Sitting in his garden, Qasim Sabti rants about the terrorist "sons of bitches," who repeatedly threaten to attack his art gallery in the heart of Baghdad. He also rants about the "little gray men" in the Ministry of Culture, who put the little money left for the arts in Iraq straight into their own pockets. But mostly, he rants about the "invasion of the uneducated," something Sabti considers to be Iraq's greatest tragedy. "First, the Americans overran us. And the rabble was hot on their heels. Anyone who could walk, has moved from the countryside into Baghdad. These people have destroyed everything that made Baghdad the cultural capital of the Arab world."

One might dismiss Sabti's tirade as elitist nonsense: The majority of Iraq's people have more pressing concerns than the decline of the art world in their midst. War, terrorism, poverty and unemployment have driven millions of people into Iraq's cities where they hope to find a job and a little security. They are not overly concerned whether their presence in cities perturbs arbiters of culture like Sabti.

Then again, Sabti is not just anyone. The painter and gallery-owner with excellent connections to the West, is something of an unofficial authority figure for visual artists in Iraq. In the afternoon, he meets with Baghdad's sculptors, painters, playwrights and poets in the courtyard of his gallery Hewar. Over tea and a hookah, they talk about colleagues and collectors who went into exile, and the money problems that plague those who remain in Iraq.

Want to see Art in Baghdad? Your Car will Be Searched for Bombs First

The Iraqi army makes sure these men are able to gather safely. Like many neighborhoods in Iraq's capital, the one where Sabti's gallery is located is almost hermetically sealed. Anyone that wants to see art in Baghdad, must pass through several checkpoints and have their car searched for explosives by heavily armed soldiers. In Sabti's courtyard you can only tell there is a war going on because of the din of American military helicopters flying overhead and bringing conversation to a halt for a moment.

And without buyers, there are no commissions. Being paid for their work has always been a problem for artists all around the world. But for Iraq's artists the concept is only relatively new -- and it is cause for complaint. For all of the 20th century Iraq was regarded as the cultural hub for the Arab world. Under Saddam Hussein, Baghdad was a mecca of Arab creativity. The dictator liked to see himself glorified in sculptures and paintings and those who had talent were encouraged. Art courses were free; Even the paints and canvases imported from France were free. If you were loyal to the regime, you had a living and received regular government commissions or a professorship. Additionally Baghdad's wealthy middle class felt that it was chic to collect Iraqi art.

International Invaders of Iraq Became Art Fans

With the invasion of US troops in 2003, the established art scene in Baghdad collapsed. The collectors fled the country and those painters and sculptors who could afford it followed them. Nonetheless, during the first years of the war, Sabti says many local artists could still make a living from their art. "At first, the UN staff, journalists and even American soldiers came into my gallery and bought art," he explains. With prices ranging from $800 (€593) to $2,000 (€1,495) for a sophisticated oil painting, many of the invaders found a place in their hearts for Iraqi art.

But then came terrorism and with it a decline in sales. "As of 2005, foreigners could no longer move freely. And since then, business has pretty much come to a halt," Sabti says. Blaming the ordinary people of Iraq for this, as Sabti does, is not particularly logical. But the sad truth remains: Iraqi high-brow culture has been diminished in recent years.

"Baghdad threatens to become a city without a face," says sculptor and writer Ahmed Abdullah Fadaam. Public statues and sculptures are signs of a nation's character, the artist notes. "In Baghdad, the old works of art are being destroyed because they were commissioned by Saddam. But, at the same time, nothing new is being commissioned. Iraq will become a society without a face," he warns.

Famous Sculpture Removed Due to Visible Nipples

With the help of colleagues, Fadaam is trying to save what he can. For years the statue by well known sculptor Khalid Al-Rahal, called Our Lady of the Marshes, decorated the central square of Sadr City, Baghdad's poorer suburb. According to Fadaam, when the Islamists took power, they removed the female figure "because her nipples could vaguely be seen." He and a few like-minded individuals had difficulty convincing other Iraqis not to melt down the bronze sculpture because it was made by one of the most important Iraqi artist of the 20th century. "It is now collecting dust in the basement of the Ministry of Culture," Fadaam says.

Fadaam is a sensitive and thoughtful chap. His reflections on life in Iraq, which were commissioned by the University of North Carolina, have won several international awards. Currently, he is turning his reports, which were originally conceived for radio broadcast, into an illustrated diary for a comic publishing house.

Sculpture offers Fadaam a way to show everything he doesn't want to express in his sculpture. "As soon as the war began, I stopped sculpting," he explains -- because he didn't want anyone to have to face the gruesomeness of war in a life-size piece of art. "What good is it if I translate my horror, my fear, into sculpture? Then I only bring the viewer to the same sort of despair I am in."

Daily Life so Depressing that Creativity Is Barely Possible

Fadaam says that in Iraq contemporary art is like the Iraqi people themselves: A victim of the war. Daily life is so depressing that creative work is barely possible. "And those who can still paint can't sell anything, anyway. Who wants to hang a picture of a decapitated corpse over their dining table?" Fadaam says.

Painters who can't help but recreate the brutal reality and sculptors who would rather not work than mirror the horror of war: Fadaam speaks for the best of Iraq's artist community, for those who are compelled to create, for those who are driven. However many of Iraq's artists belong to a different species: Technically-proficient but uninspired professionals who were educated in art under the Saddam dictatorship. Their work, so-called Jubilee Art, is not in demand anymore, either. This is another reason why Iraq's art scene won't ever return to its pre-war condition. "But that shrinkage is healthy," Fadaam explains. "It's bitter but it's also necessary."