Elizabeth Khoury
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Jun 26
- 7 min read
Elizabeth Khoury is an artist, writer and curator based in Valencia. Her work often begins with a small spark such as a word, a memory or a feeling and develops through slow, intuitive experimentation. She moves between painting and text, often letting one flow into the other. Stories, symbols and old mythologies appear regularly in her work, especially Celtic ones, which she studied before turning fully to art. She is interested in how the past lingers in objects, language and quiet moments and how those traces continue to shape us. Whether painting or curating, she focuses on creating space for reflection, connection and stories that might otherwise be missed.
Q: What usually starts a piece for you—a story, a symbol, or a feeling that stays with you?
A: I can’t say exactly what starts a piece. The beginning is always elusive—more a flicker than a clear signal. It might be a single word that lodges itself in my mind, or a phrase overheard in passing or read, hidden amongst a paragraph of text. Sometimes it’s a fleeting feeling, something I can’t quite name, or a memory that resurfaces unexpectedly, bringing with it a texture, a sound, or a color. At times, it starts with an image or even just a shape that I can’t let go of. Other times, it’s a question I don’t know how to answer.
What sparks inspiration is unpredictable. There’s no pattern, no formula. A piece can begin with something as simple as a shadow on a wall or the way a sentence lands strangely on the ear. Sometimes I begin making something without knowing why—just an urge to move, to shape, to respond. These beginnings can feel trivial or abstract, but occasionally they unravel into something dense and layered, something I could never have anticipated.
And not every spark becomes a fire. Some ideas trail off, become dead ends or sketches that remain unfinished. But others—sometimes when I least expect it—grow and expand, taking on a life of their own. They gather weight and depth, revealing connections and meanings I wasn’t conscious of at the start. Those are the pieces that feel overwhelming in their complexity, as though they were always there, waiting to be discovered.
Q: How do you sense when a memory, even if it’s unclear or incomplete, is still worth working from?
A: I can never quite tell if a memory is worth working with. There’s no obvious signal, no internal compass that points clearly to what holds meaning and what doesn’t. The memories that have made their way into my work are often quiet ones—fleeting, almost inconsequential on the surface. A gesture, a glance, a stray sentence overheard and half-forgotten. These are not grand or dramatic, but they’re the ones
I return to, again and again.
They seem to hum with something I don’t fully understand, and maybe that’s what makes them powerful—they ask to be explored, rather than explained.
Meanwhile, the memories that loom large in my mind, the ones that shout instead of whisper, feel too heavy to approach. They carry pain that still feels raw, unresolved. I resist giving those moments more life than they already have—not out of denial, but out of a need for distance, a kind of self-preservation. Maybe one day they’ll soften enough to work with, but for now, they stay sealed, uninvited.
In some way, it’s the ordinariness of a memory that makes it profound. The things we overlook often carry the emotional texture of our lives—not the headline moments, but the ones in the margins. That’s where I tend to find something worth holding on to.
Q: In "Echoes of a Misremembered Past," you let the materials take the lead. Did that come naturally, or did it take time to trust the process?
A: In "Echoes," I allowed the materials to take control. Rather than forcing them to obey a pre-formed concept, I leaned into their textures, rhythms, and resistance. This surrender was not passive—it was a deliberate choice to shift the power dynamic between artist and medium. The marks, the flow, the accidents: they became collaborators, each decision layered with uncertainty and potential.
I often take an experimental approach in my practice, especially when I feel creatively stuck. These moments of blockage are not just frustrating; they are invitations to dismantle familiar structures. Experimentation becomes a way to push through—whether that means introducing new materials, shifting scale, or disrupting my process entirely. I might pour, scrape, burn, or deconstruct, not with the goal of perfection but with the intention of finding something raw and unexpected.
"Echoes" came out of this need to listen rather than dictate—to trust that the materials could lead me somewhere I could not have consciously planned. It’s a way of breaking through my own barriers by allowing uncertainty to become part of the language.
Q: "By the Night Ocean at Amchit" feels personal—did creating it feel different from your other works?
A: "Night Ocean" is a painting about transformation—the kind that happens quietly, almost imperceptibly, in the soft unfolding of a single evening. When I look at it now, I see more than a stretch of sea under a darkening sky; I see the beginning of something that felt small then but would go on to shape everything after. It was the first evening I spent with someone who would become very important to me. At the time, it felt casual, unmarked, just a shared moment—yet in retrospect, it was a turning point.
This work speaks to how meaning gathers slowly, like tidewater in a shallow pool. There are no fireworks, no grand declarations. Just light brushing against waves. Just conversation. Just presence. "Night Ocean" holds that sense of quiet before the weight of significance settles in—the way something fleeting becomes anchored in memory, becomes the hinge upon which a chapter turns.
It’s a meditation on how the inconsequential becomes consequential.
And how often we don’t know it until later, when we’re looking back, trying to trace how we arrived at where we are. The painting doesn’t try to dramatize the moment—it lets it stay still, expansive, and full of possibility, just as it was.
Q: What keeps bringing you back to Celtic mythology? Does it feel personal, or more like a creative language you return to?
A: I keep coming back to Celtic mythology because it feels like home—not in the literal sense, but in the imaginative and symbolic sense that mythology offers. It was once the focus of my academic life; I was studying for a doctorate in the subject before turning my attention fully to art. But I never left it behind. In many ways, it became the foundation for the language I use as an artist, the structure beneath the surface, the myths I carry even when I'm working in other forms.
Mythology has always been a way for me to think, to feel, and to connect. And while I love mythology in general—particularly comparative mythology—it’s the Celtic stories that I return to with a kind of magnetic pull. There’s something in the fluidity of time, the layered worlds, the sense of transformation and otherworldliness that speaks to how I see and experience the world. These myths aren’t static; they live and breathe. They shift shape, just like the characters within them.
What excites me most now is the idea of bringing mythologies into dialogue with each other—of fusing East and West, of creating a kind of new mythos where the two can coexist. That in-between place, neither fully one nor the other, is where I feel most at home—metaphorically and creatively. It mirrors my own identity and experience, and it gives me the space to imagine stories that have not yet been told.
In that sense, mythology is not just something I study or reference; it is a medium in itself.
It’s a symbolic language that allows me to explore identity, memory, longing, and the human need to find meaning.
Celtic mythology continues to be the source I draw from most often—not out of nostalgia or habit, but because it feels inexhaustible, full of hidden doors, echoes, and connections waiting to be made.
Q: You move between art, writing, and curating. Do these parts of your practice connect naturally, or do you keep them more separate?
A: My practice moves fluidly between art, writing, and curation, though each carries a distinct weight and intimacy. My art and writing are deeply intertwined—two expressions of the same core. Often, an idea will first take shape in a line of text before becoming visual, or an image will demand a narrative to accompany it. They mirror and extend each other, like two halves of a shared language. Both are rooted in personal inquiry, memory, and a search for meaning that is often more intuitive than deliberate. When I write, I draw from the same place I paint from: a well of myth, sensation, and reflection. These works belong to the same body.
Curation, while also an act of expression, exists at a greater distance from my inner self. It engages the same conceptual concerns—questions of origin, identity, language, absence, and presence—but filters them through others’ works. It feels more outward-facing, more interpretive than generative. If my art and writing are extensions of me, my curatorial work feels like a container I build for others—a structure where conversations can happen, where voices can meet, resonate, and diverge.
Together, they form a kind of triune self: the maker, the writer, the gatherer. Each facet touches the others, but they differ in proximity. One speaks from within, one alongside, and one from a step removed. They allow me to explore the same questions in different dialects, across different spaces, and with varying degrees of intimacy. Through them, I move between the personal and the collective, the spoken and the unspoken, the visible and the implied.
