LF:  Any form of expression is a political act, but you could make the case that the link between art and politics is exceptionally intimate in the Middle East, whether it's a question of representation, expression, funding, or exhibition space. In the Middle East, art-making occurs in relation to ideas about nationhood, "good art," censorship, etc., which all intersect with political discourse. One can't really talk about the arts in this part of the world without raising the question of politics.

LF:  The limitations are obvious enough — especially when it comes to questions of representation — but the advantage is that we're contributing to a dialogue that is occasionally stagnant by filling a void of knowledge about the Middle East outside of the region. There is so devastatingly little beyond sound bites. There's also the feeling that we're part of a movement, a collective exchange that spans cities like Beirut, Cairo, Tehran, and Rabat. It's very exciting that we're linking artists, writers, and curators who would otherwise have little opportunity to meet.

LF:  Precisely because of the loaded nature of representation, there's an intense self-reflection and even subversiveness about our work. I suppose this goes beyond personal taste and is born of the fact that you can't pretend to be authoritative or absolute when it comes to arts and culture from the Middle East. Some artists — like the two you mentioned, as well as the SHARZAD Collective — are well-aware of the dominant tropes that define the views of the region and work to turn those assumptions upside down. Humor is of great importance, and we do have a firm belief, editorially, that a lot of writing about the arts, or writing in general, takes itself far too seriously. Contributing engaging, original, and accessible writing to the mix — which often owes a great deal to humor — is certainly a central goal of this project.

LF:  I'd hate to pigeonhole artists as working purely with "social or political issues" because, in a sense, they all do. However, I can name a few who make activism a serious part of their work. Naeem Mohaiemen, who writes for us, blurs the line between art and activism both in his personal work and in his curatorial projects. In our next issue he'll produce an artist's project. Walid Raad clearly addresses issues related to history and representation, as do many other artists who deal with the Lebanese civil wars, such as Akram Zaatari. Jill Magid, another artist featured in our forthcoming issue, focuses on surveillance culture, and her work is an important alternative to knee-jerk political art.

LF:  It would be naïve to think that artists in the Middle East are censored or limited to using extended symbolism because of repressive regimes. They're getting away with a lot; for example, the Tehran art scene is rich and extremely active.

LF:  Our core readership is mixed, which may be one of our greatest achievements. Sure, we have the predictable bunch whose lives directly intersect with the arts and culture of that region — but then we also have people who enjoy the arts, those who have an interest in the Middle East, and those who simply like the idiosyncratic nature of our pages.

LF:  Bidoun is an idea and an ethic before it's a magazine. Of course, these ideas and tendencies spill out of the realm of print production, and we like to organize events as often as we can. We engage with exhibitions such as The Galleries Show at Extra City in Antwerp, Belgium and film screenings at the Curzon Cinema in London, curated by Tirdad Zolghadr, a regular contributor. We're currently producing a collaboration on architecture with Markus Miessen and London-based curator and writer Shumon Basar. By exploring other venues, such as cinemas, galleries, and museums, we reach new audiences we would have otherwise missed.