Transparent figures of nude women painted on hijabs were Iddrisu’s earliest professional artworks, created in 2019—three years into her BFA (in Painting) programme at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology in Kumasi, Ghana. Beyond the challenge of finding models, this artistic path dismayed her father so deeply that she had to work outside of home. In line with Islam’s principles of modesty, the nude imagery in Iddrisu’s art is widely disapproved of, especially when they appear on a garment deemed sacred. The use of full figures also defies the prohibition against figurative art, a major constraint guiding the making of art in Islam. While interpretations of the Qur’an’s stance on this vary, the prevailing view—drawn from the Hadiths, records of Prophet Muhammad’s sayings and deeds (sunna)—warns against imitating Allah’s creation. As narrated by the Prophet Muhammad’s companion, Abdullah Ibn Umar, the Prophet cautioned: ‘Those who make images will be punished on the Day of Resurrection, and it will be said to them: Bring to life that which you have created’ (Sahih al-Bukhari). This grounds aniconism in Islamic art, steering it away from human and animal depictions toward intricate calligraphy, geometric designs and floral motifs.  

The resistance of her style prompts Iddrisu to begin probing what she terms ‘the ideology of the non-figurative in Islamic art’, questioning whether facial features alone define an animate figure and what other elements might do so in Islam. Her findings and personal reflections give rise to a new method of portraying Muslim women: rendering their figures incomplete, so they do not fall under the category of prohibited images.  

The appraisal of Iddrisu’s work is incomplete without the consideration of extrinsic elements. This soon becomes clear as she details the relationship between her and her subjects. Iddrisu shares an affinity with wilful women, rebellious maybe; she was one herself. Her question, ‘why?’, when she saw women in Israel Lomnava (an area where she grew up in Accra) remove their veils once outside their homes, found an answer when she herself took to wearing ‘tight trousers, miniskirts and hair extensions’ while she was in the university. She was free from her parents’ insistence on dressing as dictated by Islam. 

Born in Nima, a predominantly Muslim Zongo community in Accra, Iddrisu grew up in a household where her father, though not strictly conservative, was firm about how a Muslim woman should dress—head coverings were mandatory, and trousers were for men only. She also experienced the duality of living in secular spaces as a Muslim woman. Iddrisu attended schools run by Methodist churches and so hijabs were not allowed. Yet on weekends at her Islamic school, she had to wear one. University offered her the freedom to spin her dressing choices, eventually leading her to embrace turbans and hijabs as a personal expression of faith. ‘It took me three years of exploring my own body to understand what it meant to resist the hijab,’ Iddrisu told me. 

The Qur’an’s standard on modest dressing for women centres on the concealment of their awrah—the parts of the body excluding the face, hands and/or feet—from non-mahrams (those of the opposite sex who are not close relatives and are therefore marriageable). Iddrisu’s art stands as an omniscient observer, passing commentary on the varying degrees to which the women around her collectively adhere to this rule while fashioning their individuality. Her work is informed by the life she has lived. Reaching into her past, Iddrisu tells me:  

Where I was born, you’d see many women resisting the hijab despite being denounced and urged by Imams during every Jumat Khutba. It is the same in Israel Lomnava, the community I was brought up in, where elderly men constantly encourage women to wear the hijab or burka. 

This reality of women removing their hijabs also features in the present she sees—women continuing to hold onto their faiths, defying labels of being a disbeliever. ‘I started going to some Zongo communities in Kumasi and then I would have long conversations with the women about why they don’t wear the hijab (as prescribed). I also do the same anytime I visit Accra,’ Iddrisu reveals. These women often shared with her the never-ending backlash they face for how they dressed—whether they wore the hijab or not. They opened up about how their reasons were completely disregarded, especially by men and religious leaders who simply undermined them as a way of caution. Over time, these women became Iddrisu’s friends and later, her muses. This becomes the cycle of Iddrisu’s process: if she has painted a woman, she must have listened to her first.  

One thing remains constant in Iddrisu’s career: her dedication to centring Muslim women and exploring their choices in appearance—a freedom often criticized within Islamic communities. From the nude forms in her earliest works to the veiled and unveiled figures in Shrouded Mysteries, and the women in Nisa’al Qadr who daringly combine ‘virtue’ with ‘vice’, Iddrisu charts a broad spectrum of expression, from strict adherence to complete rejection of the hijab.