Amirah Rachwani

On Bankstown

I’m from Bankstown, born and raised. I have so much to say about the suburb: the influence is huge—the colour, the food, the chaos. Here, I’m a part of the chaos. When I go to university, I sit in a carriage among passengers wearing the same black puffer jacket, and I stick out like a sore thumb in my all-pink outfit.

I used to hate growing up here. You never know how lucky you are when you’re in a bubble; you can’t appreciate it. I eventually left the ‘Bankstown bubble’ and realised that the area is where the action happens. It’s such an awesome creative space; there’s so much going on here, and it’s really overlooked by the rest of Sydney. Bankstown feels like a hidden gem, and I’m proud to be from here.

It felt really isolating, and the youth culture was never here. It’s changed a lot—but as I’ve grown up here, everyone else around me has too. The youth here are starting to create a subculture that wasn’t really intentional; it just happened. Although, I do think the rest of Sydney is starting to notice the treasures we have here. It’s horrific seeing UNIQLO and JD Sports in Bankstown; it makes no sense because Bankstown used to be a dead end. Our suburb hasn’t been gentrified, but it’s definitely been identified, and I don’t really know how to feel about it sometimes. She’s had a bit of a glow-up.

On Lebanon and Trans Identity

I think being Lebanese in Australia is central to who I am and how I think of myself. I’ve been wanting to make art about my heritage, but it’s hard when you’re queer and also Lebanese; you feel like you’re in two worlds. It’s almost as if you have two audiences looking at the work, and both of them have quite polarising values and expectations. It’s confusing, but my art is quite literally about that—confusion and feeling disorientated. Even if my art isn’t directly about my heritage, it’s about being confused, and that is the crux of the pieces I create.

It’s tough being a trans woman. A lot of my work is about femininity and duality. Much of it reflects my experiences of being Lebanese and trans; I think it’s quite 50/50 in terms of its influence. The real fear and struggle I used to have was what people thought of me, but I eventually broke out of that mentality. I don’t want people to define me based on my past experiences of being bullied and harassed; I would like to be seen for who I am now: vibrant, bold, and unhindered.

I went into art school thinking everyone would be really pretentious. I’ve actually met the coolest people at art school—everyone is really fun and expressive. I think I needed to immerse myself in this; I feel like a new part of my brain has been unlocked in response to how many people I’ve met. I get a bit annoyed when I see people using queer aesthetics while they’re just cisgendered straight individuals, but then again, everyone is invited to the party.

On Inspiration and Practice

Being a Lebanese-Australian transgender woman means that anything I do is inherently political. However, my work isn’t explicitly political. My art is primarily centred around my personal experiences, and I draw a lot from historical references and mythological creatures. I take those historical experiences and reinterpret them through my own lens. I love referential work and subverting ideas. I’ve never been the kind of artist who could start with no meaning behind a piece. I always have to be commenting on something or dismantling a story. I also just fucking love colour and vibrancy. I want people to look at my art and be entranced by it.

My main medium is photography; I’ve always been taking photos. The ‘moment’ for me was when I first went into a darkroom at high school, when I was sixteen. I fell in love with the space. It felt meditative and slow. I spent time putting love into developing my pictures; it felt like magic—slowly watching a piece of white paper turn into a photograph. Eventually, I asked my teachers if I could do all my assignments there. In art school, they force you to try everything—ceramics, painting, film. They threw everything at me, but I would always return to photography.