Imagine a creative cove in the heart of New York, where silence speaks louder than spectacle, where paper carries soft poignancy and where an Arab voice reshapes how the world experiences art. That cove exists. It is a gallery curated by Mohammed Al-Thani, Qatari collector and curator who brings artworks from across the world to his townhouse in The West Village to foster connection between the world and the Arab and
Islamic identity.
Minimalist in aesthetics but maximal in meaning, his collection, tastefully put together at the Institute of Arab and Islamic Art (IAIA) which he started in Manhattan in 2017, crafts experiences that invite you not to ‘understand’ art, but to ‘feel’ it. In an art world often obsessed with size and scale, Al-Thani’s approach feels like a quiet rebellion.
“I believe in storytelling,” he says, and that belief runs like a spine through his work. It is not the kind of storytelling that demands comprehension, but the kind that evokes memory and movement through brush strokes. Born and raised in the Gulf, steeped in the oral traditions of Arab culture, Al-Thani carries that ancestral cadence into his exhibitions using space and silence.
What drew him to curation wasn’t just a love for the language of art. It was also a sense of responsibility to “rewrite contemporary art histories”.
“I grew up in a time when misconceptions about the Arab and Islamic worlds limited cultural interaction,” he explains. “Curating allowed me to challenge those stereotypes and show that our culture is more than the simplified version often presented to the world.”
And so, his curatorial practice became a kind of soft activism, a way to rewrite histories and reintroduce forgotten voices, especially those of overlooked or marginalised artists. “I ask myself: Can their work move the viewer? Does it challenge the status quo? Can it spark a new visual language?” Through his exhibitions and his curation at the gallery, he seeks to offer visitors a visual experience infused with warmth and intimacy, one that sparks a genuine connection to the space they occupy.
Institute of Arab and Islamic Art in Manhattan, New York
One of his recent exhibitions, ‘Torn Time’, marked the US institutional debut of Turkish-American artist Bilgé. Known for her minimalist, paper-based work, Bilgé's pieces are delicate, almost weightless and yet they carry profound spiritual and emotional heft. “There’s something transcendental about the way she works with paper,” Al-Thani reflects. “She tears, slices, exposes the fibres; and in doing so, you feel the rupture and the intimacy.”
Al-Thani hopes that people will get inspired by this exhibition and will be awed by what an artist could create with a simple medium like paper. It’s impressive how he succeeds in translating something as abstract as spiritual experience into a tangible gallery setting, and reminds people about the power of paper, and how big ideas, and emotions can exist profoundly in a small milieu.
“We’re living in a time where art is becoming bigger and more expensive. I want people, especially young artists, to remember that something as simple as paper can carry big ideas. It doesn’t have to scream to be powerful.”
That idea of quiet potency runs through everything Al-Thani does. Whether he’s installing a show, discovering an artist, or designing a layout, his process is rooted in making people feel welcomed. “I think about hospitality,” he says, referencing his Arab upbringing that cemented the sentiment. “Museums can be cold. But exhibitions should feel warm, inviting. Like someone has prepared a space just for you.”
This idea of cultural intimacy, as opposed to cultural translation, is at the heart of his practice. He doesn’t seek to explain Arab or Muslim identity to outsiders. Instead, he invites viewers to step into a space of quiet familiarity. “If the work speaks to you, you’ll find your own language with it,” he says. “Art isn’t always about understanding. Sometimes, it’s about being present with something and letting it move through you.”
In his view, the West doesn’t need more explanations about art; it needs more integration. He dreams of global museums not just acquiring Arab and Muslim artists’ works, but curating them alongside others. “That’s how we foster dialogue,” he says. “That’s how our artists become part of global art history, not a footnote beside it.”
When asked what piece he would invite the world to sit with right now, he names Bursting Echoes by Nabil Kanso, a painting that mourns war and insists on remembrance. “It’s a living testimony,” Al Thani says. “It reminds us that no matter how distant a conflict feels, none of us are removed from its consequences.”
He doesn’t romanticise art as a cure for all wounds, but he believes it can be a refuge, a “space for healing”, a mirror and a call to conscience. True to his belief, he is building exactly that in his Manhattan gallery among paper sculptures and quiet canvases: a sanctuary of intended creativity which is anything but a display of random depictions.
For the average passerby who might feel intimidated by art, Al-Thani has only one piece of advice: “You don’t have to ‘get’ art. Just open your heart. Let it in without prejudice.” Because sometimes, all it takes is a moment for all the knots to untie.
And practically for that to happen, all one needs to do is to step into a small, silent room in New York where stories are still being told softly, powerfully, in Arabic and English; in paper and pigment. From there, Al-Thani is rewriting how curating can be done; and through his endeavours, he is offering a platform for artists, curators, scholars, and art practitioners. It’s a space that aspires to grow organically with a comprehensive, permanent collection of art from the Arab and Islamic Worlds and aims to continue surprising people with art from the region.
