Translation is like trying to hold the wind. You can feel it, but you can’t keep it. You let it go, knowing it will always return to its natural current, altered, yet still the wind.
To translate is to approximate: a constant flow between what we know, what we say, and what we hope someone else might understand. In this conversation, Celine Skaf, a Beirut-based translator and interpreter, and I explore the emotional landscapes that emerge when art is transmitted and transmuted across languages. Skaf — offers a sharp yet fluid view on what it means to shape translation as a dialogue — one that distils the artist’s voice without displacing it.
RH: You work across so many creative forms—film, poetry, visual art. What is it that pulls you towards these forms, and how do they shape your translation practice?
C.S: Art has always been a huge part of my life. As a young adult, I was completely immersed in films, literature, music and poetry — spending more time with them than with any friend or lover. It wasn’t just a personal obsession; I felt it was something essential, not only for my own growth but for others as well. It became my form of self-education, more meaningful than anything traditional schooling could offer.
I’m drawn to both static and moving images, and to language — the rhythm of words, the way sentences flow into each other. I tend to fixate on words and think with words rather than ideas. I’m always chasing beauty and meaning. All the art and literature I’ve consumed inevitably shape my translation work, even in ways I can’t fully articulate. Once you visit an artwork, you cannot un-visit it.
RH: How does your interest in film intersect with your translation work, especially in interpreting?
CS: I’ve always been drawn to cinema, particularly the way language is used in that medium. Growing up, images offered clarity that words couldn’t always capture. I’d take notes frantically while watching films, writing down words I loved or found unfamiliar. It was a natural progression for me to merge these interests into my translation practice. I recently completed an MA in Interpretation and while many people tell me it doesn’t overlap much with art, I see a clear path toward film, particularly in film festival interpretation. Honestly, that would feel like the pinnacle of my career as an interpreter.
RH: You’ve worked with artists from all over the world, including Australia. What draws them to work with you?
CS: I’d hope they sense how deeply I engage with their work. It’s not just about seeing it — it’s about feeling it. When I’m translating, it’s like I’m uncovering something new with every piece. At first, it’s never just a ‘translation job’. The process unfolds in stages. Initially, I focus on understanding the artist and their intention behind the work. Then, I engage with the work itself, familiarising myself with it. Only after that does the translation come in, a challenge (and a moral duty!) that emerges from the first two steps. During the translation process, I tend to take breaks and ask the artists a lot of questions to make sure we're aligned on the meaning, intention and choice of words. I'd say art translation is a constant back and forth until it feels right for both me and the artist. The translation is essentially my interpretation of the conversations I've had with the artist about themselves and their craft. To answer your question, I think what draws them to collaborate with me is that I involve them in the process. The translation is born out of our conversation, and in the end, it feels like an extension of their work, not like a foreign body.
RH: Your translation of Somewhat Eternal by Justine Youssef (2023) is a great example of this. You followed that up with your own video work Bayrout Wal-Banat (2024) in Angel Currency (2024), a show she curated. How did that collaboration come about?
CS: Justine reached out to me and asked if I'd be interested in participating. I immediately said yes. I really admire her work, her projects, everything she does. She believed in me, so I had no choice but to believe in myself. I'm so appreciative of her trust and encouragement. The process was very DIY. I had gathered all the old footage I have of me and my friends here and there in Beirut and started editing intuitively. I let the images carry me and ended up with a short video. It's a beginner's work but it’s honest. Next time it will be more thoughtful. I'm looking forward to creating beauty and meaning with my gut. I don't believe in massive productions. One can do a lot with very little, and very little with a lot.
RH: You worked on the translation of the artist book Aisha by Yumna Al-Arashi. How did you approach that project? What choices did you face in adapting it?
CS: I worked alongside Engy Mohsen, who provided the initial translation, while I focused on finalising the text by editing and proofreading the translation. I usually approach art projects as though I am discovering them, rather than someone who is asked to work on them. My challenge with Yumna's book was in conveying the tone without sounding too rigid or literal in Arabic. There's a lot of poetry, tenderness and fierceness in her words. I wanted to carry all of that across with minimal sacrifice – loss being unavoidable when shifting from one language to another. The choices I had to make with this work were stark but these decisions often are. I can’t escape the idea of art as a delicate balance between beauty and meaning, and so is art translation. One shouldn't come at the expense of another. Beauty without meaning is vapid and meaning without beauty is forgettable.
RH: I’ve been thinking a lot about the changing cultural significance of Arabic. It feels much ‘cooler’ now than it did ten years ago. When I lived in Beirut, speaking Arabic in bars or in class often felt out of place. But now, it feels different. Speaking Arabic feels countercultural, intentionally so. Why do you think that is?
CS: If there has been a shift, then, I would say it happened after الثورة (the thawra). There was a time, not so long ago, when everyone was ashamed of speaking Arabic in Lebanon. Arabic has been far from us for so long… if there has been a shift, it’s that it now feels as ‘cool’ as a foreign language. It really is perceived as counterculture rather than the norm. The norm, unfortunately, being other languages while we managed to exoticise our own. We still have some residual shame that manifests through an endemic species of code-switching.
RH: What do you mean by code-switching in this context?
CS: ‘Hi, kifak,ça va?’ I am by no means a purist. Everyone is free to speak however they want. I code-switch too. Sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not. It has become second nature to most of us as Lebanese. But for me, speaking Arabic — full, unbroken conversations — is something I take pride in, even if it sometimes requires me to explain myself to my friends who grew up with foreign languages and only spoke Arabic occasionally.
RH: That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Arabic is both a site of resilience and a symbol of fragmentation. And yet, within that contradiction, there’s power. It’s messy, but it’s ours.
CS: It’s so complicated to me, reading and learning in foreign languages is very nurturing. I wouldn't want anyone to take that away from me. For better or for worse, being a trilingual people is a source of national pride. Who wants to let go of that which is so well-entrenched in the education system and everyday life? It feels like Arabic is something of a bête noire here, particularly for younger Lebanese.
RH: Arabic varies so much, especially in the diaspora. The Arabic I know here feels distinct from the Arabic spoken elsewhere, and I see this variation as a form of resilience—language that adapts and renews itself. How do you view this fluidity? Does it inspire new ways of thinking, or does it present challenges in your translation work?
CS: Fluidity sparks new ways of thinking for sure. Fluidity means diversity and diversity is richness. When translating Somewhat Eternal, Justine asked me to translate the film into English and transcribe it into Lebanese Arabic dialect instead of Modern Standard Arabic. She felt this would resonate more with second and third-generation Arab Australians, as many of them don’t get the chance to learn the Arabic alphabet. This choice marked a first for me — it was a politically and aesthetically revolutionary choice because romanised Arabic connects the global Arab diaspora. I'm always struck by how much the meaning of a word can differ from one dialect to another. I always look with curiosity at the speech mannerisms of my friends from other Arab countries. That is to say, language is not only tied to an area but it is also tied to the person. Translating dialects word for word is relatively easy if you're informed and ask around, the real challenge lies in conveying the tone and the intention behind the dialect while circumventing the cultural barrier. Translation, in this sense, is no different from empathy, it's the act of constantly putting yourself in someone else's shoes to figure out what they meant at that specific moment.
RH: The act of translation can be thankless, lonely work. For me, as the daughter of Lebanese migrants, it feels like grief work, especially when it’s tied to histories of violence and disruption. Yet it’s also deeply rewarding, with a certain beauty in the hidden adventure it offers. What are the most challenging aspects of translation for you?
CS: Yes, translation can be isolating. The hardest part is when the artist’s message and intent are unclear, especially if they’re no longer alive to answer questions. At that point, you’re left to guess and trust your instincts. Translation is the art of approximation — always a delicate balance between meaning and beauty. Another challenge is being concise. More often than not, art is exactly the opposite of over-explanation. And sometimes, the hardest part is simply the lack of a settled translation for certain words or concepts. In the emerging art lexicon, words often don’t exist in Arabic, so you have to make do — either by transliterating or explaining and hoping for the best.
Every translation is a leap of faith. In saying that, organisations are working on bilingual strategies, and it’s refreshing to see Arabic art terminology circulating more. While most art terminology here is still in English, there’s a growing presence of artists expressing themselves fully in Arabic, though they remain fewer in number. It’s like the language is shedding its old skin and finally expressing itself freely. It’s a messy, beautiful process.
