Which label fits better: 'Arab art' or simply 'art'?

A remote hillside in the coastal region of Lattakia isn't the most conventional of art studios. Nor the most comfortable. As the midday heat shimmers and dust swirls, apprentices in surgical masks and straw hats take turns swinging hammers at a block of marble.

Sixteen artists have come from as far as Los Angeles and Seoul to participate in Syria's first international sculpture symposium.

"It's very rich [this experience]," says Léonard Rachita, a sculptor from Paris. "We meet another artist, another mentality. It's not just work. It's to experience a different [culture].... We sing and dance together, live together for one month. It becomes a part of you."

The convention symbolizes the growing interest in contemporary art from the Arab world which, in recent years, has started to carve out a distinct niche for itself in the global scene.

But with this spike in recognition, a young generation is now struggling to assert a singular identity that doesn't conform to Western stereotypes of art from the region. As the channels of globalization open commercial opportunities abroad, it's increasingly difficult for Arab artists not to conform to the expectations of those flocking to the gallery shows, biennales, websites, and organizations dedicated to art from the region.

"The challenge now is to break through geographic boundaries," says Lisa Ball-Lechgar, an art consultant who is profiling Cairo and Beirut for the European Cultural Foundation.

But painters and sculptors wear the label "Arab artist" reluctantly. The designation is applied indiscriminately to Iraqi exile art as well as representations of Lebanon's civil war. On one hand, artists see it as a badge of honor; on the other, they feel limited by it.

Gallery owners in Syria say that most Western visitors are shocked by the very idea of contemporary art in the Middle East - not to mention works that tackle sexual concepts and newer forms like video and installation art. The art world here is overlooked because of the region's political situation, says Darren Yeadon, a British sculptor at the symposium.

Those who do travel to Arab countries usually expect to find nothing more than traditional crafts. They are surprised to stumble, for example, on Samer Kozah's contemporary art gallery on Straight Street in Damascus. Alongside storefronts bulging with rugs, tiles, and copper plates, it's hard not to be caught off guard by the sight of an abstract bronze interpretation of a library: the work of sculptor Mustafa Ali, who is hosting the symposium.

Yet contemporary art in Syria dates back at least to the turn of the last century, when a Syrian traveled to Paris, returned with Western techniques, and opened a studio to teach painting. In the first half of the 20th century, Realism, Impressionism, Expressionism, and Abstraction all took their turn in a sort of Cliffs Notes version of Western art history.

In the mid 20th century, as many Arab countries gained independence, intellectuals called for painters to create something regionally distinct, works that for better or worse could be labeled "Arab."

"Every part of [a painting] is Western. The idea of the canvas, the technique, the materials are all Western," says Issam Darwich, a painter and gallery owner in Damascus. Fueled by a postcolonial, nationalist drive, "the question [for artists here] was always: If someone sees my painting, how will they know I am Syrian?"

Exactly how to do that, while still creating art "that is true," according to Syrian painter and graphic designer Ahmad Moualla, is still a challenge for artists today.

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