In a city like Abu Dhabi, where the skyline is a symphony of ambition played in glass and steel, the grand gesture is a given. We expect it, we applaud it. But true sophistication, I’ve always found, lies not in the crescendo but in the perfectly placed pause. It is in such a pause that I found myself recently, standing before a single, potent stroke of black ink by Nja Mahdaoui at the Bassam Freiha Foundation for Art. It was a whisper that, somehow, silenced everything else.
The foundation itself is a study in this quiet power. In the rarefied ecosystem of Saadiyat Island, a locale already boasting the architectural gravitas of the Louvre Abu Dhabi and the upcoming Guggenheim, one might expect a new private foundation to announce itself with fanfare. Instead, Bassam Freiha’s establishment – the first of its kind here – offers a different proposition: not a shout, but a cultivated, confident voice. Opened earlier this year, its architecture is a lesson in serene geometry, a space that feels less like a gallery and more like the antechamber of a particularly discerning collector’s mind – which, of course, it is. The philanthropist and collector H.E. Bassam Freiha has crafted not a temple to art but a salon for it, where the experience is meant to be savoured, like the final, lingering notes of a grand cru or the intricate dry-down of a Roja Dove fragrance.
It is within this resonant silence that the work of Tunisian master Nja Mahdaoui finds its perfect stage. Nja Mahdaoui: The Choreographer of Letters is a retrospective that does what all great art should: it makes the familiar strange, and the strange sublime. For six decades, Mahdaoui has performed a kind of alchemy on the Arabic letter, liberating it from the tyranny of literal meaning. He does not merely write; he composes. In his hands, a bā’ or an alif sheds its grammatical skin and becomes pure movement – a dancer mid-pirouette, a celestial body in orbit, a breath held in perfect suspension.
Tracing the lines of his Azimuth series, one detects a rare confluence of disciplines: the sacred precision of medieval Qur’anic manuscripts, the bold energy of American Abstract Expressionism, and the spiritual minimalism of Japanese calligraphy. It is no mere decoration. This is script as soul – a visual rhythm that bypasses the cognitive and speaks directly to the senses. The curation, a deft collaboration between Dr Michaela Watrelot and the artist’s daughter, Molka Mahdaoui, captures this duality with both intellectual rigour and a palpable, familial warmth. The timing is impeccable, coinciding with the forthcoming publication of Mahdaoui’s catalogue raisonné by Rizzoli – a first for a Tunisian artist, finally inscribing his name in the firmament of global modernism, where it has always belonged.
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This, one realises, is the true meaning of heritage: not a relic to be preserved under glass but a living, breathing thing to be reinterpreted. Mahdaoui’s dialogue with tradition mirrors the broader, dynamic evolution of the Arab world itself – deeply respectful of its roots, yet ceaselessly inventive. His works feel both ancient and startlingly contemporary, like a timeless Cartier Tank watch reimagined in titanium for a Mars mission.
And the foundation itself is a partner in this dialogue. As dusk settles over Saadiyat, the building transforms into a soft lantern, its light a gentle rebuttal to the neon and LED glare of the city. Inside, the flow of space is a curator in itself, guiding you from one intimate revelation to the next. There is a noble ethos at play here, too: all exhibitions are free, supported by a programme of talks and workshops. Even the café is less an amenity and more a continuation of the conversation – a place where one might overhear a debate between a veteran collector and a young art student, both speaking the same language of curious passion.
Before leaving, I returned to an early work, Untitled (Graphic Research) from 1968. In its confident, swirling forms, I saw not just ink on paper but the very architecture of thought. It was a map of a journey, a record of a moment when a letter ceased to be a symbol and became a vessel for something ineffable. In a world obsessed with broadcasting every thought, Mahdaoui and the foundation that hosts him propose a more radical act: to become visible not through noise but through the profound power of presence. It is a lesson in the art of living – beautifully written in a script we are only just beginning to understand.
