Letter from Riyadh

Sometimes a journey begins with a superlative. In my case, with a first-class flight to Riyadh. A last-minute invitation to a press trip for the seventh edition of ⤇ Tuwaiq Sculpture, that large-scale project which confidently inscribes itself into “Vision 2030,” Saudi Arabia’s master plan to reinvent the Kingdom. For the opening, 900 invited guests arrive—floodlights, pathos. Since 2019, the format has counted among the flagship initiatives of the ⤇ Royal Commission for Riyadh City.

Saudi Arabia is rewriting its narrative. The largest country by territory and political heavyweight of the Arabian Peninsula has staged a remarkable catch-up under Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman, born in 1985 and known as MBS. Economy, society, culture—everything seems to be in transformation mode. Art, sport, tourism: the new pillars of a future meant to smell less of oil and more of global connectivity.

Tuwaiq Sculpture is one building block in this narrative. 750 submissions, 25 selected artists from 15 nations. Curated by Rut Blees Luxemburg and Sarah Staton—both artists and lecturers at the Royal College of Art—as well as Riyadh-born artist and gallerist Lulwah Al Homoud, educated at Central Saint Martins in London. All three bring extensive international exhibition experience.

For a month, the 25 artists worked on a spacious site near the bustling Tahliah Street -“Riyadh’s Champs-Élysées”- on their large-scale sculptures. This year, three differently shaded types of granite were provided, a material particularly difficult to work with, along with recycled metal for the first time to allow for greater formal diversity. Among the artists participating in this seventh edition are regionally known names such as Wafa Alquinibit, who has taken part in Tuwaiq several times; Ghana-born, Norway-based artist Samuel Olou; Raya Kassisieh, active between Amman and London and a graduate of the RCA and Pratt Institute; José Cárcamo, Chilean and the only representative from South America, who does not speak English but seems to manage well in Spanish; and Niccolò Fucci from Italy—to name just a few. An overview of all 25 artists ⤇ can be found here.

The creation process of the sculptures is public. Families stroll through the dust, young men take selfies in front of the emerging objects, women in abayas or jeans discuss shapes and surfaces with the artists. Proximity to the population is part of the program; participation is central to the RCRC’s projects. The young people—assistants and mediators—we encounter during the trip all speak fluent English, appear confident and engaged. Some women without headscarves and perfectly made-up, others veiled, only their eyes visible. My own projections do not align with the encounters on site. This, too, is part of what is offered: creating occasions for meeting and questioning one’s assumptions. Sharpening perception—not necessarily only through the art, but through the context, the surroundings.

Asked about the shared month of working and living together—accommodated in a five-star hotel—the artists are enthusiastic. Different generations, diverse cultural backgrounds, united in the act of making. A sculpture festival with the atmosphere of a scout camp.

On the evening of the opening, the 25 finished works stand in a vast open-air space, dramatically staged with dozens of spotlights. The audience is diverse. Men in elegant qamis—floor-length white garments—with kufiyas on their heads; women in abayas, plain black or elaborately embroidered, with loose headscarves or niqabs, the face veil revealing only the eyes. I seek conversation with a group of women wearing niqabs. They are lively, talkative, in no way shy. One young woman tells me she followed the photographic documentation of the project. I am not wearing a head covering and do not feel out of place. Art creates the space to be curiously at ease, to “come into contact.”

After the festivities and the exhibition period, which runs until February 22, the sculptures will be distributed throughout the city and incorporated into the Riyadh Art Collection. In the ⤇ Permanent Collection, established since 2021, prominent names such as Alexander Calder, Anish Kapoor, and Ugo Rondinone appear alongside lesser-known artists from the region. One encounters their works in newly opened metro stations and public gardens. Some of this year’s sculptures, I can easily imagine, will develop a life of their own in “their” locations—becoming important to people as meeting points, seating areas, photo opportunities.

That is also the wish of the RCRC: in the end there are to be 1,000 sculptures, art accessible to all; Saudi talents on equal footing with international positions; production sites and educational structures expanded; the local art university strengthened through international cooperation. The funds are available, the ambition undiminished.

Riyadh is booming. Construction cranes everywhere, detours, much already gleaming. In 2030 the Expo will take place here, in 2034 the FIFA World Cup. The Kingdom in the desert believes in a fast-tracked future. And in the midst of it all, sculptures meant to endure—as places of encounter, as aesthetic landmarks, as invitations.

One recalls: Art Dubai and the Louvre Abu Dhabi were once viewed skeptically, criticized as cultural sell-outs. Today they are established. Art Basel Qatar, which took place a few days earlier, is being discussed as a blueprint for financing art fairs. The entire region is in motion, always on the brink of the abyss with an eye on Iran and Gaza. Time will tell whether, in a few years, we will look at Riyadh as we already do today at Doha and Dubai.

At first glance, Tuwaiq Sculpture may exude the charm of traffic-island art. Yet in the enthusiasm of the participants, in the interest of the visitors, in the matter-of-fact coexistence of tradition and global gesture, there is a different tone—less shrill and superficial than expected.

Optimism here is not a quiet feeling but a blueprint. And perhaps it is precisely this fearlessness, this insistence on the future despite everything, that unsettles—and impresses. An optimism that, viewed from a European comfort zone, can quickly be dismissed as staging and “art washing.” On site, however, this perspective begins to crack; everything appears more complex, less black and white—like the sculptures soon to shape the city.

In the darkness of my first-class lie-flat seat on the flight home, I am grateful for this sneak peek into the future; may it be as rosy as planned, inshallah.