Mounira Al Solh: A land as big as her skin, or Trying to review an exhibition with a baby
At the entrance to the Arnolfini’s latest show I glance down to read the visitor warning: ‘This exhibition includes references to conflict, war, rape, loss, mourning and nudity’. I pause. After all, my exhibition companion today is my one-year-old son, so I should probably think about this. Mind you, he is only one, he doesn’t really know what’s going on, and he also seems to be entering a calm and pleasant state of drowsiness as opposed to a grumpy and irritable one, which bodes well for a gallery visit. So, I put my qualms to one side and cross the threshold into the mythical-meets-modern world of Lebanese artist Mounira Al Solh. After all, I’ve got to take my chances.
The focus of the exhibition is the multi-modal installation A Dance with her Myth which Al Solh exhibited at the Venice Biennale in 2024, and which now occupies the ground floor gallery of Arnolfini. Despite the visitor warning, on first glance the space seems full of life, even joyful: bright painted fabrics and hangings line the walls, and a wooden boat is perched jauntily in the centre of the space, to the delight of a wobbly toddler rushing out of her parents’ arms towards it (‘Boat!’). Nonetheless, there’s unease in the room. A sense of clutter, perhaps deliberate, perhaps not, which makes my eyes unsure what to focus on – there’s a lot of stuff. The eeriness of painted masks strung up on poles, either protecting or surveying, it’s hard to say. The skeleton of the boat washed up, ran aground. And a large painting of a naked woman, legs bent under her and hands bound behind, the weight of a bull hanging above her, her face turned out to meet our gaze. Europa.
A Dance with her Myth is a reimagining of the ancient Phoenician myth of the Princess Europa’s abduction and rape by Zeus, King of the Greek Gods, disguised as a bull. Predictably, this harrowing tale of violence against women has inspired numerous western male artists over time, who have chosen either to victimise or sexualise Europa, as in Titian’s The Rape of Europa (1559-62), or François Boucher’s The Abduction of Europa (1732-34). Al Solh’s project provides a feminist counter to these interpretations by reworking the myth through a blend of figurative, sculptural, performance, and film art designed to place female power and creativity centre stage.
Al Solh’s video, projected onto the sail of the wooden boat, is the poetic heart of the piece. In it, we see a cast enacting the preparations for Europa’s departure to Crete by boat. Through a combination of live action, animation, and voiceover, the film both celebrates the material heritage of the myth – traditional Lebanese techniques of dye-making and boat-making, for example – but also makes space for a modern critique of the misogynist attitudes embodied in the story. What if it was Europa who took Zeus to Crete rather than the other way round, it asks? What if Europa chose to go with Zeus, rather than being taken?
There’s a beauty to the film which seems to hypnotise the baby and keeps him mercifully quiet, or perhaps it’s just the screen effect. (Does video art count as screen time, I wonder, feeling a little guilty). Shot in Lebanon against a brilliant blue sky, watching it I’m reminded of the films of John Akomfra, especially Tropikos (2016), magnificent figures moving slowly through otherworldly landscapes, out of time and place. But the animated elements add a layer of playfulness which I’m pretty sure would capture my four-year-old son’s imagination too, if I’m brave enough to bring him next time.
This irreverent reworking of male-authored myth continues upstairs in the new piece Europa’s Bedroom (2025). Here, a life-size domestic tableau scene imagines a feminist happy-ever-after for Europa and Zeus, with Europa reclining on her bed smoking a hookah pipe and Zeus objectified on a plinth in the corner of the room. In a humorous nod to the empowering effects of tech, the only movement in this otherwise static piece is found in the backwards and forwards motion of an automatic iron, doing the couple’s chores for them. The baby giggles at this, as do I, and likewise approves of the flashing lights of the twin lighthouses at the foot of the maritime-themed tomb in Elissa’s Room (2025).
Once I’ve finally torn him away from the lights, though, the baby gets a bit restless. I don’t have the time I’d like to focus on Al Solh’s works about the female experience of (very) present-day conflict in the Middle East – just a tantalising glimpse of the female portraits in I strongly believe in our right to be frivolous (2012-present) and the Palestinian embroidery of Red Cypress Trees (2025). But I’m still taking this as a successful kid-in-tow gallery trip, pretty much the only kind I get these days. I might actually brave a repeat trip with my four-year-old. It is about conflict, death, and violence, but this is also topical, visually appealing, and life-enriching art that all ages can engage with.
Arnolfini does make families welcome. I’m not the only parent-and-baby duo at the show, and none of us seem to get any scowls from gallery attendants. There’s an art room where children, or anyone, can do some drawing inspired by the show, and a quiet space for feeding, or just reflecting – although, with perhaps some irony, it’s buzzing for the weekly Women’s Craft Club when I visit and I don’t go in. It’s not easy getting out to exhibitions with small children and it can be impossible to concentrate once you’ve got there. I’ve had my fair share of embarrassing or stressful or unfulfilling experiences, but I’ve left today feeling like it’s something I can still do meaningfully, sometimes at least. And, in a small way, I think that’s an empowering experience, the kind that Mounira Al-Solh might just approve of.
For more information on the exhibition Mounira Al Solh: A land as big as her skin, check out the Arnolfini website here.
Written by Philippa Lewis
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