, accompanied by repeated vocal lines and percussion. Unlike many other southern arts, Al Bara’a emphasises movement rather than poetry, with choreography defining the structure of the performance.

Al Razfah

Al Razfah is performed by Bedouin men across Oman. Two facing lines exchange poetic verses in rhythmic repetition. Musical instruments are generally absent, except in Musandam, where leather drums are used. The performance highlights unity, discipline, and collective voice.

Al Hambal (Al Maserah)

Al Hambal is performed on horseback or camels during social and national occasions. Riders sing in unison without instrumental accompaniment, focusing on poetry that praises horses, courage, and lineage. The khanjar, worn alongside bamboo sticks, reinforces the ceremonial presence of the riders.

Taken together, Omani traditional arts reveal a culture in which poetry, movement, and dress are inseparable.

In the 1960s, Lebanon occupied a rare place in the global imagination. It was modern yet ancient, Western-facing yet unmistakably Eastern, glamorous without being rigidly defined. For filmmakers from Europe, America, and Asia, Lebanon became a natural crossroads: a cinematic meeting point where espionage thrillers, romantic dramas, and international adventures could unfold against a backdrop that felt both different and familiar. It helped that the local population had one of the highest per-capita cinema attendance rates worldwide in 1960, according to UNESCO, creating a large and enthusiastic audience for both local and international films. Alongside this international visibility, a rich local film culture was also taking shape, with pioneers like George Nasser leading the charge.

In the 1960s — due to Lebanon’s position as a regional cultural and economic hub with a liberal, laissez-faire economy, excellent technical facilities, and a vibrant cultural scene — this international presence crystallized into a remarkable moment when world cinema found a home in Lebanon.

Beirut as the Mediterranean Dream

Early 1960s productions often depicted Lebanon as a sunlit Mediterranean paradise. Films like Mediterranean Holiday (1962) and Crucero de Verano (1964) positioned Beirut within a larger leisure circuit of Southern Europe and the Mediterranean. The country appeared elegant and cosmopolitan — a place where cruise ships docked, languages overlapped, and cultures mixed effortlessly.

These films aligned Lebanon with freedom of movement and cosmopolitan sensibilities, positioning it alongside Rome, Athens, and the French Riviera rather than isolating it as an “Eastern” other. For many Lebanese audiences, these films were a form of entertainment and escapism, offering a glamorous and adventurous view of their homeland.

The Spy Capital of the Cold War

By the mid-1960s, Lebanon’s role in cinema shifted. Beirut became a favored setting for Cold War spy thrillers, its neutrality and international flavor making it ideal for secret agents and double-crosses.

A significant number of espionage films either took place in Beirut or used it as a central hub: Last Plane to Baalbek (also known as Operation Baalbeck) (1964), Secret Agent Fireball (1965), 24 Hours to Kill (1965), Man on the Spying Trapeze (1966), Spies Strike Silently (1966), Agent 505 – Todesfalle Beirut (1966), Il marchio di Kriminal (1967). Airports, hotels, and casinos became familiar sites of intrigue.

Italian and pan-European productions, including Secret Agent 777 – Operazione Mistero (1965), and Agent 3S3: Passport to Hell (1965), Il Cobra (1967), L’uomo del colpo perfetto (1967), and Flashman (1967), placed Beirut squarely in the Eurospy boom, treating it not as an exotic exception but as a familiar node in a global network of conspiracy — interchangeable with Rome, Istanbul, or Hong Kong.

Unlike the more rigid and colder atmospheres of Berlin or Moscow, Beirut was fluid and unpredictable. Where the Spies Are (1965), starring David Niven — best known for A Matter of Life and Death (1946) — exemplified this, blending espionage with wit and cosmopolitan ease.

Niven’s urbane, detached persona complemented the city’s shifting allegiances and constant motion. Though not free from orientalist tropes, these films positioned Beirut as a modern crossroads rather than a purely exotic construct.

French Cinema and the Beirut of Ambiguity

French cinema brought a different sensibility. Rather than focusing on global conspiracies, filmmakers explored individual drift, chance encounters, and emotional instability. Beirut became a psychological landscape.

Backfire! (1964) starred Jean-Paul Belmondo and Jean Seberg, whose New Wave personas — ironic, mobile, and observant — fit seamlessly into the city’s unsettled atmosphere.

In La Grande Sauterelle (1967), Mireille Darc transformed Beirut into a space of tension, where lives intersected briefly before moving on. Together, these films anchor Beirut within aesthetics of 1960s European modernist cinema: often mobile, uncertain, and emotionally complex.

Anglo-European Cinema

Beirut also attracted actors from a changing European cinema. David Hemmings, emerging from Blow-Up (1966), embodied modern alienation in Only When I Larf (1968), aligning with Beirut’s ambiguous urban identity. Richard Attenborough’s mid-1960s role in the same movie echoed Beirut’s function as a global city and a space of passage.

These actors embodied a cinematic era defined by dislocation and changing moral centers. Beirut, with its international tempo, fit effortlessly into this visual language.

Beirut and South Asian Cinema — A Transnational Screen

Beirut’s cinematic role wasn’t confined to Europe and America. It also became an important setting for South Asian cinema, where the city functioned as a globally legible backdrop.

In 1967, Rishta Hai Pyar Ka became widely regarded as the first Pakistani film shot outside Pakistan. Its production in Beirut reflected the city’s accessibility and neutrality, a space where romance and aspiration could unfold beyond national borders.

That same year, the Indian movie An Evening in Paris (1967) famously used Beirut to represent Paris itself. Beirut’s modern architecture and Mediterranean charm made it a convincing European fantasy.

The Indian film industry revisited the country with Ankhen (1968), where Beirut served as a site of glamour and intrigue. These South Asian films highlight Beirut’s unique role in world cinema, not just as a destination, but as a transnational cinematic space transcending national boundaries between East and West.

Casinos, Crime, and the City at Night

By the late 1960s, Beirut’s reputation for risk and luxury was crystallized in films like Rebus/Appointment in Beirut (1968), centered on a casino crime syndicate. Gambling tables, shadowed lounges, and international criminals reinforced Beirut as a city where fortunes could be made, or lost, overnight.

Beyond the 1960s — The Last International Glimpses

Though the 1960s were Beirut’s most concentrated period in global cinema, the early 1970s extended its visibility with a darker edge. Films like Embassy (1972), Mafia Junction (1973), and Honeybaby Honeybaby (1974), retained Cold War intrigue, and offered fleeting glimpses of Beirut before 1975.

These films act as a coda: the final moments in which Beirut appeared in international cinema as a site of suspense, rather than imminent rupture.

A Moment Preserved on Film

To revisit these works today is not nostalgia, but cultural reclamation — recovering a moment when Lebanon appeared in global cinema as an international hub, not as a metaphor of crisis. What makes this cinematic moment so poignant is hindsight itself. The Beirut preserved in these films — open, confident, globally connected — would soon be irrevocably altered.

On April 13, 1975, the Lebanese Civil War began, disrupting the city’s role as a crossroads for international cinema for years to come. Around this time, filmmaker Georges Chamchoum released Lebanon... Why? while Maroun Baghdadi released Beirut ya Beirut, turning the camera inward toward the city’s contradictions, hopes, and unfinished futures. Through them and several others, a shift was made: from Beirut as a site through which the world passed, to Beirut speaking for itself. But that’s another story.

Between 1968 and 1975, the Baalbeck International Festival emerged as a powerful platform for cultural exchange, bringing together leading international and local artists in an extraordinary setting. The festival’s posters from this period, drawn from its archives, serve not only as visual records of these performances but also as bold cultural statements reflecting ambition, modernity, and diversity during the festival’s golden era just before the outbreak of the Lebanese Civil War.

More than promotional tools, these posters are artworks in their own right. Through striking imagery, bold typography, and symbolic composition, they capture the essence of a wide range of performances — from groundbreaking jazz to classical music and renowned Arab singers — embodying the creative spirit and world-class artistic vision that defined the festival and its cultural landscape.

Celebrating the Artists and Performances

Fairuz at Baalbeck (1973)

This poster presents an upward-looking portrait of Fairuz rendered in striking monochrome tones, conveying a sense of transcendence and poetic gravity. The dramatic cropping and strong contrast elevate her into a symbol of modern Arab cultural expression, while the bold Arabic typography anchors the image firmly in its regional context.

Wadih El Safi at Baalbeck (1960s-1970s)

Dominated by a solitary pine tree silhouetted against a luminous night sky, this poster employs symbolism deeply rooted in Lebanese identity. The restrained color palette and balanced composition evoke serenity and permanence, aligning nature, music, and nationhood into a single visual statement.

Myriam Makeba (1975)
A smiling portrait of Myriam Makeba, the South African singer and activist, appears in this poster. Makeba’s presence at Baalbeck added a layer of political and cultural depth to the festival. Her performance was not only a celebration of African music but also a statement of solidarity with the global struggle for justice.

Orchestre de Paris (1975)
This design for the Orchestre de Paris performance, led by Jean Martinon, exemplifies the festival’s classical offerings. The sleek, modern design with its purple background conveys both the prestige and dynamism of the orchestra.

Oum Kalthoum (1973)
No collection of Baalbeck Festival posters would be complete without Oum Kalthoum, the legendary Egyptian singer whose performance in 1973 became an iconic moment in the festival’s history. The poster features a striking black-and-white portrait of Kalthoum, emphasizing her timeless presence and towering stature in Arab music.

Charles Mingus (1974)
This poster for jazz legend Charles Mingus is a graphic statement in itself. The stark, high-contrast design emphasizes Mingus’s larger-than-life presence and the explosive nature of his music. The angular typography and bold, dramatic portrait of Mingus capture the complex, sometimes confrontational nature of his jazz compositions.

Miles Davis (1971)
Miles Davis, another central figure in jazz, is featured in a compelling black-and-white photograph on this poster. The image of Davis, shrouded in mystery, captures the essence of his genre-defying fusion music. The poster’s minimalist design reflects Davis’s own groundbreaking approach to jazz.

Joan Baez (1974)
The folk notable Joan Baez was another major figure at the Baalbeck Festival, and her poster evokes the vibrancy and political engagement of her music. The choice of bright orange — a color associated with energy and activism — reflects Baez’s presence and her role in the political movements of the time.

Ella Fitzgerald (1971)
Finally, the poster for Ella Fitzgerald’s performance in 1971 captures the elegance of the “First Lady of Song.” The modernist design with contrasting pink and white colors, along with sleek typography, underscores Fitzgerald’s grace and timeless appeal. Her performance at Baalbeck represented the epitome of jazz vocal artistry.

Cultural Dialogues and Lasting Impressions

Encompassing Arabic music, jazz, classical music, and more, Baalbeck affirmed what it had already become: Lebanon’s most audacious cultural stage, where international currents met local traditions on equal footing. International figures appeared alongside cultural figures such as Fairuz and Wadih El Safi, as well as institutions like the Caracalla Dance Theatre, affirming the festival’s function as both a cultural crossroads and a generator of modern Lebanese artistic identity.

The posters’ visual language reinforces this ambition. Conceived for circulation in streets, cafés, and public spaces, they operated as cultural manifestos as much as promotional tools. Bold color palettes, modernist typography, and graphic experimentation situate Baalbeck at the forefront of regional visual culture during a moment of profound artistic confidence. Though the Lebanese Civil War would fracture this era, the posters remain eloquent witnesses to Baalbeck’s enduring legacy — as a site of imagination, openness, and cultural leadership that continues to define Lebanon’s artistic narrative today.

During my university years, I spent several Sunday mornings at Beirut’s flea markets, searching through antique furniture, books, posters, and music. One day, I came across a box of Soviet-era records. They didn’t seem to attract much attention, so I bought a large collection for next to nothing. At home, I pulled out one of the albums from the selection — The State Variety Orchestra of Armenia. Known under various names over the decades, the Armenian State Pop (or Variety) Orchestra served as the republic’s official bridge between popular music and jazz.

The cover portrayed a confident, late-Soviet vision of Armenian culture where modern popular music and national symbolism met. Set within a bold turquoise frame, the design features strong geometric lines and clean typography typical of 1970s–1980s Soviet graphic style. At the center, a photograph shows the orchestra assembled on monumental stone steps beneath a soaring memorial column. Dressed in coordinated pastel jackets and light trousers, the musicians project discipline, unity, and optimism — an image of cultural professionalism meant for both domestic pride and international presentation.

I flipped it over to check the track listing. The titles were written in black ink in Russian, with Armenian translations in pencil — most likely added by a member of the Lebanese-Armenian community.

Bourj Hammoud, the Armenian district in Beirut, has long been a cultural hub. Record shops, labels, and family networks there have helped spread Armenian music throughout the diaspora. It made sense that these same networks would import records from Armenia, keeping ties alive with their Soviet cousins.

I placed the record on the turntable and dropped the needle, unsure of what to expect. Given the orchestra’s name, I initially assumed it might be some form of patriotic Soviet music. Instead, I was surprised by what I heard: a lively, jazz-infused sound, blending funk with Eastern rhythms. I later learned that the creative force behind this ensemble was Konstantin Orbelian, a musician whose role in the development of Armenian jazz in the 20th century was as important as it was emblematic of the period.

The Life of Konstantin Orbelian

Orbelian was born on July 29, 1928, in Armavir, a town in the North Caucasus. His musical talent was evident early on, earning him a spot at the prestigious Baku Conservatory. However, his education was interrupted by the political climate of the time. In the late 1930s, during Stalin’s purges, Orbelian’s father was arrested and executed, and two years later, his mother was exiled for five years. This period of upheaval marked Orbelian’s childhood, leaving him and his brother labeled as “children of enemies of the people.”

At the age of eleven, Orbelian was expelled from the conservatory and forced to earn a living by working as an accompanist for gymnasts. In 1942, he joined the jazz orchestra at Moscow Aviation School No. 8 as both a pianist and accordion player. His improvisational abilities quickly caught the attention of Armenian jazz musicians.

By 1945, Orbelian was arranging Armenian folk melodies for the orchestra and composing original pieces, which helped establish his reputation as a leading musician. In 1952, he left the orchestra to study composition at the Romanos Melikian Musical College in Yerevan, where he continued to develop his style. Over the years, he composed works for film and ballet, winning recognition both within the Soviet Union and internationally.

In 1956, Orbelian’s career took another leap forward when he became a member of the Soviet Composers’ Union and was appointed conductor and artistic director of the Armenian State Pop Orchestra — widely regarded as one of the Soviet Union’s finest jazz ensembles — a role he would hold for 36 years. During this time, he expanded the orchestra’s repertoire and began experimenting with jazz interpretations of Armenian folk songs. Listening today, one can hear how the orchestra fused swing rhythms with Armenian melodic structures:

By the late 1960s, Orbelian’s influence was global. The Armenian State Pop Orchestra performed across Eastern Europe and the Middle East, and in 1975, it became the first Soviet jazz ensemble to tour the United States. Their performances in major cities like New York and Los Angeles received praise from American critics, paving the way for further international tours.

Orbelian’s contributions to Soviet and Armenian music were recognized with multiple honors, including the title of People’s Artist of the USSR in 1979. His work also extended beyond jazz, incorporating elements of jazz-rock and classical music. In 1992, he moved to San Francisco and later settled in Los Angeles, though he remained deeply connected to Russian and Armenian music scenes. Orbelian passed away on April 24, 2014, and was laid to rest in Yerevan.

Crossings

When I learned that Orbelian eventually moved to San Francisco, it first struck me as unexpected. A central figure in Soviet music, why would he leave Yerevan behind? But as I reflected on it, I realized how familiar this trajectory was. For Armenians — like many in the Middle East — culture has often moved alongside patterns of exile and migration.

In this sense, Orbelian had been a part of the diaspora long before leaving the Soviet Union. His music crossed boundaries even when people could not, making its way into record shops in places like Bourj Hammoud, where Soviet pressings shared space with Lebanese, Egyptian, and American releases. Beirut, then, wasn’t just a passing moment in the story — it was a crucial listening post, where these sounds found new life and meaning.

Dropping the needle on that record years ago, I wasn’t just hearing Soviet Armenian jazz. I was hearing a conversation — between Yerevan and Beirut, between state orchestras and flea markets, between American jazz and Armenian interpretation. Orbelian didn’t simply relay jazz to a Soviet audience; he transformed it, carried it, and sent it back into the world — until decades later, it passed through Bourj Hammoud and into a Beirut flea market.

Dia al-Azzawi, born in Baghdad in 1939, is one of the most celebrated Iraqi artists of the modern era — an artist whose work spans painting, sculpture, printmaking, and artist’s books, and whose voice has shaped the discourse of modern Arab art for more than half a century. Deeply rooted in Iraqi cultural heritage yet profoundly engaged with global artistic currents, Azzawi’s work reflects both personal and collective histories marked by memory, loss, conflict, and resilience.

From Archaeology to Artistic Vision

Azzawi’s early life in Baghdad laid the foundation for his lifelong exploration of cultural memory. After completing a BSc in Archaeology at the University of Baghdad in 1962, he went on to earn a Fine Arts diploma from the Institute of Fine Arts in Baghdad in 1964. His dual grounding in ancient history and contemporary art equipped him with a unique visual language: one that would merge the symbols of Mesopotamian antiquity with the expressive possibilities of modernism.

This synthesis is visible from his earliest works, where mythological and folkloric references stand alongside bold experimentation. One notable early painting, A Wolf Howls: Memories of a Poet (1968), created in the aftermath of regional upheavals including the Six-Day War, combines geometric abstraction with motifs inspired by Iraqi kilim rugs and an unpublished poem—an early testament to his interest in blending text, image, and cultural roots.

A Leader in Iraqi Art Movements

In 1969, Azzawi co-founded the New Vision (al-Ru’yya al-Jadidah) group alongside a generation of Iraqi artists. Unlike earlier art movements that focused primarily on stylistic experimentation, New Vision argued for art that was both critically engaged and culturally rooted, encouraging artists to address contemporary realities through forms inspired by local traditions. Azzawi also briefly joined Shakir Hassan Al-Said’s One Dimension group, reflecting a vibrant artistic scene in Baghdad that sought new visual vocabularies inclusive of calligraphy, abstraction, and narrative.

From 1968 to 1976, he served as director of Iraq’s Department of Antiquities, a role that further deepened his engagement with the country’s rich historical legacy. During this period, he also helped organize cultural initiatives such as the al-Wasiti Festival (1972) and the earliest Arab art biennials (from 1974), positioning himself as both creator and cultural organizer.

Exile and Expansion of Practice

Political repression in Iraq in the 1970s led Azzawi to relocate to London in 1976, where he settled and continued to develop his eclectic practice. In London, he became an advisor to the Iraqi Cultural Centre, promoting Iraqi and Arab art across Europe and beyond. His work expanded into dafatir(handmade artist’s books) and limited-edition print collections based on Arabic literature, interpreting poems by Mahmoud Darwish, Adonis, and other major writers through richly textured, image-text hybrids.

Throughout his career, Azzawi has remained responsive to political and social realities. His monumental mural Sabra and Shatila Massacre (1982–1985) confronts the massacre of Palestinian refugees during the Lebanese Civil War, transforming tragedy into a haunting visual testimony; the work is now part of the Tate Modern’s collection.

Later works continued to address regional tumult. His panoramic pieces — such as Mission of Destruction (2004–2007), spanning over 15 meters — respond to the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq and its aftermath, visualizing fragmentation, loss, and the erasure of cultural heritage. Charcoal series like Nights of Extermination extend this engagement, reflecting on the destruction of historic cities and the ongoing turmoil across the Arab world.

Global Presence, Local Resonance

Azzawi’s work has been exhibited widely and is held in major museums and collections worldwide, including the British Museum, Institut du Monde Arabe (Paris), Mathaf: Arab Museum of Modern Art (Doha), and the Library of Congress (Washington, D.C.). His art also featured in prestigious events like the Venice Biennale and numerous international exhibitions, exposing global audiences to his singular blend of expressive form and cultural commentary.

Despite decades in exile, Azzawi continues to cultivate connections with the Arab world. He supports emerging artists, sponsors cultural projects, and collaborates on publications dedicated to modern art in West Asia and North Africa. Awards such as the Dia al-Azzawi Prize for Public Art (Tamayyouz Excellence Award) and recent international honors underscore his enduring influence.

An Enduring Legacy

Dia al-Azzawi’s work transcends chronological and geographic boundaries. It is at once deeply Iraqi and broadly universal, invoking the shared experience of displacement, memory, and the search for identity. Through his art, Azzawi not only chronicles history but invites us into a space where past and present converse, reminding us that art can be both witness and catalyst in times of upheaval.

In the world of modern manufacturing, where mass production often overshadows artistry, wrought iron stands as a unique testament to human ingenuity and craftsmanship. Known for its durability, flexibility, and elegance, wrought iron has been used for centuries in everything from the ancient civilizations of Greece and Rome to the mansions and palaces of Europe in the Renaissance. In today’s fast-paced, high-tech rhythms, its craftsmanship is rare, making it even more precious and sought after.

One such place where this old-world craft meets modern precision is Choufani Wrought Iron, a family-run company based in Abu Dhabi. Founded by a Lebanese couple in the late 1980s, this company has grown into one of the region’s leading producers of wrought iron and custom metalworks, known for its exquisite artistry and attention to detail.

The Allure of Wrought Iron

Unlike other metals, wrought iron is a malleable and softer metal, which makes it perfect for intricate, decorative works. Its process of creation involves heating the iron to a glowing red and then hammering it by hand, a rhythm of force and precision that creates intricate designs, with each stroke of the hammer adding life to the material.

Due to its artisanal nature, it adds an element of sophistication to any structure. Additionally, its ability to withstand the elements makes it a perfect material for the harsh climate of the Arab Gulf, where both beauty and practicality are highly valued. Yet this appreciation for wrought iron wasn’t always widespread in the region.

Beginnings

The story of Choufani Wrought Iron begins in the late 1980s with a serendipitous meeting that would forever change the course of a young couple’s life. The Choufanis, a husband-and-wife duo from Lebanon, were building a future together in Abu Dhabi, a city that was expanding rapidly, drawing in people from all over the world with its economic boom.

One day, a German man, familiar with the art of wrought iron, approached them with an offer that seemed too good to pass up. He was an expert in the industry and had an opportunity to sell machines capable of producing high-quality wrought iron products. The couple, unsure of how this could fit into their lives, were hesitant at first.

It was during a quiet afternoon that Mrs. Choufani was introduced to the vision. She watched a videotaped presentation the German man had sent them, set to the sounds of classical music. The beauty of the craft, the elegance of the wrought iron pieces, and the precision of the technology captivated her. The classical music played a role as well. She was drawn in not only by the aesthetic value of the craft, but by the potential it held for the future.

In a moment of inspiration, the couple decided to take the plunge. They purchased the machines – the very same ones that continue to form the backbone of their company today. Shortly after that, they set up their first showroom on Salam Street.

Family and Tradition

From the beginning, the family worked side by side, using their passion for the craft and their dedication to quality to build the foundation of what would become a successful company in a growing city.

As the company expanded, so did its reputation for producing high-quality, custom-designed wrought iron pieces. Their attention to detail and meticulous craftsmanship soon attracted a loyal client base in the UAE and beyond – be it a royal villa in Abu Dhabi or a private residence in Qatar.

Over the years, their portfolio has grown to include a wide range of ironwork, from handrails and consoles to gates, mirrors, and bespoke furniture. But they also left room for other ambitious ventures – ones that push the boundaries of what wrought iron can do.

Among the company’s most impressive achievements is the creation of the world’s largest wrought iron chair. This monumental piece has become a symbol of Choufani’s ability to blend artistry, engineering and ambition.

Rituals

At a major industry exposition in Dubai where the company showcases its work, there is a familiar ritual that Mr. Choufani carries out with his wife. Every year, the exposition coincides with their wedding anniversary. So he approaches her and asks, “What would you like for your anniversary this year, my dear?” With a smile, she often replies without missing a beat, “More machines, of course – they are my true jewels!”

A Lasting Impact

Today, Choufani Wrought Iron is one of the most respected names in the region for custom metalwork. With a reputation built on decades of excellence, the company has become a cornerstone of the UAE’s luxury design scene.

As Abu Dhabi continues to grow and modernize, the Choufani family remains committed to preserving the practice of wrought iron, ensuring that their craft will continue to be admired for generations to come. And for Mr. and Mrs. Choufani, their journey, both personal and professional, has been one of family, dedication, and persistence.

The Next Generation – A Continuation of the Family Business

Presently, the second generation of Choufanis has joined the family business, ensuring that this legacy continues. With a deep understanding of the company’s history and values, the younger Choufanis have taken on more active roles in running the business, bringing fresh ideas while maintaining the tradition of excellence.

In a world where mass production often trumps artistry, Choufani Wrought Iron stands as a glowing example which proves that artistry and artisanry are still alive and well.