I walked into the International Art Exhibition at Katara Hall expecting beauty.
Large works. Strong colors. A sense of global presence.
I found all of that — and something else, quieter but more revealing.
As I moved through the space, patterns began to repeat themselves. Horses appeared again and again. Idealized female faces looked back at me from floral frames, ornamental borders, and icon-like golden circles. The works were polished, elegant, and visually generous. They felt safe — art that travels easily, offends no one, and settles comfortably into prestigious interiors.
What I saw far less of were everyday lives. Few women at work. Few ordinary moments. Almost no political tension. The exhibition leaned toward harmony, beauty, and distance.
That distance broke when I encountered a painting by a Nigerian female artist. Her work showed women in hijab with empty heads, filled with Quranic verses. When I spoke with her, she explained that these figures represented girls kidnapped by Boko Haram — girls who, after long captivity, lost parts of their identity and sometimes internalized extremist ideology, even after being freed. The painting was unsettling. It refused to decorate. It demanded attention. She later received a prize, and the decision felt earned.
Another contrast stayed with me: price. Some highly decorative works — including large Art Nouveau–inspired ceramic panels — carried staggering price tags, while quieter, concept-driven pieces were listed far lower. It was a reminder that in international art fairs, price often speaks more about prestige than meaning.
I left Katara Hall impressed, but thoughtful. The works that lingered in my mind were not the grandest or the most expensive. They were the ones that took a risk — and told the truth.
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