The Barbican’s Curve tends to inspire flash-bang theatrics from artists. There’s been the birds that played electric guitars. The artificial rain that followed the movements of visitors. And in the last show, there were the dancers letting it all hang out. But Imran Qureshi’s offering is more restrained. The lights are dim. The walls are a muted grey. And hanging here and there, glittering like square-shaped orbs, are 35 of his signature miniature paintings. There’s something of the mausoleum about the Curve in its current form.
The Pakistani artist’s miniatures, painted on handmade wasli paper, belong to a 500-year-old tradition that gained popularity during the reign of the Mughals. They’re beguiling works, their details exquisitely delineated, their borders flecked in gold. They might feel like little more than relics if it weren’t for an undercurrent of foreboding: trees lie felled in some images; thunderclouds and swarms of dragonflies gather in others.
But how can small works like these resonate in such a large and eccentric space? Qureshi solves the problem by punctuating the walls and floor with splashes of red paint. From a distance they look rather gory, but closer inspection reveals that they’ve been teased into petal-like forms with a paintbrush. This gruesome plantlife makes an appearance in the paintings too, wrapping its vines around trunks and branches. It’s this micro-macro approach – and the compelling contrast of violence and beauty – that makes Qureshi’s work resonate with sombre authority throughout the Curve.